‘This mistake,’ he repeated. ‘Tell me.’
‘You saw!’ Niccolo flung his arms wide. A costume painted with ears and open mouths fell off the bundle behind him. He pushed it aside. ‘He made a complete wreck of the reference to St Cecilia. He’d been rehearsed. He couldn’t pretend he’d confused them. He’d been shown where they’d sit. The Lady Cecilia was the other side of the Duke, yes, but how could he mistake the Duchess for her? And-’
‘A vagabond might not have seen the Duchess before.’
Niccolo snorted. ‘The Lady Cecilia is a blonde. He was told, the blonde. How could anyone mistake? But he gives the heart to the dark lady and ignores the bride.’ He sank his head in his hands but forbore to tear his hair — already thin in front as if the victim of past disasters.
‘Where did you hire him?’
‘He came off the streets from a travelling troupe. All manner came. He showed that he could dance. When I arrive in a city,’ he preened himself a little and arranged some of the greasepaint pots in an orderly line, ‘it becomes known. People present themselves. And it was true, that for this conception of mine I looked for a mime artist and dancer out of the ordinary.’ He made his fingers prance on the table among the pots. ‘You saw him upon the table? When he rehearsed, I scattered dishes everywhere, different places every time, and he never touched one. He must have been drunk.’
‘Did you see him before he went into the hall?’
‘I put the costume on him myself. No detail is beneath my notice when my art is concerned.’
‘Did you think then that he was drunk?’
‘He was the same as ever he was. Cool. Quiet. He talked to no one.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Very pale. He had the face of an angel except when he opened his mouth, when he revealed crooked teeth and a gutter accent. Otherwise, one could have used him for Gabriel in a mime of the Annunciation. In a gold wig, of course. His red hair would have made any audience take him for Judas Iscariot.’
Sigismondo nodded and hummed. ‘Where is he now?’
‘Vanished.’
‘Vanished?’
‘I suppose he feared a beating. Which he deserved, but the Duchess ordered he should be spared. The kindest lady!’
‘Had he received his pay?’
‘I was to get their pay after the feast. Money for costumes and carpentry I had been given. All my performers knew they could not be paid yet.’
Sigismondo silently shook his head at the proffered cup and studied his hands folded before him on the table. The Duke’s ring gleamed in the candlelight.
‘Did you see him go into the hall?’
‘Certainly. I watch everyone in, to make sure every detail is correct. Even so,’ and he frowned at the memory, refilling the cup, ‘with Poggio missing, there were mistakes.’
‘Poggio?’
‘The dwarf. He should have run to push the Wild Man down to kneel before the Duke. I’d told one of the rest to do it in his place, but-’ he shrugged and flung out his hands — ‘they were excited.’
Sigismondo gave a descending hum of appreciation of this certain fact. There was no doubt of the vivacity displayed by the dwarves.
‘Poggio was the Duke’s dwarf. I’d rehearsed with him.’ Niccolo’s tone was that of the aggrieved professional. ‘He was very apt. Then-’ once more the spread arms — ‘the Duke is angry. Some joke Poggio told, that he should not, against the dignity of her Grace, they say; and Poggio is dismissed. Banned the city! And I have no time to rehearse another properly. Yet they expect a performance without faults.’
‘The Wild Man. Did he wear his mask when you saw him into the hall?’
‘Naturally.’
‘When did you last see his face?’
Niccolo, surprised, put down the cup and half-closed his eyes, considering. He opened them to look round the alcove.
‘Why, here.’ He turned his gaze on Sigismondo with deep curiosity. ‘What has happened, then? Does the Duke wish to punish him?’ The curtain was wrenched aside, and the boy seen surrendering his ivy-leaf belt stood there, panting, still in his leopard skin. He paused on seeing Sigismondo but he was too full of his news not to spill it.
‘The Duchess! The Duchess is dead! Murdered!’
Niccolo sprang to his feet. ‘The Duchess? Who did it? The poor lady! Dear God! Who would do such a thing? A terrible — Who’ll pay me?’
Sigismondo had risen more slowly and, as Niccolo about to launch himself into the crowd outside, took him by the arm so that he whirled round with force of his own impetus.
‘The Wild Man’s costume.’
A dozen hands reached for Niccolo. Half-dressed, patchily painted grotesques were clamouring, and he was rocked by dwarves round his legs pulling different ways at his jerkin.
Some informed him that the Duchess was dead, the rest cried out for their pay. ‘Wait, wait, only be patient-’
‘Money-’
‘-promised-’
‘-the Duchess-’
‘-how we eat?’
‘-all the way from Venice-’
A hush spread from the far side of the room. Attendants in slate blue and ochre had come in, Paolo’s men, and after them the Lord Paolo himself. Niccolo pushed forward to bow, apologising for the dishevelment and disorder, offering his condolences — a perfunctory murmur from the troupe — and asking what they were to do. Sigismondo leant on the wall, arms folded, to wait.
The Lord Paolo was wan and grave, but spoke with his accustomed gentleness. He was sorry they had been left in ignorance of events, but he had been speaking to the noble guests. Was there some trouble about money that he had heard just now? He would pay the Duchess’s debt to them of course, himself. Let them be easy. There would be food and lodging in his quarters and his steward would give them their money.
‘You were to have been lodged here? But the Duke will not wish you to be here. I would not have him reminded, you understand. Pack everything up. My men will help you.’
‘Is it known who killed the poor lady?’ someone asked.
Lord Paolo shook his head. ‘I fear it is the son of Ugo Bandini.’
Instant shouts and vituperation arose among the dwarves; di Torre and Bandini had their factions even here. The Lord Paolo reminded them of the Duke’s decree about disturbances of the peace, and the voices died to a rumble. His men were seizing the hampers. The troupe pulled off the remains of the costumes in a hurry and searched for their clothes. Cupid, asleep on a pile of them, was roused, had his hose pulled on, was shaken, kissed and carried away. Niccolo cried, ‘Wait, wait; I must make sure of the costumes. Wait, wait,’ and tried to halt the men. A dwarf under the scarlet plumed hat ran by and he turned to catch him.
Sigismondo’s right hand was holding his chin, a forefinger over his mouth. His left hand nursed his elbow. In the hubbub he was still. The gold shank of the ring glowed in the torchlight.
The Lord Paolo beckoned. Sigismondo detached himself from the wall and came through the excited throng.
‘We see the outcome of this morning’s sad affair.’
Sigismondo bowed.
‘There will be no need now for further search on your part. Bandini will have to yield up the Lady Cosima — but I fear that will not save his son. The Duke’s mercy must be tempered with strength.’
Sigismondo bowed again.
‘Though I have always counselled mercy,’ said the Lord Paolo, as he turned away. The crowd made room for him to go.
‘Sir. Sir.’
A tiny child, smaller than the Cupid and with a head of curls not unlike the gilded wig, but wearing a page’s tabard, tugged at Sigismondo’s tunic and looked up at him with huge brown eyes.
‘Sir. My lady wants you.’
Sigismondo crouched to child level. ‘My lady?’
‘Follow me.’ The infant, having secured Sigismondo’s attention, assumed his obedience and set off, weaving smartly among the legs of the crowd in the entrance hall, through guests remaining to churn over the unbelievable news and the rumour that Ugo Bandini, hearing of his son’s dreadful deed, had taken refuge with the Cardinal Pontano in fear of the Duke. In the Great Hall, servants, clearing tables and filling their mouths, were busy with the same subject. Sigismondo followed, as deft in avoiding shoulders as the page in avoiding legs. Anyone who saw him coming, however, instinctively made way; he was used to this and, in battle, appreciative.