‘If it was her,’ Benno pursued the idea with awe, ‘and you said so, you’d be for it, wouldn’t you? — Well, in fact, your Grace, it was the Lady Violante who did it — Ah, thank you so much; guards! Take this man out and hang him.’
Another wagon groaned and creaked its way towards them, the four oxen plodding, scattering stones and crushing the ice off puddles, not altering their pace for the whip that flickered and cracked around them, or the shouts of the man trudging alongside. His exertions had made him warm and he offered them a cheerful greeting, demurely acknowledged by the widow. It was a little time before Benno spoke again.
‘Why’d his Grace send you away? Does he think it was the Lady Violante?’
‘I doubt if he’s thought of that. What’s on his mind is what I put there: I told him there were no signs of forcing on her Grace, no bruised wrists, no bruises anywhere. She had lain with a man and she had been willing. Poggio heard no cries of protest and he was in a closet off her chamber, only a matter of yards away. The Duke does not want to hear about her lovers. As his brother said, there are secrets in every family.’
Benno rode in silence for a little, accommodating himself to Biondello’s efforts at settling in comfort. Then he ventured, ‘If the Duke’d found her with a lover-’
‘Young Leandro wouldn’t be waiting to die now.’
‘No one would’ve blamed the Duke for it, would they?’
‘Even Duke Ippolyto might have had to accept his sister’s death.’
‘Know what I heard in the Palace afterwards? They were saying — only, like, behind their hands — that the Duke killed her in one of his rages, same as he killed the Duchess Maria.’
‘And what’s the version you’ve heard of that story?’
‘He set his dogs on her and they tore her throat out.’ Benno said it with a gossip’s relish. ‘Everyone’s heard that. A-course, at the time it was given out it was an accident and the dogs had gone mad, they’d jumped on a monkey she was holding. The Duke killed them himself. I was that sorry when I heard. I was just a boy in the stables. Poor dogs, how could they know?’ Benno fondled the dozing Biondello. ‘I should have been sorry for the Duchess, everyone said she was good and kind. D’you think the Duke killed this Duchess too?’
The widow gave a little forward shrug of the shoulders. ‘Whoever did it arranged for Leandro Bandini to take the blame. It may indeed have been the Lady Violante who sent him the message. The Duke himself is set on healing this feud that damages his state. Is it likely he would provoke it further? There have been riots in the town since the death, Bandini against di Torre, street fights from which one man is near death. Is this the Duke’s peace?’
They had reached the top of a hill and paused, the valley spread out before them, touched now by sunlight, the walls and buildings of a distant town, white and red against the far-off hills, blue like the bloom on a plum. It was warm now, and the widow let her hood fall back, arranging her veil with one hand.
Benno had been visited by an uncomfortable thought, and gazed at the view without seeing it.
‘Could have been my old master, you know. Lord Jacopo could’ve sent the disguise and that to Bandini’s son, hired the dancer to get the Duchess to withdraw to change her dress, and dumped Leandro — believe me, he could have done it. You don’t make a fortune like he has if you’re afraid of dirty tricks. And he did pretend my lady had been snatched.’
‘How would he get the Duchess to dismiss her ladies? Do you propose him as her secret lover?’
Benno snorted. Side by side, they surveyed the landscape. The grey whinnied and rubbed its nose on its foreleg. A bird, from its size a raven, flew heavily into the distance towards the town; another group of black birds, dots in a field, moved busily foraging. Benno undid his cloak at the neck, whereas half an hour ago he had been envying the widow’s enveloping skirts.
‘It’s a lover, isn’t it? Her lover did it. Has to be, if she was expecting someone. Might be Leandro after all, eh?’
The strong profile under the veil was thoughtful. ‘He may be lying, just as Poggio may; but if a man lies with a woman, there are traces that cannot be concealed. I helped him strip off that Wild Man suit in prison soon after, and there was nothing; and I smelt herbs on his breath that made me believe he had been drugged.’
‘Why didn’t the Duke kill him when he found him?’
‘He didn’t find him. Leandro was meant to be found, as I see it, at the Duchess’s side, and found by the Duke perhaps, who would be likely to kill him, or by the guards. But, half-conscious, he tried to move, and fell between the bed and the curtains; by the time I found him, he was not conscious and the Duke would not kill him.’
‘I know he’s a Bandini but I’m really sorry for him. I’d be sad to watch him executed. But if it isn’t him, how can you find who the lover was? Not likely to come running to the Duke, is he, saying “Sorry.” And the Duke doesn’t want you to go asking either. That’s what’s called a dead end, I’d say.’
Sigismondo gathered the reins and touched the grey’s flanks. ‘That’s to be seen, my Benno. And now take your vow of silence. You’ve talked enough to last you for the next four days.’
The widow, her groom and his dog rode on towards Castelnuova.
Chapter Twelve
The travellers did not at first glance impress the portress at the Benedictine house in Castelnuova; but the tale of woe that came at her through the grille prompted a speedy unbolting of the postern, and necessitated a helping hand for the bulky woman bundled in cloak and veils, who could hardly step over the high threshold. Her lack-wit groom, trying to help, only precipitated her forward. The woman was ill, exhausted, a pilgrim who had been set on robbers, deserted by her attendants, left with this poor fool who understood nothing but horses. The man’s mouth hung open, his eyes clearly conveyed nothing to his mind. He was sent round to the stables, accompanied by a lay sister in case he lost his way, and to vouch for him. The widow herself, now revealed as truly imposing once she had cast back her hood, was in need of care. Her plethoric build was not suited to the trials she had endured. She sank into the portress’s chair as soon as she saw it, and lay back, with eyes turned upward, lips parted, near to fainting, a hand pressed to her heart. It was a case for the infirmary rather than the guest house.
‘Mother Luca, the infirmarian, is at Nones this half hour, but she will, I don’t doubt, be with you before Vespers. This sister will take you to the infirmary and there you will be looked after until Mother Luca comes from chapel. She will be told of your arrival as soon as Nones is done.’
The widow, very grateful, made an effort at a smile, and thanked in a husky whisper. The portress watched her set off across the great court, leaning on Sister Rosa, whose robust arms, strengthened by years in the vegetable garden and in the laundry with its heavy woollen robes, she trusted would be able to support their guest. With a jangle of keys, the portress sat down in her chair, breathing the musky scent the widow moved within, and suppressing worldly speculation as to the Venetian gentleman, not surprisingly dead, who had dared take her to wife.
The infirmary was of a size befitting such a famous and well-endowed foundation; there was first the chapel, from which the sound of chanting came. Sister Rosa remarked that Sister Benedicta was very ill and constant prayers were being said. She supported their labouring guest across the long dormitory. The chanting came very clearly here through the window that opened onto the chapel. ‘The sick have the benefit of the Blessed Presence,’ Sister Rosa said. Incense smoke also drifted in.
‘What a comfort!’ whispered the widow. She glanced at the tall stone walls, the beds enclosed in wooden boards giving them considerable resemblance to coffins, a helpful memento mori for the sick. ‘I shall not have to stir far to make my prayers for my dear husband’s soul…’