The Silver Devil (34 page)

And
a woman's too, I thought wryly. Then I saw Ippolito's understanding nod and
felt glad that I was not the only one made uncomfortable by Domenico's dark
gaze.

It
might have been because I was inured to the discomforts of court travel, but
the journey back to the coast seemed far shorter than the way inland had done.
I only knew that I was glad to leave Diurno, for the beautiful city was one in
my mind with images of death and fear, and I would have traveled anywhere
rather than stay behind. The archbishop had quarreled furiously with Domenico
over his sudden departure, even urging Savoy's daughter as a cause for him to
stay and wait, but the duke had not listened.

"Let
her come after," he had said indifferently. "To be Duchess of Cabria
is worth a little pain— and you will be here to care for her."

Now
and then, where the mountain roads were not so steep, he let me ride instead of
sitting in the jolting coach. At first I had been eager for these respites; now
I dreaded them, for he amused himself by baiting me as we rode, with a mixture
of brutality and contemptuous amusement that brought the blood stinging to my
cheeks. It was as though he only suffered my presence for the sake of coming to
my bed at night, and he did not bother to conceal the fact. His careless,
almost contemptuous possessiveness masked an indifference which had grown upon
him since the night he brought me back to the palace. At night he used me
mercilessly, forcing my response without a trace of tenderness and mocking me
when I yielded, and by day, though he kept me as fast by his side as ever,
there was a hard remoteness in his eyes that looked close to hatred.

I
stole a wistful glance at his fair profile. He showed no sign of caring for his
bride's continued absence; it could not be a lover's impatience that pricked
him so cruelly. It could only be that I had, after all, killed his indulgence
towards me by running away from him, and that he was only waiting until we
reached Fidena to be rid of me.

Some
instinct made him turn his head, and I dropped my gaze quickly; but he had
seen, and I saw his mouth take on the cruel curve I dreaded.

"Ippolito."
Blessedly he spoke to his secretary, not to me, and Ippolito urged his sluggish
mount forward with a hearty kick.

"Yes,
Your Grace?"

"How
long is it before we reach Corveteri? I think the lady grows tired."

"Less
than half an hour, Your Grace. When we reach the head of this gorge the road
winds past the face of the bluff and brings us to the castle."

My
horse fidgeted uneasily, as though it shared my discomfort, and Domenico's hand
tightened on the leading rein. "Then bear up a little longer, sweet. You
will soon be in your bed."

I
heard a stifled sound from Ippolito but dared not look around. Instead I drew
myself up, stiff with offended dignity, and heard Domenico say in a judicial
voice, "That is the best seat you have had all day, but do not clutch at
the reins like that."

When
we rode through the gate of the Castle of Corveteri, he was down from his
horse's back almost before the groom had reached its head. I blinked at the
sheer grace of the motion, then found him standing beside my horse with a hard
demand in his face.

"Come,"
he said curtly, and I slid from the saddle into his arms without a thought for
the watching servants or for the count and countess waiting with their gaggle
of children on the castle steps.

Eight
days after it had set out from Diurno, the duke's cavalcade was skirting the
woods bordering the plains around Fidena. I was riding again beside Domenico,
leaving Niccolosa alone in the coach that inched creaking down from the
foothills and started across the plain. Even the horses seemed eager to reach
the city—for days now they had plodded through the mountains as though they
believed the journey to be unending, but now they pricked up their ears and
threw themselves forward against the traces as if they could smell the stable.
The jaded nobles sat straighter in their saddles; the whole line seemed to
sweep through the straggling trees in a sudden surge.

As
we passed the outlying hamlets west of Fidena, I noticed how quiet the fields
were. Normally the men stayed working until sunset, but the thought only
flickered across my mind and was gone as I glimpsed the walls of the city, at
first like a smudge of mist on the lip of the gorge above the bay, then
settling into its familiar outlines as we drew nearer. Then Domenico reined in
sharply; the whole cavalcade came to a ragged halt, and at once a din arose of
drivers shouting to their impatient horses and shrill voices demanding what the
matter was. I followed Domenico's narrowed gaze and saw a tight knot of
horsemen spurring towards us. I saw Giovanni Santi astride his rawboned mount,
then I realized that Sandro was their leader; his rugged face was grim, and
shadows of sleeplessness ringed his eyes. He made straight for Domenico,
wrenching his horse to a steaming halt before him.

"You
had best turn about and make for Pinzi, Brother, or else ride along the coast
to Sorentino. Fidena is not safe."

"Are
you jesting?" Domenico's voice was harsh.

"God's
death, I wish I were! Naples is stirring against us." For once there was
no laughter in Sandra's eyes. "I had the news when I came here three days
ago. I have tried to get the city ready for a siege—his armies are expected any
moment. We thought when we saw you coming that you were he."

Domenico
said, "We drove his soldiers back not two months ago. He cannot have
mustered another army so quickly."

"He
has levied fresh troops from Spain," Santi put in, and Sandro cast him a
murderous glance. "So the rumor runs."

Domenico
was frowning. "Spain! So the cur seeks more help from his master! It must
be so, or he could not come against us so soon. Come, you shall tell us what
you know as we ride."

The
Bastard did not move. "You had best get yourself and your cohorts to some
place of safety. I will keep the city."

