The Flesh and the Devil (24 page)

         
She looked up quickly into de Castaneda's darkly-flushed face.
She could have answered that it was only his servant who troubled her —
Bartolomé was now nowhere to be seen— but she did not. Instead she found
herself saying, almost against her will, 'I have had my fill of company, senor.
I would I might be quiet.'

         
‗Of course. There is no pleasure for you without your
love, mmn?'

         
For a moment Juana thought he was taunting her with her
loss of Jaime, but then she realized that he was looking at the Duque's empty
chair. It was as she followed his gaze that her own fell on Dona Luisa, seated
on the other side of the crimson velvet edifice. The frail,
insubstantial-looking woman was regarding her with an intensity that looked
like hatred.

         
Shock thrilled along Juana's nerves as she stared across
the intervening space, momentarily held by the hostility in the other woman's
eyes. Then Dona Luisa‘eyes shifted, lowered, and it was again the meek,
downtrodden wile of Eugenio de Castaneda who sat staring lifelessly before her.

         
De Castaneda was still speaking, urging Juana to leave the
feast and rest for a while. He would, he said, make her excuses to His Grace de
Medina de las Torres. The words sparked her to a flash of rebellion, but one
glance at the poised, immobile figure by the wall made her flinch and lose
courage. De Castaneda, seizing his opportunity, moved swiftly. The bride was
weary, he told Torres glibly, worn out by excitement. . . .

         
Despair gripped Juana as she rose obediently to her feet,
knowing that the watching man would construe her silence as defeat for her and
victory for him. Her brain was tired, worn out with useless thinking, and
suddenly she longed at all costs to be out of the disturbing presence of Felipe
Tristán.

         
It was with something close to relief that she allowed de
Castaneda to shepherd her from the table, so conscious of the scrutiny of a
pair of slanting eyes that she hardly heeded which way she went. The Condesa de
Araciel made as if to follow, but de Castaneda motioned her back to her chair.

         
'There are times when too great a press of people is
irksome, nmn? Follow me, senorita, and I shall show you a place where you may
be private for a little.'

         
He ushered Juana through a nearby door and closed it softly
behind them, cutting off the sound of voices. Involuntarily, she found herself
relaxing: he could not see through doors, she thought childishly. They were in
one of the square antechambers that led off the great hall, she realized; it
was lamplit and cold, but blessedly empty.

         
'Better, mmn?' De Castafteda's bright eyes were fixed on
her face. 'I should not have urged you to partner Felipe — but you must not let
that face of his disquiet you,' he added relishingly. 'I would dismiss him for
the hate you bear him, but that Bartolomé would miss him so sorely: yet it
might profit you to be less open in your enmity to him. Felipe has led the kind
of life that makes him hard for the doughtiest to cope with.'

         
'I do not curry favour with servants,' Juana retorted
sharply, and his brows lifted in mock-respect.

         
'As you will, but Felipe makes a better ally than he does
an opposite; I have seen several fall to him. Here —' he patted her hand in an
avuncular manner as he opened the panelled door before them — 'this is my
wife's salon. You may rest here until dawn if you wish, and no one will enter
to disturb you. Go on!' His voice sharpened as she hesitated on the darkened
threshold. 'No one will wonder at your absence.'

         
Something about his manner was making her hang back. There
was an eagerness about the forward thrust of his heavy head that she
mistrusted, and suddenly she felt a suffocating sense of danger. Then, before
she could speak, he had thrust her forward and slammed the door behind her. She
whirled, grasping the doorhandle, just in time to hear the key turn in the
lock.

         
The handle was unyielding under her hand; she could
scarcely see it, the light in the room was very faint. Juana turned slowly,
looking for the source of it, and instantly saw the lamp burning halfway down
the long room. The small pool of light it cast should have been welcoming, but
to her wary eyes it seemed only to accentuate the blackness that crowded in
corners, wavering whenever the lamp's flame flickered. Her own breath, her own
heartbeat were loud in her ears as she walked forward; every rustle of her
golden dress seemed magnified as she moved slowly, as if she were menaced, into
the pool of light.

         
A sound outside its circle made her freeze like a hunted
animal. It was a slight, almost indistinguishable rustle that might have been
the brush of her skirts against some unseen object, but it came from across the
room. Then a smell crept to her nostrils, a pungent animal smell half-smothered
in the odour of violets, and she knew who was waiting there.

