The Silver Devil (25 page)

Seeing
them together, touching hands and smiling as though at some secret, my mind
filled with uneasy memories — Piero's claim to have had Domenico's love; the
unexpected bond, part love and part hatred, which bound him inescapably to the
duke and made Domenico so offhandedly cruel. It was something I could never
share, so I never spoke of it to Domenico or answered Piero's oblique boasts.
But what if it revived? Suppose Piero's treachery had bred a kind of remorse in
Domenico and he took him up again?

But
late at night, after he had possessed me and lay kissing my breasts, Domenico
said thickly, "Does that knave Piero think he can give me a sweetness to
rival this? I almost love him for his insolence."

I
stiffened and tried to rise, but he pressed me back again.

"His
insolence! Why, tonight you dallied with him as if you sought him for a
bride!"

"The
more fool he, if he will take it so—no, lie still, I have not done. I mean to
pay my lord Piero for his treachery, and I must poultice the wound before I
lance it."

I
stared unseeingly at the shadows overhead. "What will you do?"

"Flatter
him, and then kill him." He sounded almost disinterested and pulled away
my protesting hand. "Prudery will not serve.... It is strange, but I never
thought it would come to this. He has clung so long without biting."

"He
loves you." I was astonished to hear myself say the words.

"A
traitor's love," he retorted.

"I
think that is why he betrayed you—when he could not bear it any longer, he took
the first treachery that came to his mind."

"I
said he was a fool, did I not? Naples, Rome, Romagna, Venice, Genoa, nearly all
of Italy is ranged with the pope against me — and he tries to sell me to
Ferrenza! To my friend, although God knows why, the one man who has never
offered war to Cabria. It must have been madness."

"Then
pardon it. The fit is over now, and he has learned his lesson, for he could not
suffer much more than he has done since he knew his cipher was lost." But
Domenico's body had stiffened, and I knew I was wasting my breath.

"He
dies. Not for this only; there are other considerations—it is the reckoning of
years and must be paid. I have seen him watch you under his eyelids; he wants
the chance to do this...."

He
almost startled his name from my Hps, but I managed to bite it back.

"Would
you let him?" His words came on a current of low, satisfied laughter.
"Would you suffer a traitor's arms about you and give him the liberty I
have? No, do not struggle. I am privileged; you must save your modesty for
other men. I am not duke for nothing."

I
called him despot and tyrant, but he had his way, and Piero seemed forgotten
for a little. Then when we slept, Domenico's nightmare came again and woke him
screaming and sobbing in the duke's painted chamber.

The
palace at Diurno was beyond any building I had ever seen, making the Fidena
palace seem bleak and comfortless. It was high and massive, towering over a
colonnade of arches, with gilded columns supporting painted ceilings and tall
arched windows open to the sun. Everywhere there was light, and I, used to the
dark catacombs and howling drafts of the Palazzo della Raffaelle, could hardly
believe in its luxury. The day following our arrival, Domenico was closeted
with the archbishop and Ippolito—it was the state council over again—and I, in
an effort to distract my thoughts, set out to explore.

To
begin with, Niccolosa was my resigned escort, but when I met Sandro in my
wanderings he promptly offered to show me his home.

"This
is my home far more than Fidena," he said in answer to my unspoken
question. "I was born down below in the city, and I spent my boyhood here.
It is my brother who is the man for Fidena — I swear he loves that
bone-freezing palace there as much as he loves anything."

I
managed not to wince at his words and smiled instead. I had thought that Sandro
might quarrel with his brother over what he had done to Maddalena, but it had
not been so. Sandro had sulked ferociously for four days and almost stripped
the woods we passed through of their game; then one night, in one of the
mountain towns, a merchant's pretty wife had caught his eye.

We
had been dining as the merchant's guests, the duke and his nobles, I and a few
ladies more. Domenico and his brother had drunk the merchant under the table
with the ease of old experience, and after that Sandro had been free to pursue
his flattered quarry. To her mind there had been no harm in flirting with so
charming a man as the duke's half-brother, and the end was inevitable. For the
first time I saw what use Domenico had for the quartet—they went into action as
smoothly as a pack of hounds, trapping the woman when she would have fled,
encircling her and holding her down for Sandro. I could do nothing, for
Domenico was holding me and only laughed when I begged him to stop them. But
the gift had seemed to propitiate Sandro, and now he moved through the court
with a philosophical air and never referred to the fate of his lost mistress.

Now
he bowed deeply, and his blue eyes twinkled at me. "I am at your service,
lady, and Madonna Niccolosa here will vouch for my good intentions. And because
she knows they far outstrip my virtue, I will not ask her to leave us alone together."

I
laughed, and Niccolosa eyed him sourly.

"I
would not do so for your asking, my lord. His Grace charged me to be vigilant
over the lady."

"So."
Sandro nodded like a duelist who acknowledges a point and extended his arm to
me gallantly. "Then, lady, will you and your woman honor me with your
company while I show you the treasures of the palace?"

I
thanked him, swept a brief curtsy, and took his arm. Niccolosa followed at a
distance, and we moved slowly along the sunlit gallery.

Though
he swore he knew most about the wine cellars and the stables, Sandro proved an
expert guide. He showed me the chamber where the full Cabrian council met and
the great bronze table, empty now, a block of metal on the backs of four
crouching leopards. He watched my astonishment with amusement on his face, then
said, "Look up."

I
did so and almost reeled. The curving ceiling was a chaos of form and
color—satyrs and nymphs, gods and goddesses in luxurious abandon that seemed to
deride the solemnity of the chamber. I gazed until the touch of Sandra's hand
brought me down to earth again, and he pointed out a sculptured chair, its back
meshed with the carved shapes of strange beasts.

