The Flesh and the Devil (23 page)

         
- when I - I will not dance with her!' He glared at his
uncle, panting openmouthed, like a dog.

         
Juana drew a quick breath of relief.

         
For a moment de Castaneda's fleshy jaw tightened, then he
nodded and forced a smile. 'As you will then, boy, you need not crack our
eardrums! We shall find someone to stand for you.' He twisted in his seat and
beckoned. 'Felipe, will you perform His Grace's office for him?‘

         
Juana's head jerked round as the mercenary abandoned his
waiting pose by the wall, long legs astride and arms folded, and moved forward
to bow without expression. 'Willingly, senor' was all he said.

         
Ignoring the long-fingered hand extended to her without a
word, Juana declared angrily, 'I will not dance with this man, senor, by your
leave. There is too great a difference in our paces for our steps to agree
well.'

         
It was Tristán who answered her. 'A little skill can
overcome such differences, madam. Rest assured, I know how to fit myself to the
daintiest partner.'

         
Colour flooded her face as she heard de Castaneda's
smothered chuckle. Staring up into the flawlessly grave green eyes, she
retorted with a viciousness born of despair, ‗I cannot believe that you
please all those you dance with, senor.'

         
'I have been well commended. But if it pleases you better,
madam, imagine me my master and overlook my shortcomings in my desire to please
you.'

         
Juana's long lids hid her eyes, and in that moment, goaded
beyond endurance, she would have turned to Torres with the truth. But de
Castaneda, recovering, was watching her face and said significantly, 'Do not
make us entreat too long, I beg, senorita, or else I must overrule my dear
nephew's modesty in this. Look upon Felipe as your husband's shadow and dance
with him for us.'

         
The musicians who had been playing throughout supper struck
up a fresh tune, and as she rose Juana heard the solemn notes of a pavan
spreading through the hall. A stately dance, a pattern of concord to symbolize
her new-betrothed happiness. The rich slow notes were a jangling mockery in her
ears as she allowed her fingertips to rest on air above Felipe Tristán's
extended hand and let him lead her forward.

         
Torres watched them as they moved into the empty space
before the high table, the small, slight girl in gold with her vivid dark
beauty and the tall, flameheaded man in black. `Do you commonly allow your
household servants such liberty?' he asked mildly.

         
De Castaneda grinned broadly, then tried unsuccessfully to
hide his expression. 'Ah, Felipe! Felipe is no common servant, Your Grace — one
day I may tell you the little I know of him — but he has been a soldier, and a
scholar, too. I have granted him especial care of the Senorita de Arrelanos
until she is safe wedded, and in reality she rates his service highly. This
that you saw was her disappointment when my nephew refused her.'

         
Only a slight, sceptical lifting of Torres's brows betrayed
the fact that he had heard. He was studying the couple before him with
unobtrusive concentration; they stood still, their hands not touching as they
waited for the impulse of the music, and yet the fierce current between them
seemed to beat like a storm within the grave confines of the hall. Despite
their obvious antagonism, despite the slow and formal pattern of the dance, the
motion of their two bodies had woken some dark, uncivilized thing that
transformed the stilted steps of the pavan.As she dance, Juana was aware of an
almost overwhelming compulsion to glance at the man by her side. She wanted to
face him, to defy the contempt that she knew must in his face, the triumph in
his eyes. He thought he had achieved his purpose now, she thought, but when she
had spoken to Torres —

         
As she lifted blazingly defiant eyes to his face, she felt
a shock go through her. There was no trace of the expression she had expected,
no contempt, no triumph. Only a cold, almost predatory watchfulness that held
her momentarily spellbound.

         
He said, so quietly that his lips barely moved, 'Is it the
dance you dislike, or the proxy?'

         
'Both,' she retorted through gritted teeth.

         
His eyes narrowed very slightly, but he made no reply, only
brushing her fingers fleetingly with his as the steps of the dance took them
apart.

         
Bartolomé was watching goggle-eyed, his jaw hanging slack
with the last of the sweetmeats unchewed in his mouth. De Castaneda eyed him
disgustedly, then assumed an avuncular smile for Torres's benefit.

         
'His impatience is understandable, mmn? This business of
his marriage was put by for so long by His Majesty that I could not but meddle
when I saw him made so miserable. A fresh young maid, I thought, not so mighty
that any could say I usurped the King's duty — I should say the King's
prerogative — in finding my nephew a wife. The marriage will follow hard now,
and it would do us great honour if Your Grace would stay for the ceremony and
perhaps stand proxy for the young man's departed father.'

         
'I shall stay, certainly.' Silvery determination overlaid
the vagueness in Torres's voice, and something in the elder man's mild eyes
made de Castaneda hasten to turn the conversation while the last point was
still his.

         
'This that you tell me of the King and Queen is little
short of a miracle!' He spoke sourly, like a man testing an aching tooth with
his tongue. 'Can it be true, so short a time after their marriage?'

