‘We go!’ hissed Numa Droz from the parapet’s edge, waving them all to silence with a compelling chop of his gauntleted hand. Cromwell permitted himself a thin-lipped smile of vindication.
For all his sympathy concerning the dictates of passion in others, the Admiral looked sternly on de Marinetti. She had only been in his charge for a mere month: what were young people coming to?
Seeing the game was up, Callypia shrugged her tiny shoulders, expressing the Pagan innocence of her time and class.
Carried clearly on the still air, they heard the gentle rasp of gravel upon glass further along the priory wall.
‘Love craves entry,’ whispered Numa Droz, ‘(if you see what I mean). And though the bed is empty, still he must have his night to remember.’
In an impressive blur, the Swiss rose, sighted and fired his crossbow. A howl like the end of the world livened the night.
‘Right in the parts!’ exulted Droz, addressing de Marinetti. ‘He’s a fine-looking youth – but not much use to you now, I fear.’
The lady, looking wiser than her sixteen summers should permit, was already descending the stairway. Bisected by the Tower floor, she turned back to reply. ‘If the ancient writers were studied,’ she said, firing another full broadside of allure in order to taunt, ‘in the place from which you spring, then you would know there are subtler refinements of joy than plain fornication. I go now to explore them. Sleep well, gentlemen – and you too, Swiss.’
Admiral Slovo (who knew precisely what she meant) and the soldiers who (even worse) could construct some guesses, were silenced. Prisoner though she was, de Marinetti retained the power to sow seeds that would blossom and grow, spreading their poison rest for seasons to come.
She then departed, mistress of the field.
Each wrapped in coils of unhealthy speculation, the three captors followed her down. The sobs and groans from the priory grounds continued a little longer before stopping abruptly and for ever.
What have I become, thought Admiral Slovo, remembering the child that he must once have been, that I find cruel things funny?
‘As one professional to another,’ said Thomas Cromwell, to Numa Droz the following morning, ‘I would advise against your present daydreams. Would you shoot so well with your eyes removed? Would there be point in such thoughts if your manly parts were torn out?’
Droz knew the advice was both timely and well meant. He tore his eyes from Madame de Marinetti’s retreating form for fear of the operation being performed literally.
‘It’s that bad, is it?’ he asked.
‘Or that good,’ nodded Cromwell. ‘Palatine gossip says her invention is so unique, her performance so mettlesome, that she makes monogamy a viable option. That holds obvious attractions for a Pope for, after all, he has a certain position to maintain. Alas, however, the lady’s energies are … exuberant and Pope Julius is a jealous man. He thinks a spell in this forsaken hole might cool his mistress’s passions – other than for him, that is.’
Numa Droz laughed: an unnatural and unpractised sound. ‘What? With all these novices and us here? Not to mention half the gentlemen of the region now wearing crossbow bolts in their codpieces.’
‘Leave the “us” out of it,’ said Cromwell, an edge of iron in his voice. ‘I saw what was done to the Scribbiacci brothers in Rome for essaying what you have in mind. Blood waterfalled freely from the scaffold and the hangman had to be paid extra. It was most educational and accordingly, for my part, I look at her as I would my mother.’
Numa Droz acknowledged the wisdom of this. ‘And, of course, the Admiral is her appointed custodian,’ he said. ‘Beware him, Englishman: he reads minds and is married to the stiletto.’
‘He has commendable self-control,’ concluded Cromwell. ‘And I intend to emulate him in this respect. You should do the same. It might,’ he went on, wrinkling his nose, ‘enable us to transcend the present overpowering stench.’
‘I know,’ agreed Droz. ‘Ghastly, isn’t it? I hate flowers.’
Admiral Slovo, who had listened in to all this, decided there was nothing of import brewing between his two mercenaries. There was, of course, a contingency plan for the disposal of either or both but, for the present, it could lie, chill but ready, in the ice-house of his subtle calculations. He walked on.
‘Must those two follow me everywhere?’ snarled de Marinetti. ‘Can’t I even walk in a garden without—’
‘Patience,’ said the Prioress, ‘is the open secret of happiness: lack of this quality is, I think, the seat of your troubles.’
‘The seat of her troubles,’ whispered Droz to Cromwell, ‘is her seat.’
Callypia glowered at the blameless grass but deferred to superior spirit when she heard it. Admiral Slovo was happy merely to observe the fray, holding his own decisive forces in reserve.
‘For instance.’ the Prioress continued gently, ‘it required patience to create this garden but, within a few decades, my restraint has borne a beautiful harvest. Look about you, child.’
For safety’s sake, de Marinetti glanced briefly up at the great coloured ramparts of flowers that bordered the narrow paths. Right up to where the walls of the garden met the sky, an anarchy of starbursts and tendrils was all that met her eye. ‘It is too much,’ she announced. ‘You have incited nature to excess.’
Admiral Slovo’s judgement was not so harsh. Although (also for safety’s sake) self-trained to aesthetic indifference, he quite liked the riotous garden. The unusual degree of concealment offered rendered it an assassin’s dream.
‘As you may already suspect,’ continued the serene old lady, ‘this garden is my pride and joy. It has blossomed and flourished in direct proportion to the joy and detachment I increasingly feel and, as such, may be a divinely permitted metaphor.’
‘But what if,’ Master Cromwell said confidently, ‘man is master of his own destiny? I heard it proposed in Antwerp that the Almighty set the universal mechanism in motion and then stepped back. Opinions vary, but perhaps he has withdrawn until the Day of Judgement – or even for ever. If so, we are alone: and these are just riotous blooms and no more. What then?’
The Prioress looked quizzically at the Admiral.
‘it is a foible of mine’ he said, ‘to permit liberality of speech in my servitors. It amuses me because of the occasional gem of perspective that, from time to time, emerges. However, if he is being offensive …’
‘No,’ said the Prioress in a kindly voice. ‘He may be English but his mind shows tolerable discernment.’
Cromwell frowned again and the observant Admiral saw the face of murder briefly surge up from its place of confinement.
‘Well,’ said Numa Droz, ‘if we’re all to be permitted to put our pike in, what I’d like to say is that this place would make a fine defensive point for the Priory. Hack them plant-things away, platform and crenellate the walls and you could hold this for days against pirates and free-companies.’
‘Or lovers of the inmates,’ said Cromwell, with cold anger.
The Prioress spoke up at once. ‘The blooms,’ she said, impelling Droz to silence, ‘will not be cut. I forbid it absolutely.’
The spirit in her voice caused the little party to wake anew. De Marinetti looked at the Prioress, perhaps scenting some weak point on which to play. Admiral Slovo was obliged to suppress a flicker of surprise. The soldiers, reflexes triggered by raised voices, were instantly on duty.
‘And that is my one permitted selfishness,’ she continued, by way of explanation. ‘Outside this garden I have surrendered my will to God but here; here is where I come to regroup. I trust you will appreciate the military metaphor there, gentlemen – and note it.’