"My
brother's chair" was his only comment, and I touched it superstitiously as
I passed.

After
that I lost count of the wonders he showed me; the stairs that glittered like
gold, like the track of the sun, the wrought metal and glowing wood and
polished marble. Across one landing we went softly, for the duke and the
archbishop were but a door's thickness away. Sandro kept well away from the
rooms where the courtiers dawdled and gossiped, but when they began to drift
through the rooms to stare, he set his teeth and said he would take me down to
the palace courtyard.

"The
view from the colonnade is a thing you should not miss," he observed.
"I do not know many things so well worth seeing."

I
went with him eagerly. By now Niccolosa was well behind; I did not think to
measure Sandra's pace until I realized that we had lost her in the turns of
passages and stairs, and the pressure of Sandra's arm on mine reminded me that
we were alone. I tried to ignore it and quickened my steps, but now his were
lagging.

"There
is no hurry, lady—my brother will not be free from the archbishop's tongue for
an hour at least."

I
blushed uncontrollably. "I was not thinking of him."

Sandro
pressed my arm again. "And there you have found the way to keep his
interest. He was always a strange-composed fellow for women—they drop into his
lap like manna out of heaven— and nothing cloys him so soon as a willing wench.
While you can keep him guessing, you can hold him."

My
throat went dry as I remembered the night before we started for Diurno. Perhaps
that was why Domenico seemed more distant; perhaps he had set himself to shake
my unwillingness and had lost interest now it was done. Sandro was watching me
sidelong, shrewdly.

"You
are a sort of miracle already, lady, do you know that? That you have held my
brother for so long—he has not slipped once in this latest faith—is strange
enough; but that you hold to him when you know he is to be married, that is
enough to enroll you with the saints."

I
thought of Bernardo, dead of his injuries on the rack the day I saw him.
"I do not think so," I replied lightly. "There is naught else I
could do."

"Pooh,
there are many others you could take! Domenico is not the only lord in the
world. Sometimes I think he is a madman, for all his craft and guile. You would
do better with a plainer man who did not rule you so harshly."

Willfully,
I ignored the square brown hand which sought to close around mine. I said,
"I cannot change faith as I change my gowns, my lord. I will wear out the
one I have and then leave the court to find another habit."

He
grimaced scornfully. "What, and be a nun! You should do as other women do
and square out your life by the rule of what pays the richest in wealth and
pleasure. You will have a small stock of either when my brother weds his
Savoyard, or whatever wench he means to couple with."

"I
know that; you need not tell me."

"Then
why wait meekly to suffer an eclipse? It would be a wonder if you could not
shift for yourself, with so brave a face and form."

I
smiled into his blue eyes, unafraid of the wicked gleam in them. "Because
I choose so, my lord. I am content to be displaced—I had rather that
than..."

"Than
take another man? Domenico would give me a fortune for that news. No, I will
not be so discourteous as to betray a lady." He grinned as I started.
"And I hardly love him enough to tell him what will please him. But you
are reasoning like a baby. You feared my brother enough before he took you—how
do you know that another will be any less loving?"

"I
had rather not try." I could not prevent the small secret smile that
curved my lips. "I told you, I must not."

"Do
you cry craven? You could walk as boldly in the court after the wedding and
face out my brother's bride. It would pay you well"—he lowered his
voice—"to grant me a few favors."

His
arm slipped around my waist as I looked up at him; his square, strong face was
smiling as he scanned mine, and there was a meaningful look in his eyes. His
hand was kneading rhythmically in the small of my back, and then he pulled me
close against him.

I
freed myself with a sudden twist and boxed his ears. It did not occur to me
that he might be serious, and sure enough he was laughing as he stepped back.

"That
was a fine blow! Where did you learn it, lady—in a bedchamber or in some
siege?"

The
antagonism fled from me on a ripple of laughter. My affront was no more real
than his pretended love, two moves in a childish game. "In the
tavern," I retorted, "against the ostler when he used his tongue too
freely."

"I
am rebuked." He sighed heavily. "Well, it would have been sweet to
horn my brother!"

I
took his arm again as we started to walk and blinked as we emerged into the
sunlight. "You are a rare philosopher."

The
columns, cream and rose, soared up to pointed arches around three sides of the
courtyard; between them the colonnade was checkered with gold and blue. When I
had looked long enough, Sandro drew me to the brazen well heads in the center
of the courtyard and turned me so that I faced the towering bulk of the palace.

"Look,"
he said sardonically. "I think the pope's legate long ago must have known
who would steal his palace from him. See in those niches in the eastern
corner."

I
looked, and set high above the arches of the second tier of columns were two
stone angels looking down. Faces calm, hair blowing, long hands firm on their
staves; and folded about them, curving high over their heads and down to their
feet, huge wings.

"There
is even a statue of Cosimo della Raffaelle in the great gallery where the
portraits are." Sandro was more interested in the angels' punning aptness
than in their beauty. "The old pirate rescued the pope's legate from the
Turks long before there were dukes in Cabria, and in gratitude the legate
ordered the statue to stand there. My grandfather must have laughed when he
seized the palace and found his ancestor already here to greet him."

"Then
the family has not owned the palace long," I said, surprised.

"My
brother is the third Duke of Cabria to hold it. My grandfather wrested Cabria
from the pope and took the legate's palace at the same time. You must not think
this is Raffaelle wealth! We were always a family of magpies, stealing bright
things." He cocked his head and regarded me quizzically. "We have
owned this barely fifty years."

I
stared around me. It seemed impossible that such a place could be touched by
war or subject to men's petty greeds. "Would you not rather live here
always?" I asked involuntarily.