         
‗It can indeed. We all pray daily for another son –
an Infante to replace our beloved Baltasar Carlos. You wrote to the King to
express your sorrow at his son‘s passing, I remember.‘ Torres‘s tone was bland,
and he sipped his wine before continuing. ‗All the clergy in Madrid pray
daily for the Queen, and I hear that Don Juan Jose of Austria is quite
discomfited – he thought he had only to marry his half-sister, the Infanta
Margarita, to be acknowledged heir to the throne. But you know that our wise
King would never allow a bastard to succeed.

         
De Castaneda growled something indistinct, then shook
himself like a hound emerging from a stream. ‗Wise, perhaps, but surely a
little wayward? Don Juan Jose‘s name sake, Don Juan de Austria, was known to be
better fitted to rule than his half-brother.‘

         
Torres allowed his gaze to rest momentarily on Bartolomé,
who had leaned his chin on his folded arms and was frowning at the two dancers.
Something about them had obviously angered him, and Torres was briefly reminded
of a dog who bristles at what a man can not see. He said lightly, ‗Ah,
senor, such men as that come rarely. I doubt we shall see such another in our
time.‘

         
Juana‘s feet were obeying her rigidly, without any
conscious thought of hers. She performed the pavan without her knowing whether
she moved or stood still, conscious only of the size and breadth of the man at
her side, of his unhurried, meticulous grace. She had expected his dancing to
be stiff, perhaps clumsy, and then thought with a flash of irritation that of
course he would be an expert at this, too. No weakness, no lack of skill would
be allowed to mar the perfection of his service.

         
She realized that her attention was binding a spell round
her, that she was losing her awareness of everything but him — the great hall
might have been empty apart from themselves. Hastily she fixed her eyes on the
ribbon of faces that bordered the stretch of empty floor, tilting her head in
an unknowing motion of defiance.

         
'You are intent upon our noble visitor.' Tristán's voice
made her flinch and almost miss a step. ‗Do you plan to tell him the
whole truth or salt your story with a few comfortable lies?'

         
'I have no need to lie!' She almost spat the words, too
angry to remember that she should have denied any knowledge of his meaning.

         
'None? Then you will risk bearing my bastard without a
scapegoat to father it?'

         
Every note of the music seemed to vibrate through her brain
like some clashing, unbearable discord. When she could catch her breath again
she said carefully, speaking as quietly as he, 'I would sooner kill myself than
bear a child of yours. I do not set honour above content nor fear death more
than a life spent as an idiot's wife — or even as a servant's whore. I hate
you,' she added through her teeth as her control began to slip, 'and I shall
always hate you for what you have done to me. But for you I could have gone
from here as I came.'

         
'And now you cannot.' The edge in his voice made her start.
'I leave your course to your good sense, madam, but if you plan to win yonder
greatness to your cause, be sure to tell him that even now you may be carrying
my child. Or else I shall, and you may find it hard to convince him that you
did not concoct the tale to account for bearing a servant's nameless brat.'

         
Juana said with tearing irony, 'I wonder you have such
faith in my judgement since I submitted to such a thing as you.'

         
'True, I had forgot.' His tone was infallibly level. ‗But
inexperience can sometimes excuse unwisdom — no doubt Bartolomé will come to
teach you the difference between master and servant. He is soliciting Eugenio
now to have his turn with you.'

         
Her dark eyes flew to the high table, where Bartolomé was
talking angrily to his uncle, plucking at his sleeve and stabbing a finger in
her direction. Dear heaven, she thought, was he jealous, like a child snatching
back its unwanted toys from those who had taken them?

         
The music ended then, and she sank thankfully into a low,
ceremonious

         
'curtsy and let Tristán lead her back to her place without
once looking at him. Torres, w

         
ho had moved fastidiously away from Bartolomé's proximity
while the younger man addressed de Castaneda, wondered what the mercenary had
been saying to make the girl look like that. De Castaneda had silenced his
nephew with a few curt words and waved him away as Juana approached.

         
As she seated herself again she reached blindly for her
almost untouched wine, but before her fingers touched the cup Tristán was
bowing, presenting it to her between his cupped hands. It was a parody of
servitude, reminding her of his lowly rank even while his thumb mockingly
brushed the spot on the rim where her lips would rest, in the travesty of a
lover's gesture.

         
'Thank you,' she muttered, stiff-lipped.

         
The green eyes glinted as he straightened. 'It is always my
pleasure to serve you, madam,' he responded calmly, then went back to his place
by the wall, folding his arms and resuming the pose of tireless patience that
seemed so natural to him — natural, yet oddly threatening.

         
Juana found herself wondering how much of the talk at table
he could overhear from where he stood.

         
'You look pale, my dear niece. Does this crowd trouble
you?'