Winds of Folly Read online

  Nathan Peake novels by Seth Hunter

  The Time of Terror

  The Tide of War

  The Price of Glory

  The Winds of Folly

  Published by McBooks Press 2016

  First published in Great Britain by Headline Review, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group, a Hachette UK company, 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Seth Hunter. The right of Seth Hunter to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

  Cover illustration © collaborationJS

  Typeset in Sabon by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hunter, Seth, author.

  Title: The winds of folly : a Nathan Peake novel / Seth Hunter.

  Description: Ithaca, New York : McBooks Press, 2016. | “2011 | Series: The Nathan Peake novels ; book 4

  Identifiers: LCCN 2015042156 (print) | LCCN 2015045291 (ebook) | ISBN 9781590137055 (softcover) | ISBN 9781590137079 (EPub) | ISBN 9781590137062 (Kindle) | ISBN 9781590137086 ( Pdf)

  Subjects: LCSH: Great Britain. Royal Navy--Officers--Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Sea Stories. | FICTION / Historical. | GSAFD: Historical fiction. | Sea stories.

  Classification: LCC PR6108.U59 W56 2016 (print) | LCC PR6108.U59 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92--dc23

  LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015042156

  Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

  Printed in the United States of America

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Apart from obvious historical figures—all characters herein are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  For Pat

  I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.

  Hamlet, II. 2. 405.

  Prologue

  The Devil’s Carnival

  May, 1796

  The man known to his associates as Cristolfi, and to the rest of Venice as the Devil, passed unnoticed through the crowds on the Piazza San Marco. He wore a mask, of course, for it was Carnevale and most people were watching the fireworks, but such anonymity was rare in one whose status made him the most feared individual in the Republic. Indeed, so great was his notoriety, it was said that his mere presence on the fringes of a crowd was enough to disperse the most dangerous of rabble-rousers before they could make a proper nuisance of themselves.

  But this was not always convenient for an agent of the Inquisitors, and so it was gratifying for him to hear the occasional murmurings of dissent from those who may have thought the pyrotechnics a sufficient distraction from their sedition and would have quaked in their elegant footwear had they comprehended that Il Diavolo was anywhere in the vicinity.

  ‘I find it quite remarkable,’ proclaimed one whose beaked domino disguised his features but whose stout frame and lofty tone betrayed him as a prominent member of the Senate, ‘that with a French army at our borders and the Treasury unwilling to expend a single ducat on our defences, the government finds it entirely within reason to waste a small fortune on fireworks. But then who am I to question the wisdom of our masters? Ooooh!’ he exclaimed mockingly, a second or so later than the crowd, as another starburst splintered the velvet sky and a shower of red and golden rain descended upon the black waters of the lagoon.

  ‘It keeps the people happy,’ his companion demurred, ‘and I dare say the money would be wasted whatever it was expended upon.’

  Il Diavolo smiled beneath his mask and made a mental note of these indiscretions, though his own private views were not dissimilar. Venice, the Most Serene Republic, mistress of the seas, the greatest maritime power in the history of the world – until the English stole her trade and the Turks her empire – was reduced to a mere hulk, floating on a tide of nostalgia, while a French army, inspired by the rhetoric of Revolution and the prospect of plunder, swept across northern Italy.

  Cristolfi marvelled that the Republic continued to indulge her infinite capacity for pleasure in the face of a threat to her very existence, but then as the Doge had remarked to him not half an hour since: ‘Without pleasure, my dear, what reason is there for our existence?’

  Even so, to spend six months at Carnival and the other six preparing for it might be regarded as excessive by less indulgent rulers, Cristolfi reflected as he moved through the thinning ranks on the edge of the crowd. Nor did it make his job any easier to permit people to hide behind a mask for half the year: a cover for all manner of villainy and subversion.

