Daughters of the Doge (38 page)

I started, for I knew immediately who she was referring to. ‘That’s Peter Vannes – the English Ambassador. He is a Reverend and an Italian, from Lucca originally, although he has been in the pay of the English all his life. I have met him. He is a bit old to be getting involved in murder plots; he must be well over sixty.’

Veronica gripped my hand. ‘Talk quietly, we may be overheard. If he is an ambassador, he will have separated himself from the dirty work, but he can still provide the brains and the money for a murder attempt. My friends tell me they believe Courtenay was forewarned, and that’s why he left in such a hurry for Ferrara, and also why he took so many of his possessions with him.’

I looked round the small room, but nobody was taking any notice of us. We were just two lovers, holding hands in the corner. No doubt Pietro would have a comment to make next time I saw him. ‘You may well be right. It was all a bit sudden. I think the final straw was not getting an invitation to the spring celebrations. He seemed to be upset about that.’

She snorted. ‘That’s false; he was invited. I was consulted at the time. He may not have been on the high table – that’s reserved for the Libro d’Oro families, but he was certainly invited.’

Behind me, I heard someone enter the room and I let go of her hand and sat back slowly, so I could turn and see who it was. I did not recognize him and, after watching him sit with a drink, his back to us, I turned back to Veronica.

‘And he had already been told that he had overstayed his welcome at the Ca’ da Mosto?’ she said.

‘Yes. Courtenay lied to me. He told me he wanted to find a house closer to yours.’

She smiled the tired smile of someone who has seen it all before. ‘I must have laid it on a bit thick. He’s smitten, poor soul, and I would not be surprised if he asked me to marry him. I blame my friends. Three of them independently told him I was a member of the Hungarian royal family and disgustingly rich, but with most of my family money tied up in trusts until I married. Apparently he fell for it completely, and now they can’t stop laughing. Anyway, I wanted you to know that I have been told to distance myself from Courtenay.’

I nodded, trying to look sympathetic, but inside crowing like a cockerel. There was no point in asking her who had warned her off; not only would she not divulge her sources, but the mere act of asking would demonstrate that I was outside her inner circle and did not understand it.

We left and made our way quietly out on to the Fondamenta della Sensa. As we parted she gave me a kiss on the cheek. ‘By the way, how are things going with your nun?’

My heart skipped a beat. I had almost forgotten about her. Time was rushing by and I had not yet got the basic elements of a plan in place.

C
HAPTER
45

Evening, March the 30th 1556 – Lane outside Ca’ da Mosto

I approached the house carefully, mindful of what I had found here the previous evening. As I reached the final corner I slowed and quietened my footsteps. There were no voices from the house and the only lights were those normally lit at dusk to enable one to find the door and fit a key into the lock. Inside, all looked quiet.

Nevertheless, some instinct made me wait. I stood and listened for perhaps three minutes, breathing through my mouth and trying to make out any sound or movement that would give away the presence of intruders.

There! What was that? A small sound, but too heavy to be a rat: the scrape of a studded boot, perhaps. It came again, followed by a muffled cough, and my skin began to creep. Someone was standing just a few yards ahead of me, watching our front door.

Slowly, and as silently as I could, I bent my knees and began to feel around on the ground for a stone. It did not take long, for the alleyway was rarely swept. I felt the weight of the stone in my hand. Slowly returning to my standing position, I peered round the corner.

The outline of a man was just visible, moving his weight from one leg to the other. It looked as if he was getting cold; this gave me an advantage, for a cold man is a stiff man, and he moves and reacts more slowly. I took out my dagger and held it in my left hand as I gently lobbed the stone over his head, to land a few yards past him.

As the stone landed he gave a jump and faced towards the sound, reaching forward with a knife in his right hand. I jumped him. The butt of the dagger cracked down on his wrist and his knife fell to the ground. He gave a gasp of surprise and before he could recover his wits I pulled his left arm behind him with mine and pressed the blade of my dagger across his neck.

‘Don’t move or I’ll cut your throat.’

The man whimpered in fear, and I could feel him trembling under my arm.

