The Flesh and the Devil (47 page)

         
Her world might, Juana thought, if she had let slip that
she loved him while she was unaware of the words that passed her lips. But now,
at least, she was safe

         
— there was a glitter of icy anger in his eyes but none of
the derision that must have been there if she had betrayed herself.

         
Bracing herself under the almost savage coldness of his
tone, she lashed back, 'There was no word of my thoughts in our bargain when I
agreed to . . . pay you for your services. I am here in payment of the debt I
owe you— only that.'

         
She forced disdain into her voice, her lips curling. 'You
have revenged yourself finely for my hatred, had me to bed and even married me
— that should be sufficient payment, even for you!'

         
'I think not — not yet; if you had dissembled as I first
counselled you, and hidden your hatred better, then, perhaps. But even after
you have paid the principal, you owe me for all the slights I had of you, and
the insults you loaded me with.'

         
'I never insulted you! I rated you for your impudence, and
it was well deserved—'

         
She broke off as his fingertips touched her cheek. It was a
light, mocking touch, a mere tracing of the shape of his scar on her
unblemished skin, but she shivered.

         
The green eyes hardened. 'I construe that as an insult, and
there are enough to salve to last a month of penance.'

         
He turned from her so sharply that she could not see his
expression, and lay down with his back to her; and she felt bereft, longing to
speak to him, fighting the childish urge to nestle against him, to curl herself
into the curve of his spine and comfort herself with his nearness in this
strange little house. For a long time she lay still, aching with the restraint
she had put upon herself, and wondered which of
her
 
country's sins against him had made him so
bitter that he could pursue his revenge so cold-bloodedly — and why he had
chosen her to be its scapegoat.

         
If Spain had been his parents' refuge against the
Protestant devils who ruled England, she thought, it must have been more than
unkindness that turned him against a whole race. He had said that his parents
died for their faith . . . perhaps a Spaniard had betrayed them to the
Protestants. It would explain why he had no faith in any other person's truth.
. . .

         
The thought nagged in her tired brain until she found
herself falling into a black pit of sleep.

         
The sick man sat propped in a litter in one corner of the
study, a physician hovering about him while a priest chanted prayers nearby.
Doria Luisa, glancing towards the grey, absorbed figure bent over her husband's
gilded desk, wondered anew how Torres could sit placidly writing in the midst
of such disturbance. She was not to know that after the turmoil that surrounded
him at his work at the court of Madrid, Torres considered his present situation
a haven of peace. His thoughts were busied in calculating the shortest possible
time that must pass before he could call off the search for the Duque de
Valenzuela and have him declared officially dead; a couple of small forays
across the neighbouring countryside, he was thinking, a cursory search through
the castillo's attics and cellars, and then he could declare himself satisfied.

         
As indeed he was. Felipe Tristan's precipitate action in
the affair had saved Torres some inconvenience. He did not doubt that
Valenzuela's disappearance was the work of his servant; the mercenary had
coveted the little bride, and Torres had heard from Juana's two maids of what
Valenzuela had done to her on the night of the betrothal feast. Even shorn of
its speculative detail, the picture had not been pleasant . . Torres found
himself hoping that Tristan had hidden the body well.

         
It had amused him to toss the Arrelanos girl to him like a
titbit, knowing that the man would have the wit to recognize and claim a reward
that could never be openly referred to by either of them. The girl was not rich
enough for her fate to matter, and the King himself, despite the well-known
squeamishness of his conscience, would not enquire too closely into her future
destiny when he knew that he was rid of Valenzuela at last. And if Felipe
Tristan did not contrive to take her out of Spain before the facts of his
master's sad end emerged, then the judgement of the Duque de Medina de las
Torres was seriously impaired.

         
Then, his thoughts ran fluently on, with the idiot declared
dead and the castillo in mourning, he himself could send for one of his abler
secretaries to govern the estates in deputation, and return to Madrid to
oversee their seizure by the Crown; ending where they had begun, as the King's
own property. It would be fatal to leave His Most Catholic Majesty alone for
too long or he might find that he could rely on some other to counsel him, but
Torres's return with such prosperous tidings would undo any slight damage to
the King's reliance that Torres's absence might have caused.