  He viewed the current crop from behind his own disguise: the plain white volto, the ghostly bauta and the effeminate gatto cat mask with its meowing admirers, the black velvet moretta – a popular choice with women these days – and of course the entire cast of the Commedia dell’Arte: Pulcinella, Pantalone, Scaramuccia and poor Arlecchino with his expression of astonished idiocy. Every subtle contrivance of the mascherari’s art to intrigue and beguile the observer and afford the wearer a degree of anonymity, a measure of freedom from the constraints of conventional society. Or, as Il Diavolo expressed it more frankly to his subordinates, to bring out the beast in man and the harlot in woman.

  He himself wore the mask of Pedrolino, the simpleton whose good and trusting nature makes him the target of tricksters and wrongdoers: the naive buffoon, unaware of what is happening around him. A small, private irony.

  He moved on – into the warren of back streets behind the Doge’s Palace, through a long, dark tunnel and over a bridge on to the fondamenta, the paved walkway along the canal: in this case more mud than paving, with pools of stagnant water that obliged Cristolfi to tread carefully in parts, feeling his way like a blind man with his stick. A gap opened on to the black void of the Basin, with a distant glimmer of the lights on the Isola San Giorgio. Into the dark canyons again, permeated now by the smell of the sea, or rather that particular smell of Venice – a distillation of seaweed, mud and effluvia, mingled with damp hessian and rotting wood, and the tantalising scent of spices: the smell of trade. Another canal, a backwater, its quietude disturbed only by the tap-tap of the Devil’s cane on the fondamenta, the soft slap of water against stone and the clink of the boats at their moorings. And then the sudden startling screech of a rocket and the surroundings flaring into violent light, the buildings revealing their own mask-like façades, with the black eyeholes of countless windows arched in astonished wonder.

  He met no one in the streets, but once, crossing another bridge, he saw a gondola come gliding out of the shadows like a sleek black swan and there was a clink of glass or jewellery and a seductive chuckle from within the silk-shrouded cabin before it slid away into the night.

  On he walked into a deeper, denser labyrinth until, as happened in Venice, he moved abruptly from darkness into light. Light and laughter, loud conversation and music. His instinctive reaction was to draw back into the shadows, from which vantage he viewed the fantastic spectacle of the Rio della Pietà filled with boats of every size and description, from the slender gondolas to fat barges, all ablaze with flambeaux and packed with spectators, heads craned to watch the fireworks – though not a few, Cristolfi noted, were gazing with equal rapture at the immodestly dressed young women leaning from the balconies of the Convent of San Paolo di Mare, itself so brilliantly illuminated it appeared to float on its own reflection in the waters of the canal.
br />   Il Diavolo observed this prospect with quiet satisfaction. He had made careful preparations for this evening and for once he desired an audience – awe if not appreciation, horror if not applause. The nuns of San Paolo di Mare and their eager young pupils had become notorious, even in libertarian Venice, for their indulgence in the pleasures of the flesh, though the extent and precise nature of their depravity was a mystery, even to the Devil. He had sent his infiltrators, of course, under suitable disguise, but they brought back mixed report: some so lurid he suspected a degree of exaggeration to earn his approbation, others painting a picture of such pious adherence to the vows of the Order his men could only have been bribed by those they had been sent to watch. And one dedicated subordinate had exhibited the marks of a cane upon his posterior, though it could not be ascertained for certain whether they had been inflicted with sexual intent or out of a normal Christian zeal for chastisement.

  Il Diavolo did not care either way. His current preoccupation with the inner workings of the Convent of San Paolo di Mare had nothing to do with rumours of sexual or spiritual excess, but with more recent report that the good sisters, and one in particular, had been dabbling in affairs that were the exclusive domain of the ruling Council of Ten. And must, of necessity, be discouraged.

  From his eyrie across the water he scanned the crowded balconies opposite. The nuns had made a special effort for the occasion. They were adorned in their finest apparel – not a single black tunic or veil between them – and their guest-list almost certainly included some of the most esteemed names in the Golden Book. This, too, was entirely to Cristolfi’s satisfaction. He was of the enlightened opinion that for justice to be done, it must be seen to be done, even if the means of applying it might be deemed excessive by more squeamish authorities.

