The Damiano Series (62 page)

Damiano snorted. “You have strange tastes, beloved. Rose water and a steaming ewer—that I understand, but to immerse one's body …”

He combed the offending tress with his fingers. “No more breaking ice, Saara. No more cold beds shared with a pregnant goat.” Then his musing smile faded.

“Saara. Your life has been so sad. You have loved proud men, violent men, vainglorious men. I may be a madman—Gaspare tells me so often enough—but at least I can be gentle about it. I will live to make you happy.”

The forearms which locked about Saara's breast were very hard and strong, laced with the muscles and tendons used on the lute. Damiano's upper arms and shoulders were less well developed. His body, except for the face and hands, was the greenish olive of dark skin which has not seen the sun. He nuzzled the nape of her neck, rocking all the while from side to side.

Saara was rosy all over, though her shoulders, her nose and the upper surface of her nipples were dusted with bronze from the previous summer. Her eyes were closed, as she relaxed into Damiano's slow, rocking embrace. She leaned back and bit his ear gently, whispering something which made him chuckle as he replied:

“I spoke the truth. I have not been solitary. I have even had creatures I could love, and who would love me in return: not women, it is true, but dogs and angels at least.

“And none of that is wasted. Oh, no, I would be a churl to say it is wasted….” Releasing Saara, he propped himself up on one elbow and sniffed to clear his nostrils of the intrusive dust of the mustard flower. Half mockingly, Saara rubbed his nose with a wisp of grass. He sneezed. She stuck the white globe blossoms of clover into his black hair.

“But this, beloved. To lie here sleepless on rough-hewn boards all the night of the most sacred day of the year, while you tease and abuse me this way—biting me, hitting me with sticks—with no regard for my dignity, my manhood, my comfort…” He turned his face slightly, for Saara was now kissing his neck with a predatory passion, and biting a bit harder, “. . . for this I was created. Ah, woman! My queen. My paradise. My great good friend.”

For some while now the Fenwoman had not been listening to anything her lover said. Italian was difficult enough, for her, and impassioned Italian of a poetical cast, uttered with a strong Piedmontese accent and half smothered by blankets—that was beyond her. By Damiano's tone of voice she gained enough understanding to make her happy, and in turn she endeavored with a forthright Nordic sort of enthusiasm to transcend her own limited vocabulary. But his last sentence she understood, and it made her laugh.

“Ho! Damiano. I have been called a queen before, by Ruggerio (although he did not really mean it, since he did not usually do what I wanted him to do). And I have been called a friend. But never have I been a friend and a queen together. I think you will have to choose one or the other.”

His response was a huge, mauling hug. “No! No, I can't choose. I am Delstrego the madman—just ask Gaspare if it's not true that I'm mad—and I have to have impossible things. You are to be my queen and my heaven, and my friend to love and play games with, and my teacher and my singer and…”

His touch quieted into something feather light as he concluded “. . . and maybe the mother of my troublesome children, heh?”

Having the eyes of sight and the eyes of love and the black eyes of a man, still Damiano could not see the look of pain that lashed over Saara's face. She hid her eyes against his shoulder.

He could not see her face, but he could feel her stiffen. “What is it, beloved, what have I said?”

Fear dripped cold in Saara, like blood from a stabbing wound. She thought, He will not want me when he knows. He has youth, time…. He has the world, and I am only the first of many….

And though Saara dreaded the truth, she was not tempted to lie.

“I can't have your children, Damiano. The children I had are dead: they are all I will have.”

The silence that followed was terrible. Then Damiano said, “I am sorry I spoke, beloved. I didn't think. But it is no matter. If we can't have a child ourselves, we will merely buy one.”

“Buy one?” Saara nearly hiccuped in surprise.

“Certainly. Of course, such a child would almost certainly be simple: not a witch. If that would disappoint you too much, then we will have dogs instead.”

“Dogs?” she echoed.

“Or horses. Or the big, flat-footed deer your people raise. The important thing, bellissima,” and Damiano gave her hand an urgent little squeeze, “is to be surrounded with life, don't you think? Creatures that are young and growing, that look to the future.”

