The Silver Devil (8 page)

I
drank and lay back. It did not matter that I did not know how I had come to
this; pain still racked me, and I felt too spent to care. I had nothing to do
but obey the solemn young priest, and I did so willingly. In my weakness I knew
no past or future, only the present ease or present trouble of sleeping or
waking—day and night were indistinguishable, for whenever I opened my eyes, the
same torch flames pierced the same darkness and the priest was there.

I
was lying half in sleep when I heard voices close by, mingling with the broken
snatches of dreaming which filled my thoughts. They came from outside the door,
and as I listened, all sleep fled from me and I lay with straining ears,
staring unseeing into the shadows above me.

"I
cannot permit it. It is too soon. She is not half-recovered." There was a
sharp note of anxiety in Father Vincenzo's normally level voice. The one that
answered him was high-pitched and resonant, the voice I had heard in my dream.

"You
belie your own skill, good Father. My spies tell me she is well enough now to
be got from her bed, and the duke has been asking for her threescore times in
an hour. I cannot defer the business any longer."

"I
beg you, persuade him to some other course. It is the devil's work His Grace
will be at."

"And
what more fitting?" The other man laughed. "I verily believe he is
the devil himself. Good Father, resign yourself, and resign your charge to
me—he will not be persuaded."

"Then
delay him. Tell him it will be better for his purpose to hold off for a
space."

"So
I have told him already at your request and coined excuses until my tongue is
bankrupt. It will not serve; my lord's Grace is grown impatient."

There
was a silence and then the man laughed, the meaningless trill I remembered.
"What, Father, are you seeking to save her?"

Father
Vincenzo's voice was bitter. "That girl is innocent, my lord della
Quercia. She believes herself to be in the common hospital and thinks she is
kept here but while she is sick; she knows nothing of how or why she came
here."

"Tomasso
Galleotti's work." The man sounded amused. "He gave her too generous
a dose of his sleeping draught—and he paid for it with his neck. As soon as the
duke heard that his prize was like to die, he had Tomasso hauled out and
hanged."

"Does
he care so much?" Father Vincenzo asked sharply.

"Enough
to have done with state affairs already! He has dismissed the council and
ordered revels for this very night. As for the duchess, it is a brave man who
mentions her—they were alone together for half an hour, and now she is banished
and gone."

"For
what offense?"

"Who
can tell?" I could hear the man's shrug in his tone. "She is gone,
and there an end. Now all His Grace's mind is bent upon this business, and I am
sent to fetch your prisoner."

My
heart was pounding violently. It seemed impossible that I could have been a
prisoner all this while and had not known it—but it made sense of so much that
had been meaningless before. The silence, the solitude, the single priest to
nurse me: now I noticed the bars that bound the heavy door and recognized the
dark room for what it was. I remembered the grim tales I had heard of the
dungeons beneath the Palazzo della Raffaelle, where Duke Carlo lodged the
prisoners who never saw the light of day.

My
thoughts were circling, panic-stricken, when the priest spoke again. "I
will bring her to you."

"I
am much beholden to you." There was infinite irony in the smooth words.
"Pray make haste, or truly I think the duke will come himself if you do
not."

As
the sandaled footsteps approached the door, I was out of bed, staring wildly
around me, seeking for an escape that I knew was not there. Father Vincenzo's
voice came sharply from the doorway behind me.

"Daughter,
what is the matter?"

I
said unsteadily, "I heard you talking. You lied to me." "What
did you hear?" He came towards me and caught my hands in his.

"That
the duke sends for me. I have done nothing—why does he keep me in prison for
nothing?"

I
was almost stammering, and the Jesuit gripped my restless hands and held them
still. "Softly, lady. You are no worse now than you were before you
learned all this—you need not fear for your life. The duke would not set me to
cure you of your fever only to have you killed. Consider calmly, and you will
see that it is so."

"But
why should he take me prisoner? And why did you not tell me?"

"I
feared to raise this very storm by speaking. It would have gained you nothing
and perhaps hindered your recovery—you would not have learned the truth yet if
I could have prevented it."

I
said through chattering teeth, "I have the right to know what is intended
towards me."

"Yes."
There was compassion in the priest's eyes. "But knowing the duke's intent
would not have altered it. Come, daughter, have courage, and I will take you to
His Grace's envoy."

He
gently draped the dingy bedcover around my shoulders, and I lifted my head in a
sudden spurt of pride as I went with him to the door. My legs were unsteady,
and I remember feeling annoyed by my slow progress, but at last I reached the
massive door, and Father Vincenzo pushed it open.

The
room beyond the door was wide and bare, seeming so bright for a moment my eyes
were dazzled; then I saw a man standing against the opposite wall, as
incongruous as a shining moth in a tomb. A small, spare, shapeless man in black
brocaded with silver, his hair and beard bleached to the color of sun-whitened
barley, his thin face a mask of paint. He stood deliberately posed, one hand on
his hip, the other stroking his beard; then he bowed with an ironic air that
made an insult of the courtesy.

"Lady,
good afternoon!"

The
sudden affected lightness stirred my memory: this was the man who had
complained in the courtyard of the Eagle the night I was taken.

I
said, "Is it afternoon, sir? The hours are so alike I cannot tell one from
another."

He
straightened swiftly, smiling, but his eyes were watchful. "All that is at
an end. I am sent by the duke to deliver you and to bid you welcome to his
court."

"I
have tried His Grace's welcome." My hands clenched in spite of myself.
"Farewell would please me better, sir."