         
'Mine now.' The words were slurred, excitement thickening
Bartolomé's

         
•

         
voice as he spoke. M-my bride.'

         
As he spoke he took another pace forward and the light
touched him; an ungainly, shambling figure with his embroidered doublet hanging
open, the strings dangling like the feelers of an insect, some still knotted
and broken by main strength. The lamplight glittered in the empty blue eyes and
caught the sheen of the red, wet mouth, so painfully and pitifully deformed.
Juana's breathing caught as she met the fixed, fevered stare. He looked mad:
not merely repulsive, nor feeble-minded, but mad. She was not safe.

         
She took a pace back, seeking the concealing darkness, and
as she did so she realized that her golden gown caught the light, reflecting
any glimmer and outlining her body as if with wildfire. The faintest gleam
would show her to him. He was speaking now, babbling something that she could
not understand; his inner excitement had affected his speech, and he was losing
control of his overshot jaw and distended, lolling tongue. It reminded her
suddenly of the effort he must have to make to speak at all, and unwilling
compassion made her strain to listen. Gradually she began to interpret the
jagged, difficult sounds.

         
`. . . not wait . . . m-m-m-marry soon, and then you must.
. . . All the same, Tio Eugenio says . . . as good as m-my wife.'

         
He finished on an aggressive, rising note and Juana
swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

         
'Did your uncle say that . . our betrothal is the same as a
lawful marriage?'

         
He nodded eagerly. `M-mine now.'

         
'No, it is not true! We have promised to marry each other,
but the Church has not blessed us— we may not —' She was stammering as much as
he, she thought as she watched a frown pucker the Duque's scarcely-lit face.
She edged away, trying to force her voice to a steadiness that would soothe the
puzzled fury from his eyes. Your uncle must have been mistaken. It is not right
that we should be together away from company. I shall send for —'

         
'No! He said do not heed you!' Bartolomé's breathing was
rapid now. He was taking shallow gulps of air, like a dog, and his head jerked
as if to shake off the effort of comprehension. 'You are mine — my bride — and
I want — I want-‘

         
With astonishing speed he had lurched forward, his face
contorted into the likeness of a slavering animal as the lamplight fell on it,
and Juana felt bony fingers grip her shoulders. His foetid breath was in her
face as she screamed, and then his unspeakable mouth was over hers. She felt
that she would suffocate or else faint for very loathing, but she knew that it
would be weakness when her only hope lay in strength. She tore her mouth from
his and screamed, then screamed again. But no one would come, she thought
hopelessly; they had planned this when they locked the door upon her.

         
She could not hear her own voice, only the panting of her
assailant and then a sharp rending sound followed by an indescribable throaty
noise of satisfaction close to her ear. Bartolomé's arm came round her,
dragging her closer, but it was only when she felt him plucking clumsily at her
gown that she realized that it was torn and he was greedily tearing at her
bodice to free her breasts. She choked, twisting frantically for freedom, and
he uttered a low-throated snarl pitched midway between anger and panic.

         
Juana did not see the blow as it came, only felt its impact
against the side of her head. There was an instant's flash of brilliant agony,
and then she was falling; falling into deeper blackness, where devils clawed at
her with red-hot nails, and somewhere a voice repeated interminably,'I want - I
want -'

         
Eugenio de Castaneda was so rapt that he did not notice the
mercenary entering the antechamber. He was standing with his ear pressed to one
of the door's panels, where the wood was thinnest, listening avidly; his eyes
were glazed, and he kept passing his tongue over his upper lip.

         
Tristán stood watching him for a moment, and then
saidtonelessly, 'Senor, you are looked for, and so are the bride and groom.‘

         
De Castaneda jumped visibly and flapped an almost petulant
hand. The other was clenched tight on something and pressed to his breast
protectively. 'Not now, Felipe, not now! It will not be much longer.'

         
He pressed his ear to the door again, his heavy shoulders
hunching with renewed intentness, but Tristán had moved to stand before him,
crossing the chamber in two silent strides. After a moment the elder man's gaze
focused on him with an oddly shifty expression, then a glint of triumph crept
into it.

         
'The boy grew impatient when he saw you dance with the
wench and would not be contented, so I have turned her loose on him. In there.'
The gloating look altered to belligerence, an angry smugness, as Tristán's face
altered fractionally. 'What, you do not like it? Did you think to be the only
bull to graze yonder meadow?'

         
The cold gaze was unwavering. 'It is folly with a stranger
under the roof, senor. Wait until —'