Saara smiled in spite of herself, and the cold wound in her heart warmed unexpectedly, as though it might possibly heal someday. “With only you around, Dami, I feel… overwhelmed by life!”

She snuggled into the bed of greenery.

By the taste in the air it would be dawn soon. Damiano (in spite of never feeling more “hale” in his life) felt it would not be a bad idea to sleep Easter away. Sinful, of course, to miss the mass, and especially for such carnal purposes. But sin was man's nature, he had been told, and Damiano had a lot of carnal sinning to do if he was to catch up to the human norm.

Besides, he could not really believe there was sin in anything touched by Saara.

“. . . has taken my fancy,” he was saying. “It is a well-built house, with a good view and at least a rod of flat land on all sides of it. We could do worse than to settle here, at least for a while.”

“Mnnh?” Saara was more than half asleep.

“I will go into Avignon to play—for I must play for people, or I will decline—and of course we will use the city as our market, but here we will have both ease and privacy.”

“Have what?”

“Oh, we will live very well, Saara, you and I. Between the money I can make from my lute, and that which can be charged for purifying wells and assessing metals (always assuming there is no guild restriction in that area) we can live very respectably.”

Damiano felt an impulse to remind Saara that he had begun as a respectable fellow, and of good family. But as he remembered Saara's position as the outraged mistress of his father (which now seemed so poor a reason not to love) he decided that the thing was better left unsaid. Instead he added, “Or we will live respectably once we are married, of course.”

He felt her stir in his arms, and her long hair glimmered in a beam of the first light of Easter. “Married? You want to marry me, Damiano? How… cute.”

“What do you mean—cute?” Damiano was stung. “I offer you a lifetime's protection and devotion and you call it cute.”

Saara's eyes were limned clear and colorless in that single intrusive beam. Her lips remained in shadow. “It
is
cute, Damiano. Ruggerio always said that marriage was not courtly, while your father called it the death of love. Jekkinan …”

“Shut up about all these other men,” snapped Damiano, hot in the face. “Especially my father. If I were not a very mild man, you would drive me to hit you with such talk.”

Saara took a deep breath. “Then we would have another battle on our hands, wouldn't we, dear one? The walls of Avignon would shake, I think, if we went to war again. But you must let me finish. My people know no courts, so they don't care if a thing is courtly. I did not cease loving Jekkinan because I married him.

“I think it would be very sweet to marry you, Damiano. It is only that I did not know the men of Italy ever wanted to marry. And also, I don't know what you would do with a wife like me, all stubborn and full of teeth.”

She showed him her small white teeth then, and he pretended to be cowed by them. Then he craned his head over the edge of the bed. “What is that?” he whispered.

Saara listened also, with senses honed by wilderness. “A horse,” she answered.

Damiano twisted onto his stomach.
“My
horse,” he corrected her, full of curiosity. “I know because he comes down especially heavy in
front.
He has never had
proper training.”

He ought to get down from the loft. He ought to wait for Festilligambe by the road: the poor brute wasn't fullsighted, after all, but just a beast with a beast's instinct knowledge. But a strange reluctance to move paralyzed Damiano. He lay poised at the edge of the loft, half out of the blanket, listening to the urgent pa-rump, pa-rump of galloping hooves. Saara put one comforting hand between his shoulder blades. She kissed him on his unshaven cheek.

The horse needed no fuller sight than he had. His hooves left the road at the spot Damiano had, that previous Friday. They plashed heedlessly through puddles and scrabbled over slopes of wet grass. The two in the loft heard a squeal of protest that did not come out of the throat of a horse.

“Hmph. Gaspare. He is stiff as a stick, on horseback,” snickered Damiano, but still he did not move.

The horse approached the door at a trot and then stopped. Damiano heard great equine sniffs of nervousness, as the beast passed under the lintel.

“Where the hell are you going, you filth, you sow?” cried the horse's rider between gritted teeth. “I can't see my hand in front of my face in here.”

The tall horse stood immediately below the loft. It nickered to its master, who dropped a hand down to the rubbery nose. The horse sniffed the bed of greenery and settled back onto his haunches to reach for it.

