The Silver Devil (28 page)

Outside
there was a scuffling noise and a sharp cry, and then I felt the door seized,
the catch dragged from my fingers as it was wrenched open from the other side.
Then, as I saw who filled the doorway, I let out a little frightened cry.

Domenico's
face was ashen under his bright hair, and anger lit his eyes to a fiercer
silver than the blade of the sword he held. He seemed to tower over me like an
avenging angel, and I cowered back against the seat too shocked for speech. I
remember wishing that he would kill me there and then; anything rather than see
that look on his face.

He
did not speak but only cast me one smoldering look and slammed the door shut
behind him. Outside a man's voice shouted; the coach creaked as the horses
threw themselves into their collars, and slowly the equipage began to turn. I
caught one glimpse of Domenico's face as his followers' torches cast a yellow
blaze in the darkness; then we were past them, and he sat back in the shadows.
I could feel him taut with the fury I had seen in his expression; it radiated
from every nerve in his body, scorching me as fiercely as once his desire had
done.

Not
once during the journey back to Diurno did he break the silence. I sat huddled
in the furthest corner from him, not daring to voice the question burning in my
mind: how had he found me so quickly? Perhaps he was in truth the devil. How
else could he have uncovered his great-uncle's plot?

Now
he sat rigid, not looking at me, and after that one glimpse of his face I was
glad. I could not have borne the anger in his eyes. I dared not contemplate
what he would do, any more than I could understand how he had learned so soon
that I had gone.

The
coach lurched to a standstill. Hard white fingers bit into my wrist, and I was
half-dragged down the steps into the main courtyard of the palace and towards
the Titans' staircase. Domenico did not look around; he was moving so swiftly
that I could hardly keep up with him, and I stifled a gasp as a stitch stabbed
my side. The palace corridors were dark and silent— only the guards stared,
openmouthed, as we reached the room which Domenico used as his study. On the
threshold he freed my wrist with a cruel jerk and spoke to one of the guards.

"Bring
those knaves to me. And the scribe, to write the indictment."

As
the man hurried away, the duke turned back to me. I had sunk to my knees in the
middle of the floor, my legs too unsteady with reaction and terror to support
me; I dared not look up, but I knew he was moving towards me and now stood over
me, hesitating. I could feel his dammed-up violence threatening me like a great
storm. Then, as I started to raise my eyes against my will, there was a clatter
of footsteps outside the door.

The
guard had come back and with him soldiers, pair upon pair, and between each
pair a prisoner. I stared at them dazedly, wondering what crimes they had
committed and why they had been brought here; then I recognized one of them and
began to guess.

The
trial, if it could be called a trial, was over in minutes. It was a burlesque
of justice; Domenico pronounced his accusations; the men, protesting or
pleading their innocence, were condemned and sentenced to die the next day. The
first prisoner was the soldier who had handed me over to the archbishop's
man—his crime was taking bribes to betray the duke's service, and he was
condemned to hang. The two next were guards at the palace gate—their crime,
unspecified, was neglect of duty. One shouted as he was sentenced that the duke
would never have caught me again without his testimony, but Domenico, whiter
than ever, paid no heed. The scribe was shaking so much that he could hardly grip
his pen; then, to my horror, I saw that the fourth prisoner was a woman.

She
was panting and disheveled, and her cheek was marked in a long jagged line. It
looked as though a whole strip of flesh had been freshly torn out, and it hurt
her, for she was weeping and kept putting her fingers to the wound in a
disbelieving way. There were ugly marks too, on her neck and arms, and I knew
she must have been roughly handled by the guards. When she heard herself
accused of treason she did not utter a defense; it was as if she did not
understand what was happening to her. I remembered the archbishop's light
promise to fill my place with some willing woman and shivered. I must have made
some sort of sound when he sentenced her, but he did not even glance around.

The
procession seemed to go on interminably, the voices of the condemned ringing in
my ears like an accusation. I crouched shuddering on the floor in a vain
attempt to stop my ears— soldiers, servants, any who might have had a hand in
my escape, were paying with their lives for it. This was Domenico's way of
torture, punishing me with the cries of the condemned so that I would know that
mine was the blame. Even two of the archbishop's servants—innocent men—were
condemned as a threat to the one man he could not touch.

When
the last prisoner was taken out, there was silence but for the frantic
scratching of the scribe's quill. Imperiously, Domenico extended his hand.

"Sirrah
Scribe."

The
man looked up quickly. "Your Grace, they are scarcely ready.... Your Grace's
proceeding has been so... wonderfully swift, I could scarce write them.... They
are not done half so well as I would wish."

The
dark eyes dropped to the papers in the duke's hand, and there was a
contemptuous twist to his mouth. "Are you in truth a scribe, sirrah, or an
untaught knave?"

The
scribe's mouth opened and shut, but no words came. The procession of deaths had
so frightened him that his hand had lost its steadiness; it was a wonder that
he had remembered the names of those condemned. I did not remember hearing
them.

"You
must want practice." Domenico's voice was a poisoned whisper. "Write
another warrant, that will mend your scribbling, and put your own name to
it."

The
man gave a sob of fright, and the sound pierced me. I felt that somehow I had
to prevent this last, purely wanton murder; I had nothing to lose, for I would
be dead within the hour. I looked up, the tears drying on my cheeks.

"Your
Grace, this man has committed no crime. He has not even neglected to do his
duty. Why should he die?"

I
saw his fingers clench on the papers, but otherwise he gave no sign of having
heard. A pulse was beating in his temple, and suddenly his voice rang out,
choked and savage.

"Sirrah
Scrivener, out of my sight, and quickly!"

The
scribe needed no second bidding: he vanished as though he had wings on his
heels. Domenico stood unmoving, the dangerous flush fading from his face, and
gradually the resolve which had strengthened me ebbed again, leaving me
crouched abjectly in the middle of the floor.

