The Flesh and the Devil (79 page)

         
But she could no longer live out her life to a pattern. She
had long ago broken with her father's plans for her destiny, as perfect and
regular and destructive as a spider's web. Bartolome's death had snapped the
chief thread of it, setting her free without the sticky threads of tradition
and expectation to impede her. Thanks to the man who hated her, she was free to
make her own pattern, choose her own destiny. She could go anywhere in the
world. . . .

         
His head was lolling uncomfortably, and she straightened
it. Then, ignoring the pangs of hunger that gnawed at her, she packed away the
food again and began to count the money that would buy them both a passage on a
ship out of Cadiz Harbour.

         
It was not much, but she knew that she had no idea of the
cost of everyday things. Peasants seemed to rub along with impossibly little,
and now she must learn to do the same.
You would be cheated.
 
Tristan had once said to her, but now she
would learn better, learn not to be cheated, and to haggle over every single
peseta. She must, for every tithe saved would take them further from Spain,
away from danger.

         
She wondered what had become of the horses, the bay and the
Arab that they had ridden from the castillo, and realized that they would have
been sold first; of course, to save the cost of stabling and feeding-She must
not waste time

         
on

         
what

         
they

         
did

         
not

         
have—

         
it

         
was

         
better

         
to

         
consider

         
carefully the value of what they did have, and how it could
be put to the best use. She still did not understand why Luis had recommended
her to bring that absurd blue gown. It could hardly be sold to a muleteer....

         
Delving in the pack again, her fingers encountered
something flat, its surface soft and shiny. She groped for a moment, tracing
its size, and then drew it out and stared at it. She had not seen it since that
day in Luis's house; a limp packet of oiled silk, frayed at the edges. Felipe's
keepsake.

         
Instinct told her to put it back, but a terrible curiosity
stayed her hand. What could it be, she wondered, that he prized so far beyond
its worth, the one irrational act of his icily rational mind? Her nostrils
twitched, half-expecting to discern a waft of Elena's spicy perfume, but there
was none. She was about to put back the packet unopened when a murmur made her
jump.

         
'Give it to me.' Tristan's teeth had begun to chatter, but his
opened eyes were as clear and inscrutable as ever. 'I fear you must wait to be
my executrix.'

         
After the first startled glance she avoided looking at him
directly, but she could feel his gaze on her face, condemning, searing her skin
like vitriol. She answered tightly, 'I thought you were sleeping,' and handed
him the packet, but when she would have withdrawn her hand his long fingers
closed over it. She could feel the new, worrying feebleness of his grip.

         
'Sometimes I do not know myself which it is,' he said in an
odd voice. 'Am I waking now?'

         
'Yes.' Juana crushed the urge to clasp his hand in return,
and with her eyes downcast she did not see his expression as he looked at their
locked hands.

         
'Then why are you here?'

         
She did not notice the strange way he had phrased the
question, for her mind was racing. The truth would be useless, she thought; she
must tell him what he would accept without dispute, in case he became agitated
and feverish. Still without looking at him, she said, 'I have been accused of
witchcraft. The only chance I had to save my life was to come with you.'

         
He was briefly silent, then he said evenly, almost
judicially, 'You were always honest at the very last touch, Juana. Tell me,
where are we? And what became of those fine catspaws of yours - Elena's
brothers?'

         
He sounded tired; instinctively she put her hand to his
face and was shocked by the chill of his skin. Ignoring both questions, she
exclaimed, 'You are like ice!

         
And the clothes you have on must be soaked after your fever
–
I should have thought of it before. Luis gave me some dry ones tor you
- can you help me if I try to take off those and put on the others?'

         
He contemplated her in silence for a moment before he
answered. 'I shall do my best, if you will tell me where we are.'

         
'I do not know, except that we are four hours out of
Villenos as an ox-cart travels.'

