The Flesh and the Devil (21 page)

         
Her indifference now was a brittle shell that threatened to
crack whenever Felipe Tristán came near her. She endured her daily audience
with the Duque without flinching, but in the mercenary‘s presence she was
conscious of real fear; and for some reason that she did not want to think of,
he seemed to be framing ways to come near her by day, even though he left her
alone at night. On each occasion she found her sharp tongue running away with
her, and she often chided him from her presence with open insults that she
would not have heaped on a felon or a murderer, only because she was afraid.

         
Now she went quickly into one of the side-chapels and
knelt, her fingers moving reverently along her rosary while she stared into the
glowing flames of the candles that burned before the stone icon. Her delicately
boned face grew unconsciously calmer as she concentrated on the familiar ritual,
and the flames shone with a steady reflection in her great dark eyes.

         
When a movement nearby caught her attention she was
momentarily irritated by the interruption of her devotions and then she caught
her breath: something in her mind said,
He said he did not go to church
,
and in that moment she realized that she had been seeking sanctuary from his
presence by haunting this place.

         
Felipe Tristán was kneeling by her, so close that he might
have reached out and touched her. The upward play of light over the weird bones
and hollows of his face gave him an almost Mephistophelean look and lent his
eyes the green luminosity of a cat‘s. Juana‘s fingers tightened on the rosary
as if for protection, and then with a supreme effort she bent her head and
continued to pray.

         
Even with her eyes lowered she was conscious of his
physical presence, an inward knowledge that disturbed her profoundly, and
against her will she began to hurry, murmuring her prayers with desperate speed
so that she could rise and leave him alone. But when she rose to her feet he
did the same and walked with her out of the chapel, down the main aisle and
along the cloister, curbing his long stride to accommodate her shorter pace
with the assumption of flawless, unemotional courtesy that she loathed. The
cloister was chequered with sun and shadow, and a warm breeze blew down it.

         
‗Your Grace‘s piety becomes you,‘ he said quietly,
mockingly, and she almost stumbled.

         
That taunt was growing familiar, but it still brought her
angry eyes to meet his. His sardonic face was still; there was nothing but a
faint glitter in the slanting eyes to show that he was deriding her.

         
In sudden desperation she snapped. ‗Why do you follow
me?‘ and he held out a sealed packet towards her.

         
‗There was one sleepless last night thinking of you,
and I have these remembrances to greet you woke.‘

         
There was a wry look round his mouth that she did not
understand. It cost me some little labour to find you-you are up before your
servants.‘

         
‗The Duque‘s servant. I have none here but Michaela.‘

         
‗You are unkind; I esteem myself your, madam.‘ He
sketched a bow as extravagant as any courtier‘s, the set of his face satiric as
colour flooded her cheeks, but as she would have turned from him his hand
detained her.

         
‗You have forgotten your gift.‘

         
‗Another?‘

         
She forced scorn into her voice, ignoring the threat in the
uninflected words, and evaded his hand with a swift movement. Then she was
hurrying away from him, faster and faster, through the bands of sun and shadow
towards the safety of the castillo and company of others.

         
Tristán was level with her in four strides, one long arm
barring her way as he rested his broad shoulders against one of the granite
columns and stood there, stopping her path. ‗Take it‘ was all he said.

         
Something stronger than her will made Juana obey. Her hands
had accepted the packet and broken the seal before she was aware of what they
did, and then she stared down at its contents: a sheet of paper, closely
written in a scholarly script, wrapped round something soft that sparked.

         
‗Your master employs a fine scrivener, ‗she
murmured slightingly, and felt a stab of annoyance as the red head bowed sober
acceptance of the compliment. A tiny choking sound broke from her as she saw
what the paper contained. ‗You-‘

         
‗They are for you to wear on your marriage day.‘
Tristán said tonelessly. ‗I was able to supply the size of your hands‘

         
Her lips tightened in impotent rage. The gloves were
exquisite, like everything else that had come from the Duque – softest pearl –
coloured leather, pointed and tasselled with silver thread, the gauntlets
worked in an intricate design of coral and silver studded with tiny pearls. But
she recognized the gibe behind the gift, and it had no origin in Bartolomé's
slow brain.

