The Silver Devil (41 page)

"Help
me." My voice was a dry whisper. "I cannot do it. Help me."
Domenico sleeping, his "fair cheek pillowed on my hair, sweeping the locks
aside with an imperious hand to put his lips to my neck...

The
big man turned sharply, catching his breath, looking at me with sudden
uselessness. "What do you want?"

"Cut
my hair. Please. I do not know how to start."

Santi
hesitated a moment longer, then folded his lips tightly. He took a step
forward, his normally deft fingers clumsy as they took hold of a fistful of
hair. He took the dagger in his free hand and, sucking air between his teeth in
a sharp hiss like a woodcutter, brought the blade around and slashed.

He
had finished the job in seconds, and I stared down at the soft masses of black
at my feet, fingering the short ends of my hair unbelievingly. I asked shakily,
"Have you cut enough?"

He
nodded in a quick, embarrassed fashion. "It will do. I am no barber,
though."

"Thank
you, messire." I was glad that he was bending to pick up the shorn hair
and did not see my lips quiver as I spoke; I was ashamed of the vanity which
made this trivial loss seem like the end of the world. I must think of the
future, I told myself fiercely, and not dwell on the cloudy reminder of the
past that hung from Santi's hands. To stop my thoughts, I said, "Why
Marcello?" and Santi's somber gaze lifted in real surprise.

"What
do you mean?"

"You
called me Marcello while we were in camp." I forced my voice to a
steadiness I did not feel. "And I wondered why—I do not know anyone with
that name."

Santi
crushed the hair into a ball and crammed it into the leather pouch at his
waist, an unaccustomed tinge of color in his heavy cheeks. "It is my son's
name."

"Your
son! I did not know you had one."

He
nodded. "Two. And one daughter. The name came easily to my tongue, and I
thought it would serve as well as any other."

He
talked on as we went back towards the camp, and I listened eagerly, trying to
distract my thoughts from the flood of self-pity which threatened to swamp
them. He had been married for six years, he said, and had first come to Fidena
to earn more money for his wife and children. But he had taken care never to
let them know what his life was like or to bring them to the palace; they
thought he lived in luxury and was happy and that the court was some sort of
paradise. "But I would as soon take them to the worst brothel as bring
them there," he finished somberly.

I
did not reply, for we had reached the olive grove and I knew that among the
other men I would be wiser to stay silent. I looked for Domenico: he was
standing staring into the glowing embers of the fire, his face drawn and
paper-white. He had not slept much either, I thought.

I
had no appetite for my share of the scanty breakfast and gladly turned it over
to the other boys to divide between them. As they ate, I sat watching the duke
furtively from under my lashes and saw that the shock of Ippolito's death still
gripped him. He did not speak to anyone, only stood staring blindly into some
hell of his own, with a look on his face that made all around him fee! afraid.
I longed to go to him, but I did not dare; I could not endure that brutal,
wounding indifference a second time.

In
the end it was Baldassare who spoke to him and persuaded him to mount. The rest
bustled about, packing the few remnants of food together and scattering dust on
the dying fire; then they hauled themselves wearily on to their horses' backs.
At a signal from Santi, the riders moved forward, and the remnants of the
Cabrian court rode down the hill towards the road again.

After
a few hours in the saddle, my muscles were almost as sore as my heart. The duke
was pressing hard, and our pace seldom dropped below a canter as we crossed the
plain and climbed the western foothills. A feeling of urgency had infected us
all, and not even Andrea lagged or complained. The other pages were as saddle
sore as I, but they set their teeth and made no complaint. To me the hard
riding was a thankful opiate — I could forget everything but the need to keep
up, stay in a man's saddle, and manage my skittish mare. I saw little but the
rump of the horse ahead and heard little but the incessant drumming of hooves.
I knew that this haste was to outstrip the Spaniards who would be pursuing;
once we crossed the mountain border into the Papal States, not even the haughty
Philip would dare send troops after us into Pope Pius's lands. Any man was sure
of sanctuary within the see of Rome.

