The Silver Devil (33 page)

There
was a moment's charged silence, then Domenico's eyes flared like a berserk
wildcat's, almost silver with rage. His face was flushed hectically, and his
lips drew back from his teeth like a snarling animal's. "Of you? Do you
imagine I think of you? A smooth-tongued slave with more impudence than brain,
more cunning for mischief than breeding! For my hate's sake I have let you live
so long—it was sweet to see you couch to me, and say 'my lord' so often, when
you went in fear for your life—but I would as soon hold a leper in my arms as
such a vile scullion! And you dare talk so—you dare—to me—to me—"

Sweat
was pouring down his face as he screamed the words. I could see his violent
trembling from where I stood, and then his voice seemed to catch in his throat.
For a moment I thought he was dying: Then, before anyone could move, he pitched
forward like a falling tree, without any attempt to save himself.

Piero
caught him as he fell. I heard him say, "Oh, Domenico—your old fit again—"and
he bent and pressed his lips to the duke's temple.

No
one moved. I simply did not know what to do. What was between these two seemed
private, and I clung to the tree as though it were a lifeline. Piero was
kneeling, supporting the duke's whole weight across his upraised knee; Domenico
lay apparently unconscious, his shining head on Piero's shoulder like a
sleeping child's.

It
can only have been seconds before he stirred, but to me it seemed like
centuries. His head lifted a little, and he seemed to recollect where he was;
then he tore himself from Piero's hold and slithered back from him as swiftly
as a snake. Piero's hand went out to him, and then the duke, his eyes wide and
blank, gasped, "Kill him. Kill him."

There
was a scuffle and a sudden clink of chains, and one of the men shouted and
pointed at Piero—then, with a rush, the three great boarhounds left their
keepers' sides and leapt towards him.

He
did not scream. I do not think he believed, in that first moment, that they
could be coming for him. Then, when comprehension flooded his face, his hand
dropped to his pitifully inadequate dagger, and he turned slowly from one dog
to another, trying to estimate where the first attack would come from.

The
dog on his right sprang, and he flung up an arm to fend it off. The weight of
the animal's body made him reel; the hand that held the dagger was wrenched
high, the arm useless as the hound sank its teeth into it.

Riccardo
D'Esti whispered excitedly, "A silver piece that he lasts five
minutes."

Guido
Vassari shook his head scornfully. "Never! Look at the other two."

While
Piero was trying to dislodge the brute clinging to his mangled arm, the other
two dogs were circling. Then one of them launched itself from behind him on his
left side, and then he did scream. He stepped back, trying to recover his
balance, and stumbled, dropping backwards to the ground. It was a gift to the
third dog. Piero's second scream was short; a man cannot scream with his throat
bitten out.

I
remember thinking stupidly that those dogs could not have been fed for days. I
wanted to look away, but I could not remember how; I could only stand propped
against the trunk of a tree, watching, watching. Once, staring at the red,
ruined thing that had once been a man, I remembered that I had thought I hated
him; but I was weeping, nonetheless, as though I would never stop.

Riccardo
was sulkily paying his bet to Guido; Ippolito was not there. Among the
courtiers I recognized only Santi, who had cleared the dogs away and was
clearing up the mess with an unmoved expression on his brutal face. The
clearing looked like a butcher's yard. Domenico was still crouched on the
ground; he had not moved since he gave the order. Then Santi brushed by him to
pick up what looked like a severed hand, and he stood up at last.

There
was a long smear of blood down his velvet sleeve where Piero's imploring
fingers had caught at it momentarily; but otherwise the struggle had not
touched him. He stood looking down at the crimson grass with a lack of
expression that was terrifying. Then, as though a thought had struck him, he
raised his head sharply.

I
watched him come towards me with a sort of dread; if my legs would have held me
up, I would have fled him. But I stayed still, half-collapsed and racked with
weeping, and his hands caught mine and pulled me upright. His were icy cold.

"That
will teach him to betray me," he said with a shaken laugh.

I
was shocked beyond reason, beyond rational thought. I wanted to shrink from a
man who could wreak a revenge so terrible, so immeasurably greater than the
crime it punished. The man I love is a monster, I thought dazedly; he has men
eaten alive....

Around
us the huntsmen were struggling to calm the hysterical pack, and some of the
courtiers had gone to catch the horses. Ippolito was with them when they
returned, still visibly sickened, not daring to look at the trampled grass or
the stains glistening on the bark of the fallen tree. I felt Domenico stiffen
as he met his secretary's eyes above my head; then his harsh grip slackened,
and with a muttered "Come," he turned and swung himself lithely onto
the black horse's back.

I
did not hear what he said to Sandro when we rejoined the main hunting
party—some farrago about blood from a wounded deer, and the dogs maddened by
the smell on Piero's clothes— Piero who had smelled always of musk and civet.
Sandro's eyes were frankly skeptical, but he kept his face wooden enough while
he heard the tale.

The
ride back to Diurno was long and silent. Soon the palace might be buzzing with
gossip and surmise, but now not a man dared murmur—the duke's hunt brought its
quarry home in speechless unease.

That
afternoon I escaped to find Father Vincenzo.

I
had not seen him in all the days since I realized that my sins were willingly
committed, but now my soul was so heavy with remorse that I could not bear it
alone. He was alone in the chapel when I found him, and I think he had heard
something of what had happened, for he greeted me without surprise, his gentle
manner saying far more than the stilted words he spoke. Slowly the familiar
pattern of prayer caught my attention, blotting out the red horror of the
forest clearing, and I rose from my knees feeling comforted.

"Another
time, daughter, do not wait until you stand in such need; and remember, it is
not for you to judge the weight of your own offenses."

I
flushed as I met the Jesuit's steady regard. "They are heavy enough by any
man's reckoning, Father."