         
The physician had been preparing a draught in his pipeclay
bowl and now gestured to Dona Luisa to hold her husband while it was
administered. She had become adept at this since his illness and guarded her
privileges as jealously as any courtier, permitting no one else to do for de
Castaneda what she herself could do. It was as though she drew comfort from
being able to help him, from raising the motionless body so that she could be
the puppeteer who restored it to a mocking semblance of life. Now she gripped
his sagging shoulders while the draught was forced between the slack lips, her
hands lingering on his shawl-swathed back as if to gauge the depth of his
helplessness. The unblinking eyes, she saw, were fixed on Torres; then, as her
fingers tightened, she felt his attention shift, and knew that he was aware not
only of her presence but of her movements. A week ago his mind had been as
inert as his body, she thought with sudden dread. She had watched his spirit
glaring out of those glazed eyes like an animal in a cage, trapped and
immovable, and her heart had rejoiced. Now. . . .

         
She checked, staring down at him with a quick, disbelieving
look. The dwarf, Pedrino, crept from his place at the back of her chair to peer
enquiringly up into her face.

         
Catching the movement out of the corner of his eye, Torres
glanced up. No trace of the hope he felt showed in his well-schooled expression
of mildness, for it was a clinical hope, without passion — it would be neater
to have de Castaneda dead than living, and only to that end he wished that the
man would relinquish his obstinate hold on life. Putting down his pen, he
beckoned the physician with one ringed finger.

         
'Is it ended?'

         
The man shook his head with a trace of regret. 'No, Your
Grace, not yet. The senor's endurance is wonderful — most men who are taken so,
by choler, linger only a brief while and then die. I thought it would be so
with him, but it has been ten days now. . .

         
'I was told that it was his rage that caused the fit.'
Torres looked meditative.

         
'Worsened by his concern for the fate that has overtaken
his unfortunate nephew, I do not doubt. Such things are not unknown — the
Conde-Duque de Olivares had just such a fierce temper.'

         
'Come here! Quickly!'

         
Dona Luisa's voice sounded suddenly shrill; her face
crumpled like a child's after some disaster.

         
The physician obeyed her summons so summarily that he
forgot to bow ceremoniously to Torres as etiquette demanded before he crossed
the room. Torres half-rose, his preoccupation momentarily forgotten.

         
'Be calm, senora, there can be no present danger.' The
doctor was puffing as he reached her side. 'You concern yourself too much with
the senor's condition.'

         
'I am afraid.' Her lips barely moved.

        
'I promise you, senora, you need not be! If he were in
danger of dying, he

         
—'

         
'You do not understand.' Her silver-grey head moved very
slowly, and she turned to look at him as though she feared to take her eyes
from the sick man. 'He moved his hand. I am afraid that he will recover.'

         
The legs of Torres's chair scraped across the polished
floor, and the priest's prayers fell abruptly silent. In that moment the four
on their feet were staring at each other with expressions of shock that they
had no time to school, and the opening of the door sounded obscenely loud in
the sudden silence.

         
'A messenger has come with letters for Your Grace.' Old
Histangua bowed ponderously on the threshold, a muddy figure at his shoulder,
but Torres gestured with sudden impatience.

         
'Bid him wait until I am at leisure.'

         
'But it is of the utmost importance, Your Grace.' The old
man 's surprise betrayed him into protest, as much at the unexpected tone of
the Duque's voice as what he had said. 'He comes from Navarre, and he brings
grave news. The Senorita de Arrelanos is missing, and the senor, her father,
sends to entreat your help in finding her.'

         
'Indeed?' Torres's tone was abstracted; he was thinking
that now he would have to make haste, to hurry back to Madrid and have the
estates impounded before de Castaneda recovered enough to dispute possession.
'Well, bid him wait nevertheless. I shall send for him shortly.'

         
Histangua could do nothing but bow his acquiescence and
close the door again, but he was puzzled: Dona Luisa had been clearly horrified
by the news, and indeed had looked as though she were about to faint, and that
was as it should be, but he could not rid himself of the notion that he had
seen a gleam of unsurprised satisfaction in Torres's short-sighted eyes.

         
'What do you mean, they have not come? They were ordered
three weeks ago!'

         
Dona Jeronima de Herreros y Guzman frowned incredulously,
then relaxed her face quickly as she caught sight of the result in her mirror.
'I told that dolt of a jeweller that they were wanted for tonight.'