         
Deliberately prosaic, she began dragging out of their
bundle the clothes that Luis had begged from his brother. Enrique was a tall
man despite his stoutness, and very broad; the garments would fit better than
any of Luis's own. Inwardly she was berating herself for letting Tristan become
so chilled, for forgetting that, drenched in bis own sweat, he would come close
to freezing when the fever left him and the sun went down. When she turned back
to him again his eyes were closed, and he lay motionless, breathing evenly,
while she unlaced his soaked shirt. The skin beneath was cold and clammy, and
she knew that she would have to rub him dry before she could put on the fresh
one.

         
'Whose wagon is this?'

         
The question was faint but tenacious. Juana answered
promptly, trying to concentrate on what she was saying and not on the sensation
of his bare skin under her hands. She had lifted him to lie across her lap so
that she could pull off his shirt more easily, and his weight across her thighs
was making her pulse drum; her mouth was dry as she spoke, and it was not with
thirst.

         
'It belongs to a friend of Luis's called Placido, and he is
taking us to Cadiz with his train of mules. You said you wanted to find a ship
- what is it?' Her voice sharpened as she felt him tense, every muscle
hardening. 'Does it hurt vou?

         
'No.'

         
But she could feel the effort it cost him to answer levelly
and relax again, and she forgot her own unrest in trying to ease him. It was
only when she had stripped the shirt from him and sat cradling him with his
head against her breast that the full awareness of her position caught her and
she felt herself begin to tremble inwardly. He was as cold as I stone against
her heart; rigid, as though he could not bear to touch her. She wondered
suddenly whether her flinching rejection had ever hurt him as much as this of
his hurt her now.

         
'Do not talk until this is done.' Her voice was only a
husky whisper. 'I will tell you everything later, but I must warm you first.'

         
'Is there any wine?'

         
The sudden savage question startled her into telling the
unwise truth. 'Yes - but you should not drink any, of it will inflame your
wound.'

         
'God's curse on my wound,' he said through his teeth, 'I
need it.'

         
'Felipe, no, you must not.'

         
Even weakened as he was, she realized, he would be stronger
than she if he made a determined effort; and what that effort might do to the
bloody hole dug in his leg, she dared not think. She clung to him desperately,
feeling the sinews tauten under her hands as if he were preparing to throw her
off as she continued, forcing a sharpness to her voice that she did not feel,
'Do as you please, then, I shall not stop you!' Her hands slackened their grip.
'If you want to finish what the de Fronteneras began, you may do your pleasure
- my conscience is not tender enough over it to try to save your life against
your will. Drink as much as you please!'

         
He was still suddenly, as though he had been struck and he
said very quietly, 'Was it not you who set them on to kill me, then?'

         
'No - Eugenio sent a letter denouncing you as their
sister's lover.' She had not meant to speak, but her anger drove the words from
her tongue in an impulsive surge.

         
'Eugenio? How did he know of it?" Tristan's enigmatic
eyes bad widened suddenly, vigilantly.

         
'Never mind now! You are freezing, and I must have you warm
- I promise I will explain everything when-'

         
'You will explain everything now. Tell me, and you can tend
to me at the same time.'

         
'Very well.'

         
Sick or not, weak or not, no subterfuge would serve to
beguile him now, she thought; she would have to tell him at least some part of
the truth. She lowered him carefully to the floor of the cart, wishing
fervently for a lantern to aid her even while she was glad of the darkness for
what she had to do. She was not shy of her husband's nakedness now, but she was
afraid that he would see her feelings in her face. It would be a long,
agonizing task to strip off the rest of his clothing, the ragged and blood-soaked
breeches with one leg cut away, and the fine silk stocking and shoe, both
spattered with filth, that no one had had time to remove from his uninjured
leg. As she began to inch the garment off, torn between the dread of giving him
pain and a sudden helpless desire that made her feel sfck with its intensity,
she was shivering almost as violently as he.

         
Before he could comment on her unsteadiness, she said
quickly, 'Do you remember

         
all