Gaspare cursed, grabbing handfuls of mane.

“Up here,” whispered Damiano. “We're up here in the loft. Don't let the horse eat this grass—it isn't fresh.

“What's wrong, Gaspare?” he added, though Damiano's tone itself denied that there could be anything wrong anywhere on this dawning Easter Sunday in Provence.

Gaspare choked twice before he could speak.

“Plague, Damiano. The plague has struck Avignon. People are dead on the streets.

“And Evienne—she's gone. She's been stolen.”

 

Chapter 12

The walk back to Avignon in the Easter sunshine had not so much the character of an awakening from a good dream as a descent into nightmare. Damiano and Saara hurried south, following Gaspare, whose preoccupied steps tended to weave across the broad, rutted road. Damiano's belief in Gaspare's words was fragile, for his own personal happiness was strong enough to force the misery of others out of his mind.

But plague. Happiness could not conquer that. Nor love, nor witchery.

I would stop time, he thought. If I could, I would stop time before we reach the city. Before I have to see them die again.

But as Damiano could not stop time, he walked on.

Behind the three paced a winded, halterless horse, whose own progress went by fits and starts: fits of grazing interrupted by explosions of catching up to the humans.

The breeze came down from the north, pressing Damiano's shirt against his back and whipping Saara's dress against her calves till her skin reddened. It was fresh but not cold, its Alpine origins having been softened by hundreds of miles of Provençal indolence.

Traffic upon the road for the most part was heading straight into the wind, as a parade of souls issued from Avignon, dressed not for Easter but for a long journey. Their horses and oxen were burdened and their small children cried. None of those who fled the city spoke to Damiano's company, and he had nothing to say to them.

So the procession he had thought was going into Avignon for Easter was actually going out of it, escaping disease. Yet Avignon was a big city, and these few dozen people hardly constituted an exodus of fear. Perhaps conditions within were not so bad. His memory also told him exactly how stable Gaspare's emotions were and how far his word could be trusted.

Saara stepped beside Damiano, saying nothing, her face unreadably thoughtful.

But there would have been no room for her to open her mouth, had she so desired. Sharp-faced, shaky-voiced, young Gaspare held the floor.

“It was only the day after you left the rumor came, that a man had died all black and swollen. Whether it was the plague that did for him, though, no one knew.

“I myself could have told them,” continued the boy with a vicious slap to his own chest, “having seen more of the world than these sheep of Avignon.

“But no one asked me. Besides—who wants to get so near the pest as to diagnose it? Anyway, old Coutelan shut up the inn. No more soirees for the cardinals. Our own hovel, too. No pillow where Gaspare of San Gabriele may rest his head.”

“Is it only a rumor, then?” broke in Damiano. “Before you said there were people dead on the streets.”

“I said… I said”—the boy lost his tongue for a moment in his excitement—”it was a rumor on the day after you left. The day following that it was no more necessary to ask what sickness was making a fellow retch and wheeze and pop out in aching boils.

“Now the vendors are gone from the streets and the shops are boarded. No one goes anywhere except the man with an ox and an open cart. It is just like Pe'Comtois. Chhhaah!” Gaspare spat in the street.

His reedy voice had held a peculiar horrified satisfaction as he cataloged the plight of Avignon. His exophthalmic eyes glinted.

“But Evienne,” asked Damiano, trying to put concern behind his words. “How does this affect your sister? Have you reason to believe…”

Gaspare's odd cockiness collapsed like wet paper. “I have no reason to believe anything good. I went to see her and…”

“How? How could you find your way into the cardinal's house without me?”

Gaspare curled his lip. “How do you think, sheep-face? A sop for the dog and rope with a hook of applewood. The old, reliable methods. But Evienne is gone, and her dresses and blankets with her. They left nothing behind worth taking away.”

Saara spoke for the first time. “This is your sister who is going to have a baby?”

“Yes, the slut. They say the cardinal is in conference in the Papal Palace, and I don't know if that means he is in chains or he has old Innocent in chains, but I can't believe he took my sister with him.”