"But
not so heavy as to crush your conscience; if they did, you would not have come to
me. The duke only uses confession as a means to shock me; a man's death is less
to him than the loss of a glove. I tell him of damnation, but I doubt he fears
anything but the darkness in his own mind."

I
must have made a betraying movement, because he looked at me keenly and nodded.

"You
know of it, too. I thought you must have guessed something—it is more than the
god of his appetite which drives him to such evil. I have sought to make him
tell of it in confession, but he will not—I think perhaps he does not know
himself what it is."

"He
is haunted." I spoke with difficulty, watching my fingers as they twisted
together. "I will not tell you more than that. But his pride will not let
him admit that a thing can terrify him, and so he never speaks of it."

"Not
to you?"

I
shook my head. "I am only his mistress. Sometimes he talks in his sleep,
that is all."

Father
Vincenzo did not answer directly. He pondered for a moment and then said,
"He is much changed of late. Did you know that his constancy to you is the
wonder of the court?"

"Piero..."
My tongue stumbled. "Piero della Quercia said something like it, but his
every third word was a lie. For all I know there may be fifty others."

"The
duke would not be so far kind as to spare you the knowledge of them. He was
wont to take a delight in tormenting his mistresses so—favoring one in the
sight of another and on the same night betraying both. And the honor he did you
at his coronation has been noised throughout Italy…"

"He
did it to vex his great-uncle," I interrupted bitterly. "It was no
more than a sign that he can do as he pleases now he is duke."

The
Jesuit sighed. "Like enough."

"And
I know he will keep me only until he is wedded. He told me so."

I
had known the truth of that before I spoke the words; but the sound of them,
baldly stated, was so painful that I sat as still as if I had received a wound,
not daring to move in case it increased the hurt. Father Vincenzo glanced at me
sharply, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and gentle.

"Remember,
daughter, I will always bear half your burdens if you ask me."

I
bowed my head in a sudden flood of gratitude and kissed his thin hand, and as I
did so, a mocking voice sounded from the doorway.

"Here
is devotion, Ippolito! Are you seeking to set a fashion in piety, sweet? You
will have few enough followers at that."

I
turned to see Domenico in the doorway, Ippolito and the quartet at his heels.
He was lounging lazily, a half-reckless smile on his lips, and I obeyed the
peremptory flick of his fingers perforce; it was only when I reached his side
that I could see the new, remote look in the depths of his dark eyes.

He
continued smoothly, his fingers closing on mine. "Were you seeking
absolution for your crimes? For those you should ask pardon of me—I swear I can
devise you softer penances than any priest."

The
men behind him sniggered, and the priest smiled rather sadly. I said,
"Will you stay, Your Grace?" but he shook his head sharply, almost
angrily.

"I
will keep my own road, I think." His voice was light, the smile still on
his lips. "And trust to your prayers to keep me from the devil's
clutches."

"That
may be beyond my power, Your Grace."

"What,
when you are backed with my good confessor here?" Domenico glanced
sardonically at Father Vincenzo. "My soul is to him as the Augean stables
were to Heracles."

The
young priest inclined his head. "I thank Your Grace for the comparison.
Heracles finished that labor, and eleven more to boot."

Domenico
straightened. "Do so for me, and I will make you the next archbishop."

"Your
Grace forgets," the priest retorted gently, "that you are not yet
pope."

Domenico
might not have heard; his fingers were hard on mine, and his remote gaze was
fixed on my face. "If you had not stolen from me, you might have heard the
news I have told the court— we are for our travels again. We start for Fidena
tomorrow morning."

"Fidena!
But I thought you meant to stay here until..."

Until
Savoy's daughter came, I meant to say, but he cut me short.

"There
is no need. Our great-uncle remains behind to manage our affairs here, and
there is no need for us to fool it here any further." The sudden twist of
impatience in his voice warned me, and I bowed my head in acquiescence; what I
tried to do by prayer, he sought by flight, leaving Diurno far behind.

But
as I learned, there was much grumbling in the court when the move was
announced, and Sandro swore downright and sulked thunderously.

We
were to travel back at a much slower pace than we had come, Ippolito told me
that evening, and smiled when he saw my expression.

"Do
not look so glum, lady. We will not ride at a walking pace. Look." He drew
a map from his pocket. "See in the mountains there—and there as the road
crosses back towards the marches— those are castles belonging to the duke's
liege lords. We will stay at each of them for a night or two, and see some
triumphs—and sleep soft—and that is what will make our journey slower."

I
sighed with relief. "You are a great comfort to me, my lord."

He
started in mock terror. "Do not say so before the duke, lady. I should be
of little comfort without my head."

"What,
lady!" Sandro's voice made me jump. "I must tell tales of you to my
brother if you get his secretary into corners."

I
looked around to find him regarding me quizzically, and laughed. "We were
talking of the journey back to Fidena, my lord. Lord Ippolito was showing me
the route we are to take."

"Ah,
yes." Sandro's eyebrows lifted. "A week of meandering through clefts
and gorges to take in a night or two at moldering castles whose owners seek to
evade my royal brother's tithes. You will enjoy yourselves!"

"Do
you not come with us?" I asked quickly.

"Not
I! The pace my lord secretary sets favors the sickliest jade on the
heaviest-laden coach. I and my men can make the same journey in four days; and
I have the royal leave to post ahead. I told my brother a wench claimed
marriage of me and I wished to leave in haste—it was a likely tale
enough." "Did he believe you?"

"Not
a word," Sandro admitted cheerfully, "but he looked at me from under
his eyelids, so, and said in that voice of his as if he were musing, 'You have
your reasons, I doubt not; go if you will.' And I shall take him at his
word." He made a rude grimace. "It is always his way to seem to know
what is in a man's mind."