The Flesh and the Devil (9 page)

         
'Senorita?' she enquired cautiously.

         
Juana answered without lifting her head. 'If that hideous
creature offers to come near me again — no matter what his reason — deny me to
him. I will not suffer his impudence again.'

         
'Hideous? The Duque' s servant?' Michaela looked
speculative. 'I thought he was — not handsome, perhaps, but very much a man.
Such shoulders, and that hair — like fire! What did he say to make you angry?'

         
Juana straightened, not knowing that there was
defensiveness in the motion, and her eyes were blazing. 'To — ' She broke off,
fighting down the impulse to blurt out everything; against her will, Tristán
had taught her a kind of discretion, she thought. 'It seems I have lost my
hopes of the Duque's indifference, or if he does not care, he is willing to
make pretence that he does.' She held out her hand.

         
'He sent his man with this.'

         
Michaela regarded the signet with interest. 'It is a
different crest,' she observed at once; 'a lion, not a bird.'

         
'Perhaps it belonged to the Duque's mother. But if that man
returns I will not speak with him, do you hear?'

         
Michaela stifled a grin at the spoiled - child intonation
that she knew so well; her mistress was recovering, she thought, chuckling with
relief.

         
'Did his fierce face frighten you, senorita? Myself, I
could fancy him in spite of it — I like a man who is strong. But he did not
look at me. Still, I shall keep him from you, never fear! Though it seems he is
of some importance, to judge by what one of the Castillo's men was telling me.'

         
Juana cut her short. 'I have no interest in gossip.'

         
'As you will, senorita. But he said that the
pellirojo
has the ear of the Duque himself, and is closer to him than any — be even
sleeps in his chamber at night—

         
and can guess his humours more easily than any, and knows
what he means to do.'

         
Juana's lip curled. 'Can the Duque not speak for himself ?'

         
'Such great folk do not need to speak with their own
voices! When you are Her Grace de Valenzuela you will have a dozen people to
tell the world your mind, one for each humour that you are in.' Michaela's
teasing tone altered as she saw her mistress's expression. 'Come now, to bed,
and when your supper is sent up you can eat it there. I shall go and tell your
Tia that you are too tired to be disturbed otherwise she will come and plague
you with talking. Oh, and while you were closeted with the
pellirojo
,'
she added casually, 'the little dwarf - man came with a message from Dona Luisa
— she says that the household attends Mass in the chapel every morning at
seven, and she will come to take you there before you have broken your fast.'

         
Juana nodded grimly, fighting the sudden weariness that
threatened to overcome her suddenly. 'Very well. I expect I shall have need of
all the prayers I can muster if I am to meet the Duque tomorrow.'

         
Eugenio de Castaneda had not lingered over supper but had
made his way quickly to the silk - hung salon he used as his study, beckoning
the leader of his personal guard. Riccardo Martinetti had shown distinct signs
of interest in the Senorita de Arrelanos, and de Castaneda was determined to
get confirmation of this. If it proved necessary, the young Italian's
susceptibility might be useful, he thought; as Luisa had implied, it did not
pay to be overconfident.

         
She was a delicate creature, he thought, his fingers
beating a contemplative tattoo on the edge of his desk. It was almost a pity. .
. .

         
He could see a trace of his thought reflected in the
Italian's sharp, pale face, and it made him smile; the regret flickered and
died. It had been a hard task to find the right bride for Bartolomé, he
thought, but this girl — as poor as she was proud, and as obscurely born as she
was beautiful — could not have been better for his purpose. Now that he had her
father's consent to the marriage, nothing could prevent it; and even when she
learned the full sum of what awaited her, the girl's pride would keep her
silent, as it had kept her from responding to his taunts on their journey. His
small eyes glinted with malicious satisfaction as he listened to Martinetti's
colourless phrases.

         
'So you think my nephew is to be envied, mmn? Her lack of
fortune should not deter him?'

         
'No man who has wealth of his own would hesitate, senor.'

         
And as well for my plans that you have none, de Castaneda
thought benignly, and for an instant the Italian's eyes met his in the shared
thought in a moment of understanding. A tap at the door made de Castaneda look
up, grimacing.

         
'Enter!'

         
His voice rasped with sudden excitement, and the door
opened to admit Felipe Tristán. The candlelight glittered briefly on the golden
griffin embroidered on the black doublet and touched the red hair to a blur of
flame.

         
'Welcome, Felipe, welcome. My nephew sleeps?'

         
Tristán nodded. 'I have a letter here for you, senor.'

         
The elder man almost snatched the extended paper. 'From —
?'

         
The unfinished question seemed to hang in the air, and
Tristán gave another almost imperceptible nod.

         
De Castaneda turned to Martinetti with an imperious snap of
his fingers.

         
'You may go, Riccardo — we will talk again, tomorrow,
perhaps. Felipe, wait.'

         
Tristán moved to one side for the small, slight Italian to
pass him, and then settled into a waiting pose, arms folded, with the studied
patience of long custom.

         
De Castaneda waved his hand vaguely. 'Sit down while I read
this.' His fingers were scrabbling at the waxen seal, tearing the paper in his
haste; he was breathing heavily, like a swimmer before a plunge. 'You have seen
the bride? A dainty piece, mmn?'

         
'Indeed, senor.'

         
His answer was toneless as Tristán lowered himself into a
nearby chair. He was watching de Castaneda with acute attention, his green eyes
as lambent as a cat's in the soft, warm light.

         
The stubby fingers tightened spasmodically on the unfolded
sheet, the fleshy mouth working as he scanned the spidery script, and then a
sound broke from him that seemed to come from the depths of his lungs rather
than from his throat, like the bellow of a thwarted baby.
'God damn him to
hell! And damn alldoctors!'

         
He crushed the letter into a ball, slamming it down on the
desk, then drew out a handkerchief and mopped his brow, at the same time wiping
away the furious tears in his eyes. 'Do you know what this says?'

         
'I can guess, senor.' Tristán's unemotional tone sounded
like a subtle rebuke to the elder man's hoarse emotion.

         
'All my hopes rested in this man, this Doctor Sanchez. He
is famed throughout Spain — if there were anything amiss that could be cured,
either from sickness or witch - craft, he would have cured it. But he writes
that it is hopeless

         
— the seed has no life. There can never be a child. I could
have saved myself the search to find a wife.' De Castaneda was blinking now,
the thickening of his voice giving way to a note of resentment.' Yet — '

         
He broke off abruptly, chewing his lip and eyeing Tristán
expectantly. No enquiry came, and after a moment he continued resentfully, 'It
may not be disaster, so long as we are circumspect and can keep the truth from
the rest of the world.'

         
'As you say, senor.'

         
There was an odd flicker in Tristán's unrevealing eyes!
that might have been a reflection of one of the candle - flames, but there was
no expression in his voice.