A Brood of Vipers by Paul C. Doherty Read Free Book Online

Francesco. They hardly noticed us. Agrippa scurried towards them like some black spider. He bowed and kissed Roderigo's ringed hand whilst the rest of the family chattered and milled about. Agrippa whispered to Roderigo and the Florentine stared at us from under heavy hooded eyes. His face was swarthy and sunburnt. His hair, surprisingly, was not black but auburn, closely cut round his head as was the beard and moustache, which he now carefully stroked as he gazed at us.
    A hawk, I thought, or a brilliantly plumaged falcon, ruthless and powerful. Roderigo continued to stare at us, then his mouth twisted into a conceited smirk, as if he had expected one thing and found another. A dangerous man, I concluded. Even more so was the character on his right, whose face, dark as a moor, was framed by glossy black hair. He had the features of a harsh woman, which sat ill with his boiled leather jerkin, steel-studded wrist-guard and the war belt wrapped around his thin, narrow waist. The fellow – I guessed it was the soldier Giovanni – was armed with a sword and two daggers. Roderigo turned and whispered to him, apparently sharing some secret joke, for his companion's lips opened in a smile. I glimpsed white, pointed teeth; he reminded me of a mastiff just before it attacked.
    Agrippa coughed and waved us to the table. As they took their seats, I quickly studied the rest of the group. Bianca, plump and comely, was clothed in a black, silken dress, her raven hair hidden under a white wimple, her face still tear-stained – the grieving widow, I thought. Alessandro, the dead Francesco's haughty-faced son, was dressed in black velvet, the sombreness of his clothes relieved only by a white cambric shirt collar. He, too, wore a war belt, as did the short-sighted Enrico, a sandy-haired, gentle-faced man, smooth-cheeked and clean-shaven. He caused confusion by knocking into the chairs, creating a ripple of laughter until his wife Beatrice tugged him by the sleeve. Ah, now, she was a song bird! One of those blonde-haired Italians whom you meet in parts of Lombardy – golden-skinned, golden-haired, with clear blue eyes – the type so loved by Botticelli and the great court painters. Beatrice, too, was dressed in mourning weeds, but these were elegant. She wore a gold lace veil and a dark velvet dress, tied at the neck and pulled tightly over her swelling breasts, tapering from the waist in voluminous folds. Finally, there was Preneste, their physician and chaplain, clever-faced with sharp eyes, long nose and silver-grey hair and moustache.
    Oh yes, I thought, trouble here for Shallot! But I was wrong – not trouble but worse, bloody-handed murder, awaited us.

Chapter 3
    The Albrizzi clan sat down, chattering volubly. I was about to take the stool Agrippa indicated when a fantastic-looking creature pushed me out of the way. I stared down in astonishment at this little woman, dressed in blue buckram edged with silver, her dark hair caught up and hidden beneath a white coif. Her face was perfect and sweet as a child's, but in everything else she was a woman in miniature. 'Stand off, oaf!' she ordered.
    I'll be honest – I stared speechlessly at her, drinking in her little breasts, waist, hips and petite movements.
    'You've got a cast in your eye,' she said. 'I shall call you Crosspatch.'
    This caused merriment at my expense. I gawked like some rustic. 'Lord above!' she continued.
    Her voice was surprisingly low and mellow. She sprang to her feet and performed a cartwheel. I caught a flurry of white lace and red-heeled shoes, then she landed lightly on her feet at least six yards away from me. She stared at me, hands on hips. 'Can you do that, Crosspatch? Or this?' She came somersaulting back, in a perfect springing movement, head-over-heels, and landed before me, a little red-faced, her small chest heaving, but no more than if she had run down a gallery. She turned, hands on hips, and looked down the table at Lord Roderigo.
    'We are going