Any
man but the Duke of Cabria, for Cabria's dukes held lands that had been the
pope's own half a century since. Belike Philip would hardly need to hunt his
quarry through Pius's territory when Pius himself would do the job for him.
Philip, Pius, Gratiana... Domenico had so many enemies. In the pride of his
power he had laughed at their hatred, but now what he mocked threatened to
crush him.

The
horses slowed as the road grew steeper, picking their way over the sliding
stones of the rough track. On either side of us the mountains loomed, the
shadows stretching towards us as we went onwards, the cruel heat of the
afternoon striped with the ice-cold shade of the peaks. Several times we had to
leave the road to avoid a village clinging leechlike to the slopes; once the
houses of a fair-sized town came into sight, and a murmur ran through the
bunched riders, "Aviglio." Then we turned aside hurriedly, for there
was no knowing whether someone in so large a place might take note of a band of
strangers and tell of them again. We skirted the town with wary looks and
fast-beating hearts, climbing up the side of the cleft in which the buildings
clustered. There was traffic on the road for some distance, and we stayed on
the difficult paths of the higher slopes until Santi judged the main road was
safe again.

By
now every man was hungry and thirsty, and the horses were beginning to labor,
but we dared not stop. Santi shouted that we were approaching the main road to
the coast: all the traffic from one side of Italy to the other passed along it,
and we must cross it and ride well clear before we halted.

At
the crossroads I gazed around me wonderingly, stirring in my trance of pain for
the first time. The great road from Fano to the mountains had been laid down
first by the Caesars — it still showed signs of its origins in its clear
borders and evenly paved surface. And the people who used it were still
untouched by the events which had blasted my strange, artificial life. They had
their own concerns—trading, politics, families, farming— and cared nothing for
the shifts and tides in the fortunes of those who ruled them. These busy
people, whom we must avoid as though we were lepers, were the lifeblood of
Cabria— of Italy—and yet their destinies seemed like childish games, untouched
by the overwhelming joys and sorrows I had known. Such a little time ago the
most important thing in my world was the setting of straight stitches and the
scouring of pots; now I tagged in the wake of an exiled duke, and my heart
broke because he no longer desired me.

We
must have been in danger then, because Santi urged us on at a faster pace than
I thought the horses could bear; they stumbled as they went, and several times
someone was nearly thrown. But at last, as dusk was falling, we halted under the
lip of a huge rock overhanging a cave a little way up the mountainside. Santi
had sent a couple of men to scout for a resting-place, and they had returned to
guide us to this one. It was bleak and cramped, but at least the overhang would
provide a little shelter; for the horses there was a steeply shelving meadow
inhabited by a couple of thin cows, and we turned them loose to graze at will.

As
we dismounted, I took a couple of horses and led them away, and as I turned
with them, Domenico brushed by me. For an instant my heart beat high in my
throat with apprehension and a sudden suffocating excitement. I thought he
glanced at me impatiently as his elbow brushed my shoulder, but I did not dare
look up and could not be sure. Then he was gone, without pausing, leaving me
shivering and clinging to the horses' bridles as if for support.

"Marcello,"
Santi called sharply. "Stir yourself, boy."

I
muttered, "Yes, messire," and hauled the horses forward with a
disregard for their mouths that brought me a sharp word from Lorenzo. There was
little talk that night; exhaustion made men forget their empty bellies, and
when they huddled beside the fire, they fell asleep almost at once. I had meant
to stay awake and make sure that Domenico slept, but the moment I lay down, my
eyelids shut of their own accord.

A
hand on my thigh roused me, and I murmured drowsily. I thought,
"Domenico," but my tongue said, "Your Grace." A stifled
titter answered me, and I stiffened.

"Ambitious
boy! But I may serve as well."

I
wrenched myself away from the questing fingers just in time, fully awake now,
and Andrea Regnovi tittered again.

"You
must not be so coy, or you will wake your fellows. Come closer, my dear, and
stay mum."

My
flesh crept, somewhere between terror and revulsion, and I hissed, "My
lord, go back to sleep."

