The Flesh and the Devil (25 page)

         
A cry of utter despair sounded from beyond the door and was
cut off short.

         
De Castaneda raised his brows in burlesque enquiry. 'Too late?
Mmn?'

         
Tristán's red head turned slowly from his study of the
panelled door, and the look in his eyes made the elder man think unexpectedly
of green vitriol. Then the brilliant flash was hooded as though it had never
been, and Tristán was saying evenly, 'It may kill the girl if we do not stop
it, senor, and it would be hard to explain to the Duque's Grace yonder how she
died. Have you forgotten that gitana you bought for his pleasure two years
ago?'

         
There was no deference in his voice now, and for the first
time de Castaneda looked uncertain, his attention withdrawing fully from the
next room.

         
'That?' he asked uneasily. 'Oh, that was an accident! And
two years ago. . . . The boy is changed since then, Felipe, you know. . . .'
'He killed her. And since then he has grown worse.' The two men stared at each
other in silence, but before de Castaneda could answer the door leading to the
great hall swung open again.

         
'Senor Tristán,' Dona Luisa's faded voice said, 'did you
find my husband?'

         
For a moment longer de Castaheda stood glaring at the
mercernary, then he spoke with his customary blandness. 'Of course, Luisa; have
you ever known Felipe to fail in his designs? We have been debating on some
entertainment for the worthy Torres which he must not know for the present. Go
back to him —' it was a sudden, bald order — 'and keep him contented until I
come. I shall not be long.'

         
Dona Luisa hesitated, and then with an almost furtive look
at Tristán she went out as quietly as she had come.

         
De Castaneda waited until the door had closed behind her,
then turned back to Tristán as though nothing had happened. 'Well, we must
fetch out the girl, then, mmn?' There was a savage edge to his voice. 'If
Bartolomé has been so long about it, he deserves to lose his pleasure.

         
Juana stumbled and fell against the door with a jar that
bruised her shoulder, but she did not care. She did not care that her
self-control was gone, nor that she no longer knew whether the sound of sobbing
came from her throat or that of the creature behind her. Her fingers traced the
panels weakly, without hope. The door was locked, she knew. They had locked her
in and left her with him. . . .

         
She was too shocked to understand what was happening when
the door began to move. All she knew was that a sudden rush of light was
hurting her eyes and that the cool solidity against which she had been resting
her cheek was suddenly wrenched away from her. Someone was holding her hands
hard, questioning her, but she could not distinguish the words.

         
She said raggedly, almost incoherently,

         
'The — the Duque, he is there. . . . I think he is dying,
he . . . fell into a fit, and I could not touch him. . .

         
Without a word the man who was holding her released her hands
and strode past her to the arched, straining figure that still panted and
gargled on the lamplit rug. It was simple to deal with the fit as he had dealt
with so many others; his dagger-hilt thrust between the clenched teeth so that
the Duque should not bite off his own tongue, a swift easing of limbs locked
rigid in helpless spasm. Later, Tristin knew, the deformed frame would become
less and less able to withstand the shock of each succeeding fit, and within a
few years Bartolomé de Benaventes y Rioja would die.

         
Tristán rose to his feet with one last, comprehensive
glance to ensure that there was nothing near the Duque that might injure him if
he should begin to kick again. It was pure habit, done without thought; and
then he turned back the way he had come.

         
Juana had dragged herself into a sitting position, her
fingers splayed against the panelled wall as though she clung to it for
protection, and was staring up with dark, dilated eyes, huge in her pale face.
Her golden gown was a ruin, and there were marks on her smooth flesh that were
not shadows. She might have been a fugitive from any one of the battles he had
seen in the Pyrenees rather than the stiff, glittering doll he had danced with.

         
'Is he dead?' The rough-edged whisper was all she had left
of a voice.

         
Tristán answered her as though de Castaneda, noisily trying
to urge her to her feet, did not exist. 'No, he will live. He is often thus.'

         
De Castaneda's spatulate fingertips brushed a darkening
bruise on her shoulder, and his voice sounded thick. 'My poor nephew — did this
to you, senorita?'

         
Juana nodded, hysterical laughter beginning to rack her.
'Yes, but it was less than he meant! The fit took him before he could — Do not
come near me!'