  His keen eye spotted a movement on one of the upper balconies. Two figures had emerged from the room within. Both were masked, but Cristolfi knew exactly who they were. The woman was Sister Caterina, the Deputy Prioress of the convent, formerly the actress Caterina Caresini and a famous beauty. Which was presumably why she had chosen an elegant Colombine, masking only the upper part of her lovely face. And the man, who wore a plain white volto with black tricorn and cloak, was the English Ambassador, Sir Richard Worsley.

  Fireworks were clearly not the chief reason for the Ambassador’s presence here tonight, for the couple had missed most of the display. One final extravagant bombardment and it was over. There was cheering and applause – but not a lot, not enough to justify the expense, in Cristolfi’s view. Then balconies began to clear and boats to disperse as their varied occupants sought other, less innocent diversions.

  Not yet, the Devil silently instructed them, not yet. There was one more spectacle for them to watch: one that would, he hoped, make what had preceded it appear tawdry by comparison. He scanned the crowded canal with unusual concern. Everything depended upon timing and this was an element not entirely within his control. Then he saw it – a simple, black gondola, with no especial mark of distinction, weaving its expert way through the ruck of boats on the canal. Only its direction and a certain purposeful manner gave it away, for it was heading against the flow of traffic and towards the steps of the convent. Cristolfi’s eyes rose to the upper balcony. She had seen it, too. Her head bent towards that of her companion as if to murmur some endearment or instruction. Then the Devil stepped into the light and raised his cane.

  ‘Here he is.’ Caterina Caresini gazed down from the balcony as the gondola emerged from the chaos of dispersing craft and glided swiftly towards the convent steps. She turned to her companion. ‘Perhaps we should go down to greet him?’

  Her guest gave her his arm and together they re-entered the building and descended the stairs.

  It would not have been immediately apparent to a visitor such as the English Ambassador that this was a convent. The corridors echoed to the sound of girlish laughter, the rustle of silks and satins, the soft patter of dancing pumps and the louder clack of platform shoes – worn in flagrant defiance of the sumptuary laws – on parquet and marble floors.

  ‘I take it yours is not a silent Order,’ the Ambassador murmured smoothly as he viewed this excess of feminine zeal through his quizzing glass.

  ‘We have a special dispensation from His Holiness,’ Caterina replied with a composure that equalled his own. ‘For Carnival only. The rest of the time we are quiet as mice and are glimpsed fleetingly, through a grille.’

  It was the Ambassador’s first visit to the convent and she trusted it lived up to his heretic expectations so far as the Church of Rome was concerned, though in truth Rome had very little to do with the conduct of religion in the Most Serene Republic. Rome had washed its hands of them years ago, though it was not averse to taking a share of the revenues from its Venetian benefices, no matter how scandalously they were earned.

  In fact the Convent of San Paolo di Mare was by no means the worst of its kind, not in Caterina’s view, not by Venetian standards. It ran a small private casino for invited guests, and gentlemen were hospitably entertained in the parlour, but it was not a bordello in the true sense of the word. More a finishing school for young ladies of good family, though Caterina conceded the distinction could appear trifling at times. But as far as she was aware, neither the nuns nor their pupils took money for their favours. Gifts, of course, were a different matter. Caterina had accepted gifts herself: she was wearing not a few of them at present. And you could not blame an enterprising young woman of good family for accepting what she might quite justifiably consider her due. Most of the girls here had been sent to the convent against their will, their fathers wishing to avoid paying the penalty of a dowry when they were married, and they were disposed to resent it and to try to make up for it by whatever means were available to them.

  Caterina’s own route to San Paolo had been less straightforward. At the height of her career as an actress she had become embroiled in a scandal of such monumental proportions – even for Venice – that the convent had been presented as the only alternative to exile or prison. A substantial fee had been required, of course, and certain favours granted to the Prioress which were a little distasteful at times but nothing Caterina could not deal with. Since when she had risen rapidly through the convent hierarchy until it was for all practical purposes hers to command. A secure base from which to launch her political career.