Domenico
moved towards his desk and sat down, spreading the crumpled death warrants
before him, and picked up a quill. His head was bent, his eyes unwavering, and
yet I knew he did not see what was before him. He read each warrant through
with unnatural attention before setting his signature, and I wondered if he was
waiting for me to break down and beg for mercy. I could sense the danger
burning in him more and more fiercely, and yet his slowness was the slowness of
reluctance, as though he were loath to make an end.

He
signed the last warrant and sat staring at the seven lives spread out under his
hands; then he stacked the sheets carefully together and put them on one side.
I saw his attention fix as he looked down—then, slowly, he reached out to pick
up something which lay half-hidden among his papers. It was a knife.

He
must have used it for trimming pens, and I could see its sharpness in the
delicacy with which the white fingers turned it over and over. The torchlight
flashing on the slowly turning blade lit Domenico's face to a fallen angel's
beauty; the light in his black eyes was pure fascination, and he touched the
sharpened steel voluptuously, as though making love to it. Then, as his eyelids
lifted, and he gazed straight at me, I knew he meant to kill me.

The
knife was resting on its point. The fingers of his right hand barely touched
the hilt. Then he softly flicked the fingers of his other hand.

I
rose slowly, painfully, and went to him with the oddest feeling of relief. If
he killed me, I would not have to remember this night. He turned a little in
his chair to watch me, the knife between his hands, and I went down on my knees
beside him. I could feel his gaze resting on my bare throat; for a long moment
he was still, and then I met his eyes and saw the blaze in them.

I
never saw him move. The knife went flying across the room to fall with a
clatter somewhere in the shadows, and then he was out of his chair and shouting
harshly for me to be taken out of his sight.

Trembling
so that I could hardly stand, I was lifted to my feet and led away. I half
expected to be taken to the dungeons, and it was with a sense of shock that I
found myself in my own chamber: the room I had left so many hours ago, thinking
never to see it again. They left me alone then, and, at last, too weary for any
further thought, I fell into bed and slept as though I were dead already.

I
woke with a feeling of dread. The nightmarish events of the previous night had
faded, and it was only when I recognized the hangings of the bed I so seldom
slept in that I remembered. I lay still, apprehensive, piecing together the
memory of how I came to be there, until Niccolosa — a silent, subdued
Niccolosa— came to rouse me. Looking at her folded lips and expressionless
face, I wondered how much she knew of what had happened last night, but there
was nothing to be learned from her manner.

Although
it was barely dawn, others were up before me—I could hear the scuffling of feet
in the corridor and voices in the antechamber, and I wondered for one
frightened moment whether the executions were taking place here and now. Then I
remembered. It was Domenico's coronation morning, and while the deaths he had
ordered were being meted out, the preparations were going forward for him to
mount his throne.

Niccolosa
touched my arm. "My lady, you must get dressed. You are to ride in the
coronation procession, remember."

"No,
not now. The duke will have changed his mind after..."

"But
his servants brought your gown not half an hour ago, and there is a letter for
you—he expressly desires you to wear it today."

"A
letter?" I stared incredulously as she held out a sealed and folded sheet,
and broke the wax with fingers that trembled suddenly.

"Ippolito
will come for you two hours before noon," it said without greeting or
superscription. "Be ready to go in state through the city, and tell the
old woman that if you appear less than a duke's daughter, she shall answer for
it."

It
was signed, with slashing, arrogant strokes, "Cabria."

After
a moment I began to laugh. I should have known that nothing would make him
alter his plans. The ceremony would go on as he had ordered it, and I would ape
the part of his betrothed in front of half the statesmen in Italy—and if
afterwards he chose to kill me or discard me, I would have served his turn.

Niccolosa
looked anxious. "My lady..."

I
managed to swallow my laughter before it broke into weeping: "Very well, I
shall not disobey His Grace's commands."

"First
you must eat, my lady. There is time enough for you to break your
fast...."

"No."
I shook my head, and her lips tightened.

"As
you will, my lady."

"I
am sorry, Niccolosa." I tried to smile. "But I am too afraid. Food
would make me queasy."

She
nodded and said no more. "Well, I will summon your ladyship's women."

As
she moved towards the bellpull, I said bitterly, "Where are my masking
robes?"

She
did not pretend to misunderstand me. "The women will bring them when they
come. They were made to His Grace's order."

The
door opened to admit servants carrying burdens of spilling brightness that made
me gasp and run forward to touch them cautiously, for fear they might vanish.
For a moment I was enchanted. Then I remembered that these robes were to deck
an impostor; their beauty was as much a mockery as the court's reverence would
be. The finer I was, the more they would jeer behind my back and laugh up their
sleeves at my impudence, knowing that I was no more than a puppet that jerked
to the duke's command. And for my pride's sake I could not—would not—admit that
my usurped dignity tasted as bitter as gall.

It
was with less than half an hour to spare that I was ready at last, for
Niccolosa had glimpsed Domenico's note and had taken as many pains with my
dressing as if I had been what I pretended to be. The process of readying was
so long and elaborate that I felt worn out with standing still long before she
pronounced the work done.

The
gown was cloth of silver, stitched with diamonds in a pattern of scrolled
leaves and flowers like a frozen summer, so heavy that I could scarcely move.
Over it went a mantle, spreading behind me in unnumbered folds of wrought
silver: a plain cross lay on my breast, a necklace of diamonds clung about my
throat, and over so much brightness my hair hung like a black cloak. It was the
duke's order that I was to wear it so, loose like a virgin's, and not all the
chains of pearls and diamonds twisted up in it could disguise the mockery
behind the lying blazon of maidenhood.