         
Tristán had taken a step towards her, but he halted as she
screamed. She was huddled close to the wall, crouched in the long shadow cast
by the lamp behind him, and for a moment she was insensible to everything but
the terror of his presence: the overpowering height, the bulk of the shoulders
that blocked the light. She could not see his face, only the outline of his
head like a spider-fine line of copper and the lamplight touching his ravaged
cheek; the rest of his face was in deep shadow, yet she could sense the
critical gaze that probed her injuries as ruthlessly as a surgeon's. De
Castaneda was still stroking her, and she flinched away. Then he said above her
head, 'He was stricken, Felipe?' and Tristán nodded silently.

         
The stubby hands gripped Juana as she stumbled to her feet
at last. 'But, my dear niece, this is dreadful! Such a shock — !'

         
He would have folded her in his arms, but she whispered
harshly, 'Please you stand away, senor. I do not wish to be touched.'

         
He obeyed her, sweat running down his cheeks in rivulets.
With a superhuman effort she steadied herself and stood swaying, her eyes drawn
in unwilling fascination back to the thing on the rug.

         
'What is it that ails him?' she asked involuntarily.

         
'Epilepsy — some call it the falling sickness.' Tristán's
tone was very dry; he had not moved. 'It is reported to be a sign of
greatness.'

         
'I did not know I was destined for so rare a husband.'

         
Juana hugged herself, slender arms crossed before her as
she spoke. She was beginning to shiver with a mixture of cold and shock, and
her gaze moved from the contorted figure on the rug to the shadowed, secret
face so far above hers. Tristán had fallen into the waiting posture that seemed
second nature to him, and again she was aware of the danger that it masked;
that the stillness was a predator's patience, not a tame beast's quiescence.
She shuddered suddenly, uncontrollably, as she had not done even when she face
Bartolomé.

         
Tristán said curtly, 'I shall attend His Grace, senor,' and
turned towards the Duque's limp body.

         
The rigours had passed now, Juana noticed as she saw, even
as she tried not to see, the misshapen body sagging limply as it was hoisted
upright. His dark head lolled against the mercenary's broad shoulder as he was
gathered up as lightly as if he were a bundle of rushes.

         
'The poor young man!' De Castaneda had followed her gaze,
his tone oily.

         
‗The very strength of his love robs him of the chance
to express it. Get him to bed, Felipe —' the last words were almost a snarl-.
'I shall speak to you later.' Had they been at odds, then? The thought fleeted
and was gone as Juana heard the plaintive cooing sounds that came from the body
in Felipe Tristán's arms. The mercenary carried him past her without a glance,
and her eyes followed him against her will.

         
As the door of the antechamber swung to behind them, Juana
said, 'Have I your leave to go now, senor?' Her voice shook. 'I shall certainly
freeze if I stay here.'

         
There was a brief pause, and then he chuckled, suddenly and
explosively.

         
'By God, I chose right! I thought to have some country dupe
on my hands, but there is more spice in this! You will lend some savour to the
waiting until your son is born — and once he inherits I shall have to keep
myself secure, 'mmn? Or you may teach him to outwit his old guardian!'

         
Juana's brain reeled. His guardian . . . her child's
guardian . . . but he was Bartolomé‘s guardian, and in less than three years
Bartolomé would come of age. How could he think to rule the castillo for so
long?

         
She could still hear de Castaneda's delighted laughter as
she followed an unknown maidservant back to her bedchamber. Michaela was not
there, she noticed listlessly as she entered; it was not surprising, for her
maid had grown increasingly neglectful of late. As if she avoided her . . . but
her brain was as shocked and bruised as her body, she told herself, and had begun
to paint absurd fantasies. De Castaneda had been talking nonsense, urged on by
too much wine; Michaela had merely grown less diligent.

         
She allowed herself to be undressed and put to bed by two
of the castillo's maids, and was grateful for their silence as they performed
their duties. Whatever they might think of her torn gown and her bruises, the
trickle of blood from her swelling lower lip, they made no sign. It did not
matter, she told herself. It was over, and she was safe for the present.

         
Her last waking thought was of the look of hatred she had
seen on Dona Luisa's face.