The Silver Devil (42 page)

Santi
said, "Your Grace, there have been riders here less than half an hour
since, and a good many at a guess. I'd say they were riding from Stretza due
south to Alcina. Asking questions of the townsfolk, most like."

The
duke's eyes narrowed slightly, and in a toneless breath of a voice he asked,
"How many?"

"A
hundred—more perhaps. Look for yourself." Santi pointed to the churned-up
earth with a fatalistic gesture.

Domenico's
head bent, and for a long moment he considered the confused tracks; then he
looked up, and there was a queer expression on his face.

"Your
Grace," Baldassare spoke quickly, "there are too many for us to
challenge. We must hope to go by them."

Domenico
did not seem to hear. Then he said softly, "Must we so?"

I
saw Baldassare swallow even across the distance that separated us. "Your
Grace, I beg of you, be cautious. We are scarcely an hour's ride from the
border, and if we should come upon the Spanish now..."

"We
have nothing left to lose."

"We
have our lives still."

The
beautiful mouth twisted savagely. "Are they so valuable?"

"Our
hope of revenge would be better with more men," Santi said into the sudden
silence, and Domenico's lashes drooped, veiling his eyes.

"Well,
on."

Baldassare
breathed a faint sigh of relief, but I was still uneasy. I distrusted the now
deliberate impassivity of the duke's face and the way his fingers had clenched,
very slightly, on the horse's rein. But Santi and Baldassare seemed to notice
nothing wrong, and I feared to speak in case I drew attention to myself.

Somewhere
between wariness and resignation we proceeded, and the troop rode on as it had
before, but even slower now, starting at every gust of wind or scurrying
animal. At times we were moving at little more than a walk. But there was a
difference: The threat of immediate danger had served to rouse Domenico from
his tranced grief for Ippolito, and now he was alert, the old arrogance
stiffening his supple back as he pushed his horse ahead.

The
track we were taking leveled out as we rounded the foot of a sheer bluff, and
here the slope was gentler. On our left hand the ground ran gently away in what
was almost a meadow, and beyond that the cliff fell sheer to the valley road.
Before anyone could stop him, Domenico had turned aside and was drawing rein at
the head of the slope, looking down at the distant road; it was thick with
horsemen, and although I could not see the flapping standards, I knew they must
bear the Spanish eagle. A murmur ran through the troop of men like a breeze.

"God's
nails," Santi said, "there are two hundred at least."

Domenico
turned his horse's head with a vicious jerk. "We must pass them," he
snapped. There was a snarl in his voice like a leopard cheated of its prey, and
for one absurd moment it was as though the Spaniards were the hunted and he the
hunter. Then I urged my mare forward again, past thinking, and we pressed
forward along the narrow track.

We
came across the Spanish scouts around the next bend. They were dawdling along,
looking back over their shoulders at the sound of our horses' hooves, and as
soon as they saw us their eyes widened. One of them shouted something—I could
not hear what—and the next moment, incredibly, they were fleeing down the
mountainside as though the devil himself were at their heels.

For
a moment I sat dazed, uncomprehending, conscious only of a great relief. I did
not know why armed soldiers should run from such a small troop without even a
challenge; I was only grateful that they should. Then I saw that Domenico was
spurring after them, and others in his wake. They must be crazed, I thought;
let the scouts go and be thankful. It was not until the Cabrian horsemen were
pounding at a gallop across the sloping meadow that I remembered the force
below. The scouts had only to give the alarm and we would be lost, overwhelmed
by the whole mass of soldiers. They were shouting as they rode, but their
voices were too faint, too blessedly faint, to reach the ears of the Spaniards
below.

I
saw the glint of steel in Domenico's hand as he drew level with the hindmost
Spaniard, and then arm and weapon seemed to disappear in a blur of light. The
man sat like a dummy, like a sack, on his horse's back. It was unnatural, I
thought, the way he sat there letting himself be wounded, letting those
dreadful crimson slashes plow up his back and shoulders. He should have made
some resistance; he must have known that the blow would slice away half his
shoulder like a butcher's cleaver....