‘What is your name and what are you doing lurking outside my door? Speak or you will never see the dawn again.’

‘My name is Johannes Baumgartner. I bring a message for one of the Englishmen who live at this house.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one they call Richard Stocker. He is tall with blond hair, about twenty years old.’

I began to relax, but knew that the act of disengagement was the most dangerous moment.

‘You have found your man. I am Richard Stocker. When I let go of you, walk forward into the light, but slowly.’

I released his hand and took the dagger from his throat. With agonizing slowness he walked forward and stood before our front door, lit by the rush lamp. He was young – perhaps a year or two younger than me – and slight. He was dressed in the formal dark clothes of a Protestant.

I watched him from the shadows. He did not look like an agent of the state, or an assassin. ‘Who sent you?’

‘I cannot tell you, sir, but he is known to you and shares your interest in reading. He told me to use those very words, sir.’

I stepped forward. This must be a messenger from Walsingham. I shook his hand and retrieved his meagre knife. It was simply an eating knife and made a poor weapon. ‘Come inside, before we are observed.’

I unlocked the house and led him through the semi-darkness to the
piano nobile,
where more lights were lit. He fell into a chair, still petrified.

‘My instructions were to deliver a note to you, sir. My master said nothing about being attacked.’

I threw his knife to him. ‘Then I owe you an apology. This house was ransacked only last night and we are feeling defensive.’

He put his knife back in his belt and looked at me uncomfortably. ‘I am sorry to be a trouble, sir, but my master said I must see proof of your identity before I pass you his note.’

I laughed. ‘What would you like to see? My word on it should have sufficed with my dagger at your throat.’

‘The dagger, sir. I was told to ask if I could see it.’

I pulled out my dagger and held it up, blade upward, but out of his reach. The jewels in the handle winked in the light from the rush lamps.

‘Thank you, sir. My master described it to me. It is as expected. May I?’

He reached slowly inside his doublet, watching me carefully as he did so. His hand came out again, a slim note held between his fingers. Slowly, still clearly frightened, he passed the note to me. I recognized it at once. There was no introduction and no signature, indeed no handwritten words at all, simply groups of numbers.

‘Do I need to reply?’ To decode the note I would have to retrieve my copy of Bullinger’s work and I did not want to give away the code.

‘I don’t know, sir. But he said you could read it one-handed.’ He looked sick with apprehension. His reply told me all I needed to know. The code would be in groups of five.

‘Tell me about yourself

Johannes began to speak, but his voice would not come. I gave him a large glass of the earl’s French brandy and he swallowed it in one draught. It seemed to work, for the words flowed freely enough thereafter.

‘I am Johannes Baumgartner, of Swiss nationality, a student of law at the University of Padua. I also act as manservant on occasions to our mutual friend, who as you know is also studying law there. He befriended me on account of my Lutheran beliefs, which he supports.’

I nodded. It all made sense.

‘Andrea!’ I hoped it sounded a little more impressive than ‘Bimbo’, but still it was the boy who came running. He came leaping down the stairs from the rooms above. ‘This man has travelled hard today and is in need of food and drink. Will you and your mother look after him while I attend to something upstairs?’ I turned to Johannes. ‘I shall not be long. Andrea will find anything you need.’

Decoding the note did not take long. Walsingham was wonderfully terse in his messages: ‘Go to the red tavern in Chioggia at midday on the date you have been told.’

I smiled. Clever Walsingham. Had the note been intercepted, it would not immediately have led anyone to our meeting, yet interrogation of the messenger would also yield only incomplete information.

I returned to Johannes, who seemed to have recovered some colour in his cheeks.

‘Our friend tells me you will give me a date.’

For the first time he smiled. Perhaps it was the comfort of my returning with the question he had been led to expect. It meant that now, at least, matters were unfolding as his master had predicted. ‘The fourth of April. That’s all I was told.’

I smiled. ‘It is enough.’

I rewarded him well, and Cuoca and Bimbo made him a bed for the night. In the morning he left early, no longer twitching with fear, but still quiet and shy. I hoped his return journey would be uneventful. He was not cut out for this sort of business.