         
‗They do not match the gown I mean to wear.‘ She said
stifledly. ‗Tell the Duque, and take them back.‘

         
‗No, for he means o supply the gown, too, I have
heard; something finer than russet. Wait-‘ there was a compelling note in his
voice even though he did not raise it – ‗and you will find that
everything will be as you would have it on your wedding day.‘

         
‗Will you be gone, then?‘

         
The curving browns lifted slightly, and the green eyes
glinted before he answered smoothly, affecting to misunderstand her, ‗Not
until you have read the letter in your hand. I hear that you have cast away the
others unread, and I abhor the waste of labour; my duty bids me stay by you
while you read it.‘

         
She stared at him with open hatred for a moment, then shook
out the paper with an angry snap. She had had no choice but to accept the
Duque‘s presents-chosen with a subtlety and care that proclaimed the identity
of their conceiver – a display of fabulous wealth that struck her, as Tristán
clearly meant it, as mocking payment for her usage at his hands and as a badge
of her acceptance. There had been a lace shawl as fine as gossamer, a
delicately painted fan, a breviary – once a clumsy deerhound puppy in a golden
collar, which had won from her a cry of unwilling delight. But the letter that
accompanied the offerings she had doggedly ignored, and now she realized that
Tristán meant to read the letter aloud if she refused to look at it. With
assumed indifference she lifted it and scanned the lines, but after a moment
she looked up with an expression of sheer disbelief.

         
‗Who wrote this?‘

         
‗I, madam.‘

         
‗I mean, whose invention was it? Who chose these
words?‘

         
‗A fool with more blood than brain.‘ His expression
was unrevealing as he looked down at her. ‗It seems women‘s faces can
still make fool of men.‘

         
Juane looked down at the sheet again and felt an
unaccountable catch at her heat. Here was no mere courtly catalogue of praises
but a demand, climaxing a recital of her beauties that brought the blood to her
cheeks; there was no part of her that the poet had not touched on, and it
disturbed her that she should have so excited a stranger‘s imagination that he
could write of her so.

         
Angels may love for virtue‘s sake, but man,

         
Seeing an earthly treasure, must possess;

         
Yield to love‘s rites with woman‘s gentleness

         
And do not chide if famine makes him bold:

         
Only a mister makes no use of gold.

         
The whole poem evoked the joys of loving with a blazing
directness that made the verses Jaime had sent her seem unskilled and insipid;
three days ago, she realized bitterly, she would not have understood half its
meaning.

         
She asked huskily, ‗What of the others? Did the same
poet write those, too?‘

         
Tristán‘s was still barring her way. He said unmovedly, ‗He
is driveling boy with no wit to speak of but a little skill with words. That
and a whole face will please some women‘s fancies.‘

         
His last words bit like acid.

         
For a moment Juana‘s eyes widened, and then she took a
quick step forward as though to pass him; his swiftly – lower arm was like a
bar across her breasts. Her gaze flew to meet his in outraged protest, dilating
at the hard, serpentine blaze she saw there, and then her lashes fluttered and
fell defensively. For the space of half a minute there was silence between
them, and then all at once the sound of distant, pattering footsteps made
Tristán drop his arm.

         
‗Senorita!‘

         
Pedrino, Dona Luisa‘s dwarf, came hurrying towards them
with his toddling steps, anxious sweat shining on his snub-nosed face. Juana
noticed absently that he had to bend his in order to mop his face because his
arms were scarcely long enough to reach his brow

         
You are sought for-you are to come at once to the.Gallery
of the Penitents. He paused, puffing breathlessly. ‗Senor Eugenio says
that your betrothal to the Duque is to take place at once, as soon as you go to
him.‘

         
The shock of the words drove all the breath from Juana‘s
body. For a long absorb what the little Punchinello had told her; it made no
sense. She was only conscious of small, irrelevant things, like the look of
pity in the dwarf‘s eyes as he looked up at her, the muscle that jerked in
Tristán‘s scarred cheek, and the heavy, panic – stricken thudding of her own
heart.