The tiny page stood at his post outside, apparently unwearied and ready to escort Sigismondo back through the palace warren. He had scarcely picked up the flambeau when the Lady Cecilia appeared, lifting the curtain and glancing back over her shoulder. She came so close to Sigismondo that he could smell the musky scent she wore, heavy with civet as well as jasmine, and she whispered, ‘Her ring.’
‘Her ring?’
‘Her ring, her Grace’s ring that never leaves her finger. It was missing.’
Chapter Six
There could be no doubt whatever that the truly happy people in the duchy that night were the beggars. Outside the gate they feasted on handfuls of venison pie, hatfuls of jellies; faces dripped pepper-and-vinegar sauce. Children gorged on gingerbread, tench, spiced veal. They tasted strange unknown mixtures of saffron, nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger. A vast upturned pie had been eaten in seconds, its pork and eggs, almonds and dates stuffed into ecstatic mouths, the pastry cleaned from the stones. Over and over, the name of the Lord Paolo was spoken in blessing; the men who had brought the feast out to them had not said who had thought of them out in the cold, but that livery was well known.
In the Palace, Sigismondo and the small page exchanged bows and the page accepted a coin given for his services with the flambeau. Sigismondo strode on towards the tiny room allotted him. Knots of servants still whispered in corners, drawing out their tasks to give time to gossip. They watched as he passed, and more than one crossed himself as if seeing an ill omen.
Benno had somehow obtained a small box brazier and a bundle of wood. The room glowed with comfort and Sigismondo paused inside the curtain to smile. Benno had wound himself into the cloak as well, and now struggled to rise, but Sigismondo, pausing only to feed the brazier and to push the bedding further from its sparks, folded himself down on the pallet beside him.
‘That’s a good find.’
‘No one wanted it. It was where the players were to eat.’
‘Have you eaten?’ There was a smell of roasting meat, and Benno’s nod and look of satisfaction were not surprising. Grease shone on his beard.
‘There was a lot of food going.’
Sigismondo nodded. ‘And what have you heard?’
‘Some think the Duke killed her because of a lover, and put Leandro Bandini there to be blamed. There had to be someone to blame although she’d been unfaithful because of the alliance with her brother. Her brother’s a duke too, I didn’t know. Duke Ippolyto. They say our Duke couldn’t risk just killing her, there had to be a scapegoat.’
Sigismondo hummed. ‘And?’
Benno took up willingly, interrupted only by an almost negligible belch. ‘Well then, one of the Duke’s guard said young Bandini forced her and then killed her so she wouldn’t tell, and knocked himself out in his hurry to escape.’ Benno produced a quill and began picking his teeth.
‘The simplistic view.’
Benno looked up with unquestioning confidence. He said, ‘After all, there was blood on the Duke’s hand. At dinner, you remember. The wine. So they say it was the Duke, that he caught her with the Wild Man making love, and he killed her and he’s got Leandro Bandini in prison waiting to be unmanned and drawn and quartered to please the Duke Ippolyto.’
He reached to the floor by his bundled-up feet, found a leather bottle, upended it so vigorously over his mouth that he tipped backwards and all but kicked the brazier. Sigismondo’s swift hand righted him.
‘Ta. There’s been another omen, too,’ he went on, getting to work on his teeth once more, which gave his narrative something of the effect of a cleft palate. ‘The statue of St Agnes groaned this morning at Mass. Half the congregation heard it. And the Duke’s new chapel in the cathedral, they’re digging the foundations still just beyond the Innocents’ chapel and they dug up a nun’s body and it was the holy sister Annunciata that died in the old Duke’s time. They say it’s bad she was disturbed.’
Sigismondo reached under the bedding, produced a pack and, feeling inside, drew out a small flask in a straw case. They each drank, and Benno mopped his deplorable beard and went on. ‘There’s another story. The Lord Paolo’s page said he didn’t believe it but he told us. He said it’s the sort of thing that people will say. The story goes that my — my old master the Lord Jacopo had lured Bandini to the Palace, for a wager like, that he could get away with going there in disguise. If Leandro Bandini could get in, then the Lord Jacopo or his men could be here disguised as entertainers too; then they killed the Duchess and left him there to be guilty. People said that would be a great revenge if it was true, a really good payment for abducting my Lady Cosima; except for the Duchess. Some said that spoiled the skill of it, murdering the Duchess. Others said a feud doesn’t have boundaries, anything is permissible.’
‘I hear that Bandini himself has taken refuge with the Cardinal Pontano.’ Sigismondo was not niggardly with gossip in return.
‘Bandini’s lent the Cardinal money. Some say he’s lent money to the Pope. So the Church will look after him. Do you want some of this cloak?’
‘If I do, I’ll take it.’
Benno nodded, believing this. ‘What did you get to hear besides?’ He looked up hopefully.
‘There’s a ring missing from the Duchess’s hand, one she always wore.’
Benno gazed at the glowing wood. ‘If anyone took it, they’re stone mad. It’d be known. Did you see her body?’
‘Yes.’
Benno waited, then realised he was getting no more. Sigismondo passed him the flask, as either consolation or a reward for asking nothing. He drank, sighed, and kicked his bundled legs.
‘You know, my life’s really got interesting.’
There had been footsteps, rapid or slow, up and down the stone stairway, but now someone stopped and said, ‘Master Sigismondo.’
The bed creaked as Sigismondo leant and raised the curtain.
‘You asked to be told when the prisoner came round. He’s conscious and moaning.’
Leandro’s memories of what had led to his lying on the disgusting straw in the Duke’s dungeon were blurred, but his immediate perceptions, as he swam up to consciousness, were too sharp. His head throbbed like a huckster’s drum. The straw had odd rustlings where, he thought, rats must be at work. He imagined them on the remains of a former prisoner. Something dripped in the near-dark. He could only see at all by courtesy of a narrow slit high above his head, and clouds obscured the moon. He was very, very cold. He did not think he had ever been so cold, and it was also evident that someone, perhaps himself, had recently been sick in the straw.
He wondered if it would be worthwhile, or even possible, to drag himself away from the smell, though nearer to the rats. Some other sound made itself heard, voices muttering. At first he thought the rats were becoming vocal, but then the grate of heavy bolts being drawn back produced a clarity in his mind. The grating groan was like the voice of imprisonment itself. A dark-lantern shone at him across the straw, and as it was not easy to raise an arm, he merely shut his eyes. The door closed with a hollow finality; but he thought that someone was in the cell with him.
Leandro thought it was possible, even likely, that the Duke had sent someone to strangle him. Justice, even in this modern age, bent to expediency and caprice. He was accused of the murder of the Duchess. He remembered seeing her body, he remembered the Duke’s remote, unreal face with eyes wide and blue as a winter sky, a nightmare face. Had he dreamt her body, a knife? He knew that criminals of any sense perished decently, in prison, before anyone could suspect they might be innocent. His father, his father’s friends, had made such things clear in their talk ever since he could remember.
The Duke was said to be merciful. Strangulation here and now would be merciful, compared to being tortured in the usual way.