The
humped red thing was still on the terrified horse's back when one of the other
men turned and came rushing on Domenico. I saw Santi come up and then veer away
towards the third man. The third man was the luckiest; he was killed cleanly.

Domenico
was off his horse when the others came up to him, crouched over the jerking
body of the second Spaniard. I could see the bunched muscles in his back as he
wrenched his sword through bone and gristle, but the entrails were soft enough.
They had to prize the sword out of his grip because the blood had glued it to
his clenched fingers; afterwards Santi told me he thought he would have to
break his arm to get the weapon from him.

When
at last he moved to mount his horse again, he was moving slowly, as though he
were tired, and I saw with a sinking heart that indifference was back in his
face and cold withdrawal in his eyes. It was as though the whole thing had been
a bad dream, with only the three corpses left behind and the dark rust on the
unwiped swords to tell that it had been otherwise. We waited silently at the
head of the slope until the last of the soldiers on the road below had
disappeared southwards. In their midst I glimpsed a litter and knew that
Gratiana had had the news of Sandro's death.

No
one spoke when the road finally lay empty: Domenico only turned his horse and
guided it along the track, leaving the meadow behind. We had reached the
outskirts of another village, and as we circled it, Santi observed in an
undertone, "Now we can stop fearing the Spaniards and start fearing the
pope."

I
stared uncomprehendingly.

"That
was the border."

A
little superstitious shiver shook me. I had never been out of Cabria in my life
before, never thought to cross its frontiers. Suddenly the pope, for so long a
dimly imagined figure like a child's bogeyman, loomed in my mind like some
omnipotent ogre. For fifty years the pontiffs had sought revenge on the della
Raffaelle family—and now the reigning duke was trying to cross their own
territories. I looked around me nervously, half expecting the pope's Swiss
guards to appear from behind every boulder. But there was nothing, only the
empty mountains.

After
something like an hour there was another road to cross, cutting directly across
our path from north to south, and beyond that a river, bursting on my dazed
sight like something hardly remembered. It seemed like years, like centuries,
since I had seen running water.

"There
is no bridge," I whispered to Santi. "How are we going to
cross?"

He
gave me a quick, impatient look. "The horses can swim," he said
shortly, and I fell back, abashed.

In
the crossing I clung desperately to my mare's neck, soaked to the waist and
watching the foam around her flailing legs with trepidation. She, however,
seemed completely unperturbed and shook herself so heartily on the opposite
bank that I was nearly unseated. But all around me other horses were shaking
themselves as vigorously, their riders giving little shouts and explosions of
startled laughter; the ground was soaked as though by heavy rain. At last the
men dismounted, feeling their clinging wet clothes disgustedly and wringing out
their dripping cloaks. Only Domenico remained in the saddle, and Baldassare
looked up at him apprehensively.

"Your
Grace, would it not be wise to rest the horses here and dry our clothes? We
could make camp and then press on tomorrow."

Domenico
shook his head curtly and did not answer. There was nothing for it but to
remount, wet clothes rubbing horribly against wet leather, and to go on in
weary silence. Andrea touched Baldassare's arm as he hauled himself into the
saddle and whispered, "You are glib, my dear, with your talk of pressing
on! Do you know where he means to take us?"

A
smile, uncharacteristic in its irony, curved Baldassare's mouth. "No, my
lord, no more than you. But I am sure he does not mean to seek sanctuary with
Pius."

To
judge by the shadows, ever slanting towards us as the sun sank, we were still
riding west through the declining slopes of the mountains. I sat slumped in the
saddle, lost in my thoughts, lulled almost to sleep by the monotonous jog trot
of the mare. I had lost sight of Santi—he had gone with a few others to look
for game for our meal that night—and it seemed to me that the day would never
have an end and that the rest of my life was stretching before me in this
tedium of anguish.