For
a moment there was a pulse of silence that seemed to still the surrounding
tumult. Domenico was watching his brother as a leopard watches a wolf. Then he
said coldly, "We will not trouble your stewardship."

Sandro's
face did not change, but I could have sworn he was disconcerted. "As you
will, then," he replied blandly, "but you may wish you had followed
my advice."

The
little sneering curl of Domenico's lips was answer enough, and he flicked his
gloved fingers for Sandro to turn his mount and fall in beside him. Sandro
obeyed, and at a signal the whole cavalcade moved off again.

I
heard only scraps of Sandro's tale as we cantered towards Fidena, but the gist
was plain enough. He had made good speed from Diurno, arriving three days ago
to find the city convulsed in terror. Outland farmers were crammed in with
their city relations within the walls; the port was shut down and the quays
manned in case the invasion should come from the sea.

"They
had not even thought to unload the ships," he said scornfully. "They
would have left four cargoes of grain rotting in the bay. I saw to that and
sent out to discover who the invader was this time, and the size of his force.
The men brought back an envoy from the King of Naples with letters for you, so
I thanked him kindly and turned him back at the gates, in case he should spy
for his master."

"Where
are the letters?"

"Awaiting
your gracious attention, Brother, in the palace. I have not read them."

Domenico
was silent for the rest of the journey, and his horse's hooves rang ominously
as he clattered through the gates of the city. There was no whisper in the
afternoon air of the acclamation which had roared at his heels when he rode out
to

Diurno;
the streets were as silent as though they were under a curfew. The whole city
was waiting.

He
dismounted at the southern door of the palace, and the rest with him—the
quartet, Sandro, Ippolito, Santi, and a few others. I hesitated, seeing myself
forgotten, but as Ippolito helped me dismount, he whispered, like a
conspirator, "You had best come with us, lady. The duke may want
you."

I
knew he would not, but it was a kindly thought. I followed the men up the worn,
curving staircase to a bare stone chamber at the top of the tower, where thin
bars of light streamed gold through the slitted windows. Even in full daylight
there was not enough light to see by, and I drew back into the shadows as
servants hurried in with lights and stood unnoticed while the candles were lit.
Even in small things the fear of a siege was apparent; there were fewer candles
now than there would have been a little while ago.

Domenico
was pacing the room like a caged leopard, turning occasionally to fire a
question at Sandro, who stood watching him expressionlessly while the other men
simply waited, their eyes gleaming strangely in the candlelight. In the
silences I could hear the rumble and clatter of carriages and horses passing
through the gate below us. I stepped back into the window embrasure to look
out; the noise had reminded me, absurdly, of the Eagle.

"Have
you sent to the garrison at Castle Fucino?" The duke's sudden question
made me start, and I turned to see Sandro shaking his head.

"They
are not needed yet. Until we have stronger news than rumors, they are better
where they are—we shall have fewer mouths to feed."

"They
will come too late to fall on the Spaniards' backs if we do not send
soon." The retort stung like a whiplash. "Or do you propose they
should avenge the fall of Fidena?"

Sandro
shrugged. He had had, he conveyed, three days to consider the very questions
that were being fired at him, and none of Domenico's angry demands could alter
the course of events. For his part he would rather have been left alone to have
the ordering of the siege, but if the duke insisted .

"The
letters from Naples." Domenico paused again and then said sharply,
"Where are they?"

At
a sign from Sandro, Santi stepped forward and handed them over unceremoniously.
The Duke nodded briefly, turned, and spread the parchment over the maps on the
table, bending above the candle flame to read. There was no sound in the room
but the rustle of pages; the light from below painted strange demonic shadows
on the beautiful face and touched the silver-fair hair with a halo of warmer
gold. Without warning, the pain of my hopeless love engulfed me afresh, and I
stood in the shadows trembling from head to foot.

At
last Domenico spoke, still looking at the letter. His voice was as gentle as a
summer breeze.

"Did
I not say that Naples was a villain?"

"Most
sure you did, Your Grace—and so he is."

"I
did not say the half, Ippolito. He is not only a villain but a knave—a lying
knave—and now he tries his knaveries on me!" His open hands smashed down
on the table as his head lifted, and his eyes were blazing.

"What
does he say, Your Grace? Is it some dispute of territories?"

"He
will have it all." Domenico's voice was shaking, and his fingers clenched
slowly, crushing the letter. "He demands all Cabria in the name of my
mother duchess to buy the favor of his Spanish overlords."

There
was a hiss of indrawn breath in the room as the courtiers looked at one
another. Ippolito looked blank. "But she has no claim!"

"She
has invented one. She has shown Naples proof that my father willed her the
throne as regent for her lifetime. He bids me resign my dukedom to that old
whore and says that if I will not, he will wrest it from me by force. In God's
name, does he expect me to give in tamely?"

There
was an instant babble of protest.

"He
must know the story to be false, Your Grace."

"Your
royal father's will is common knowledge. The duchess has no such proof."

"This
is only a pretext to cover his invasion."

"Pretext!"
Domenico's eyes flared, and his voice rose to a shout. "Do you give such a
name to treason, sirrah?"

Andrea
Regnovi, the most timid of the quartet, quailed. "Your Grace, I only
meant... rightly discovered it is not treason.... The King of Naples is not
Your Grace's subject and..."