One
eyebrow arched coolly. "Would you be gone before you know the reason you
were brought here? On my honor, the duke intends you all love and friendship.
He bids you to his banquet."

"And
it was for that he imprisoned me? You mock me, sir. I never knew a duke invite
a tavern wench to share his supper."

"You
do not know this duke, then." The murmur was mocking.

"I
know enough." I glanced bitterly down at my filthy shift, half-hidden by
the gray coverlet; at the thinness of my hands, grown paler since I had done so
little work. He followed my gaze, and I noticed that the malicious intelligence
of his heavy-lidded eyes contradicted the weakness of mouth and chin. His lips
curled in a faint, ironic smile.

"Come,
we are laggard. It wants two hours to supper, and by that time you must be made
ready. The duke has given orders for your dressing. We must not linger."

I
did not move. "What does he mean to do with me?"

"Should
I speak it before the priest?" His eyes glinted, and laughter shook his
voice. "On my life, he means to use you well! And use you thoroughly, or I
do not know him." He met my bewildered gaze and sobered a little.
"You are here awaiting his pleasure, lady."

I
whispered no, and the room spun before my eyes. Someone steadied me, and I
could hear the man addressing Father Vincenzo above my head.

"
'Slight, you have been secret with her! I did not dream she had not guessed it.
Innocent indeed!"

The
priest paid him no heed. "Can you stand, daughter?"

I
drew a deep breath and nodded, and the man came forward with a quick, tripping
step like a trotting pony, eyeing me up and down. "Father, she is a
prodigy if she does not dissemble. You should be glad, lady, that you are
honored with the duke's notice and should not stand like a lightning-struck
tree."

"Am
I to be overjoyed that such a tyrant would lie with me? It is more like to
drive me to despair!" My hands were trembling, and I thrust them behind
me. "You have pretty notions of women!"

"Well,
well!" His eyes widened. "Have I affronted virtue?"

His
tone turned the word to a sneer, and I retorted, "No more than you meant
to, sir."

"Perhaps
a little more." He was stroking his beard, his expression thoughtful.
"My pretty notions have not so far encountered such wrathful modesty. It
may be I shall alter them a little."

I
did not heed him. "Why does the duke want me when he has never seen
me?"

"He
saw you once, it seems, and that once was enough." The man was looking at
me strangely as I fought to control my rising tears.

"Sir,
I..."

"Lady,
for correctness, you should address me as 'my lord.' Piero Ottavio della
Quercia, first gentleman to the Duke of Cabria, at your service."

The
sarcasm made me so angry that I forgot my fear for a moment. "I beg your
lordship's pardon. Can you tell me why your master should want me more than
another?"

Piero
surveyed me slowly, insolently. "Oh, lady, you cannot be so modest!"

"I
do not want your compliments!" My voice almost broke.

He
shrugged. "His Grace is not the man to subdue the dictates of his
flesh—and, moreover, he is the duke. He will have what he will have."

"But
there must be women who would account it an honor to do what he would force me
to. Why will he not take one of them?"

"Because
he soon tires of those who are too willing." There was an oddly brittle
note in Piero's voice. "He is surfeited with brood mares and must mount
the unicorn."

"He
cannot command my honor!"

Piero
smiled. "Do not be too sure."

"That...
that white-haired lecher!" I was almost past speech.

"Would
you call it white?" he enquired musingly. "It would be more politic
to call it gold. He would mislike the imputation of old age if he heard it. Do
you not think him handsome, lady?"

I
remembered the coarse, cruel drunkard's face, the gold-powdered hair, and shook
my head. Piero raised his eyebrows.

"Then
you must study to find him so, for he dotes on admiration. There are few about
the court who deny his beauty— you must be hard to please."

"I
am not his sycophant!"

"Well,
you may change your mind." Piero's gaze seemed to travel beyond me as he
spoke. "He is a kind of witch, and he will win you."

In
spite of myself, I was silenced by the ache in his voice that sounded almost
like sorrow. Then, without meaning to, I burst out, "My lord, let me go!
You could tell the duke I escaped you—he would not care greatly—"

He
laughed softly. "He would care enough to have my life for it! His Grace is
not gainsaid by man or woman."

I
turned away so that he should not see my tears, and his shapeless fingers
caught my wrists and gripped them.

"Why,
lady, you are distracted!" The words were mock soothing, but Piero's eyes
were bright with some unnamed excitement. "You would be no better by
reserving your virginity but in the name of maid—but once you part with it, you
purchase wealth and honor beyond your dreams!"

The
blood scorched my cheeks. "I am not for your market. Save your wit, my
lord."

He
flushed in his turn, but angrily. "Well, be a fool if you will! I only
advise you to sell while you can; if the duke should force his passage, you
will get nothing by it, unless you breed by him."

A
cry of revulsion tore my throat, and I tried to twist away, but he held both my
hands fast. His color had risen; he was in the grip of some excitement that
made him tremble, and his words came rapid and fevered.

"Why
should you not? You do not look barren, and I will take my oath the duke has
strength enough to bring you to it."

"Let
me go!" I could find no other words.

"Where?
Back to the gutter, to your home? Who there will believe in your chastity?
Better stay—a duke's whore is better than a common harlot or a beggar. Better
stay."

There
was a silence as I fought for words to deny him but could find none. What could
I do if I were set free? Antonio would never have me in his house unless, like
the other whores, I paid him rent. My chastity was gone in the eyes of honest
folk already. Piero's hand touched my shoulder in what I thought for an instant
was a caress.

"So."
It was an almost inarticulate sound of triumph. "I will leave the lady to
your mercies, Father; call me when you have done."