Ahead
of me one of the riders checked, and I almost rode into him. Then I saw what he
had seen and gasped. From either side of the road ahead the hills fell away,
and the track sloped down to a broad treeless plain. And stretching to the
horizon before us was a glittering, tideless sea, its blue surface fretted by
thousands of pinpoints of light. For an instant I thought we had crossed the
breadth of Italy unaware, and then part of my mind said, "There are no
gulls."

Behind
me Lorenzo spoke in a low voice. "This must be Trasimene, I think. I hate
the places where the old battles were fought—I always feel the soldiers are
still there."

One
of the other boys laughed at him, his unbroken voice somehow shocking in the
eerily gathering twilight. "You are fey, Lorenzo! This place is as quiet
as a grave!"

I
shivered involuntarily, and Lorenzo answered, "Yes."

Lights
were blossoming in the windows of the little village on the lakeside as we left
it behind, moving softly and steadily northward. I was beginning to wonder
where we would spend the night; there was no shelter for miles but the village
itself and its fellow, a smudge of light reflected in the water beside the
northern bank. Not a tree, not a rock.

I
started at the sound of horses approaching across the fields, but as they
loomed up out of the dark, I recognized Santi's bulky form leading them. Two of
the other men were riding double, and across the saddle of the third horse was
slung the carcass of a deer. Santi whistled softly as he came up and drew rein
beside the duke.

"Your
Grace, we are in luck!" There was a note of excitement in his voice.
"About a mile away there is a farmhouse and its outbuildings without a
soul living there—I rode in and looked around. The roof has fallen in, but the
stables are sound enough to sleep in, and there is room for the horses too. We
can build a fire and roast our supper in comfort."

The
whole party held its breath, waiting for the duke's yea or no. It was too dark
now to read his face, but I caught a glimpse of his pure profile against the
sky as he nodded. There was a relieved shifting among the riders, and the next
moment we were turning into the teeth of the freshening night wind to follow
where Santi led.

He
had spoken the truth about the farmhouse; it had been long since abandoned, and
the roof beams had caved in over the main chamber. Looking up through the roof,
I could see the stars coming out, and for a moment I stood spellbound. Then
somebody touched my arm, and I turned quickly to making the stables fit for
habitation.

There
was ordure to be cleared and cracks to be stopped with sacking; Santi lit a
fire in the yard outside and slung the deer on a spit to roast over it. Soon
the smell pervading the building was so appetizing that my hands trembled with
hunger and my eyes filled with tears. No meat I have ever tasted seemed as good
to me as the half-roasted chunk of venison I held in my scorched fingers that
night.

Afterwards
we sat back, replete, watching one another contentedly in the light of the
brands which burned smokily in the wall sconces. With meat in our bellies some
of the nightmare had departed, and I found myself thinking rationally again and
felt less like an animal in a trap.

Instinctively
my gaze sought Domenico, and I thought suddenly that I would not have
recognized him as the elegant Duke of Cabria. His face was drawn and gray, and
fair stubble covered his firm jaw; the brightness of his fair curls was dimmed
with dust, and his clothes were creased and stained. Then, as he raised his
hand, I almost laughed at the arrogant contrast of the heavy Cabrian seal ring
on that dirt-encrusted hand, the trimmed nails black with grime.

Not
that I was cleaner than he, I thought wryly, inspecting the backs of my hands.
Nor any man or boy in this rout. But somehow it seemed unthinkable that
Domenico — my proud and dazzling Domenico — should be so debased. It was as if
the Archangel Raphael lay sprawled on the other side of the smoky stable, his
brightness dimmed by dirt and his spirit sunk.

I
must have moved then, restlessly, because he looked up. I thought his eyes met
mine for an instant, but I could not be sure in the uncertain light; then he
shifted his weight. I saw his mouth take on a cruel, reckless set, and his head
moved with the watchfulness I remembered as his eyes traveled from face to
unconscious face. He looked like that when he woke from his nightmares and was
gauging the reactions of his attendants; whether or not they had learned too
much of him while he slept, whether he would have to kill them.