"So
I will, but not alone. Come now, Marcello—it is Marcello, is it not?—you are
old enough to know what I want of you, and I daresay that coarse brute Santi
has lessoned you well. You owe him no loyalty!" He pressed closer to me,
and I shrank. "Do my bidding quietly, and I shall give you..."

"Forbear
the boy, my lord." Santi's whisper came out of the dark. "Or I will
knock your teeth down your throat. He is tired and so are all the others, and I
have no mind to be kept awake by your amours. Go and lie down, for God's
sake!"

"You
need not be so hot in his defense, good Santi—he woke even now from dreaming of
my lord's Grace. If the duke once rouses from this black mood of his and should
choose to snap his fingers, you will have lost your minion."

"He
is not my minion." There was a dangerous rumble in the big man's throat.
"I do not like unnatural pleasures. But I will not have these boys forced
against their wills."

"How
can you be sure it is against his will?" Andrea's whisper became coaxing.
"Do you not wish to lie with me, Marcello?"

I
said in a shaking voice, "No, my lord."

Santi
grunted, "Then you are answered, my lord," and after a moment Andrea
tittered lightly.

"So
it seems! But I wonder what answer I should have away from your stern guardian,
Marcello?"

"The
same, my lord." Lorenzo's voice, drowsy but very clear, spoke out of the
dimness, and I saw he had raised himself on one elbow. "If he will listen
to my advice. Do as Messire Giovanni says-— go back to sleep and do not trouble
us." In the dusk his eyes burned sea blue, and his boyish face looked
curiously adult. Andrea hesitated a moment longer and then was gone, slithering
over the ground like a serpent. Lorenzo watched him go and then lay down again.

Santi
and I settled ourselves to sleep in silence; neither liked to ask what Lorenzo
knew of Andrea, and the boy said nothing more. Then, when I thought he was
asleep; I heard him whisper, quietly and contemptuously, "It is true what
he says; I have heard you talk of the duke in your sleep. Now perhaps you will
learn to mind your tongue."

He
turned his back on me coldly and hunched himself into the folds of his cloak,
leaving me fighting down gusts of hysterical laughter.

My
sleep was fitful after that, and I was thankful when, before sunrise, the camp
began to stir. The last of the stale bread from the horses' saddlebags was
shared, and then the whole troop mounted in a morose silence. If any others had
heard the little scene with Andrea, they made no sign, and he only glowered as
he swung astride his horse. Santi was speaking urgently to the duke: I think he
was trying to find out our destination, but his anxious words won no response.
Domenico heard him out in silence, his eyes downcast and a moody thrust to his
bottom lip—then he looked up, and the murderous glitter in his dark eyes
silenced the big man. The duke thrust impatiently past him and swung into the
saddle, never looking behind to see whether any man followed him or not.

That
day our pace was slower because of the difficult terrain. We could not follow
the road for fear of being seen, and above it the mountains sloped so steeply
in places that we had to dismount and lead the slipping horses. What had set
out as a group of well-dressed courtiers was by now degenerating into a
tatterdemalion crew—skins had a grayish look in the sunlight, ingrained with
dirt, and the men's chins were no longer immaculately barbered. Cloaks and
boots were crumpled and stained, breeches white with lather from the horses'
backs. No one who did not know what he sought would look for the Duke of Cabria
in this company.

We
had turned on to a track bending southward to avoid a village called Stretza—a
cluster of limewashed houses and a church—when Santi, just ahead of me, reined
in sharply. I jerked the mare's head around to avoid him and halted, too.
"What is it?"

"Horsemen,"
he said tersely. "Look at the ground. Your Grace!"

I
flinched as his low call brought Domenico's head around, and he reined in in
his turn. His gaze flickered disinterestedly over my face and rested on Santi,
and I held my breath. My body, my brain, felt full of pain like a bulging
wineskin; one unwary move and it would spill and spatter the ground with
poison. It was desperately important that I should not move, that I should not
give a single sign of how much his indifference hurt me.