  Caterina had devoted much of her youth to the amorous intrigues which occupied any lady of leisure in Venice during these final years of the century. There were times, indeed, when she had imagined everyone of a certain class and disposition to be engaged in his or her own private version of Les Liaisons Dangereuses, which had been popular reading at the time of her arrival in the city twelve years before in 1784. But she had grown tired of such diversions. Indeed, she came to hold them, and all who practised them, in contempt. As she had entered her thirties, she had become involved in a much more interesting and far more dangerous game.

  Caterina was not Venetian by birth. She was a native of Verona, whose citizens considered themselves far more passionate, far more idealistic than their aloof overlords in Venice. For the true Venetian considered it the grossest form of bad taste to care about anything, especially politics. But Caterina did care. She loved Venice, as deeply and more openly than any born Venetian. And she was much distressed by its present predicament.

  The thousand-year-old Republic had been as shocked as any king, queen or emperor by the excesses of the French Revolution. But she had refused all invitations to join the coalition of powers aligned against the regicides in Paris. Austria, Prussia, Spain and Great Britain, with most of the principalities of Germany and Italy, might be united for once, but the powers that ruled the Serenissima maintained a policy of strict neutrality. Thus did they hope to preserve what remained of their empire – one could not say their integrity – from the conflagration that engulfed Europe.

  The actress-turned-nun thought they were mistaken.

  Of co
urse, the prevailing view was that this was of no concern to either actress or nun, or indeed any female of the species. But Caterina begged to differ. No, she did not beg – Caterina never begged – she set her mind upon a course of action and she pursued it with ruthless tenacity. Subtly, of course, until the moment came to strike, and even then her victims were sometimes left wondering how the knife had appeared in their ribs and who had wielded it. She was circumspect: she knew her weaknesses as well as her strengths, but what she had, she used. If the winged lion, the traditional symbol of Venice, had forgotten how to roar, the lioness must show her claws.

  She crossed the long reception hall and stepped through the open portal on to the broad terrace above the canal. The recently arrived gondola bobbed at the foot of the steps, the silken curtains drawn across the front of the cabin, shielding its occupant from inquisitive eyes. He had waited for them to come down to greet him, Caterina noted with approval, pleased that he rated himself so highly. But at her appearance with the English Ambassador the curtains parted and he stepped nimbly ashore. Giovanni Galeazzo Dandolo, Admiral of the Fleet, youngest of the Council of Ten, the man who would be Doge if Caterina had her way.

  She greeted him with a smile and advanced to meet him, still with her arm on the Ambassador’s. She had no eyes for any other, though she was vaguely aware that others were there. The gondolier, of course, and a servant or bodyguard who had stepped ashore after his master. The musicians who had been assembled here, providing an accompaniment to the fireworks, and were now packing away their instruments. A few spectators, still loitering at the water’s edge, pushing and shoving at each other with loud voices and laughter. Caterina felt a slight unease but no sense of threat, none at all. She was still smiling, up to the moment of the attack, and even then she did not recognise it as such. She thought one of the spectators had staggered into Dandolo’s path, or been shoved in that direction by one of his companions in their horseplay. She frowned and was about to utter a rebuke when she saw the glint of steel and uttered a cry of warning instead. Too late; they were all around him, lunging with their stilettos, and she heard a scream like a rabbit taken by a fox. She thought later that it was like the scene in Julius Caesar, which she had performed once in Verona, and perhaps it was intended as such, for theatre played an important part in the politics of the Republic. Later she remembered the masks, too, though she was not taking any particular note of them at the time. The assassins moved in on him as swiftly and mysteriously as ghosts and then, like ghosts, they vanished, melting into the crowd and the shadows. And then there was just the gondolier and the servant and the musicians. And Dandolo, lying there on the steps, in his blood.