The Silver Devil

by Teresa Denys

  The palace was clamorous now with the names of conflicting contenders for the duke's marriage bed. Every faction held a different opinion, and Domenico heard them all with a faint, feline smile and would not say yea or nay to any of them.

  "His Grace will do well to choose a rich wife," Guido Vassari said, with a meaning glance under his eyelids at me. "He has near emptied the treasury by this, and he will not listen to talk of moderation."

  Andrea Regnovi tittered. "Oh, but he has wealth enough yet to squander! I will take my oath it is not gold that will lure him. A complaisant woman, now; one who will close her eyes to his infidelities . . ."

  "It is a fruitful one that he must seek, my lords," Baldassare Lucello interposed. "Cabria has no heir after him but the lord Bastard and the archbishop, and may heaven help all of us if either of them succeeds! The Bastard has his own followers— Giovanni Santi and those marauders he calls gentlemen—and the archbishop hates us and will root us out if he comes to power. Let us pray that the duke will get himself a son, and that quickly, before the state totters!"

  "And falls into the lap of Rome? You are too gloomy, Baldassare." Riccardo D'Esti's fixed smile never left his lips as he spoke. "You may as well prophesy that Spain will swallow Cabria after Naples's victory over our soldiers. This news of the duke's is good for all of us—it is only his drabs who will repine."

  I had not much comfort then, and it was of little consolation that Piero no longer came near to upbraid me. I found myself often seeking Bernardo da Lucoli's company; his gentle, unde­manding presence and quiet devotion were soothing when I was tired of combating the pinpricks of the court and my own overwhelming, hopeless love. It seemed an age since I had sat in the attic over the Eagle sign and wished for some excitement to enter my dull life—now, passing all my expectations, I had it, and I would have given it all for peace of mind.

  Domenico spent much of his time in council or closeted with Ippolito over state affairs, but at night he kept me close to him, even teaching me the court dances in the banqueting hall after the feasting was done. I remember the slow, insidious music of flutes and hautbois; the torchlight outlining the duke's silvered body like wildfire; the gleam in the black depths of his eyes, and the way the room faded like the setting of a dream, leaving the hard grip of his fingers and the breathtaking grace of his steps as the only reality.

  Once Sandro came to solicit me to dance with him, too, and because I felt lost and reckless I gave him my hand without a glance at Domenico. What if I were still, incredibly, the duke's mistress—my days would be done soon enough, once he had chosen his bride, and then there was nothing for me but a choice between beggary and a convent in Genoa.

  "My brother did not intend any man but him to partner you, I'll swear," Sandro observed with a wolfish grin on his dark face, "but it will not harm him to give place for once! He has it all." For a moment the humor was gone from his voice, and his eyes were as cold as chips of ice; then he saw my expres­sion and smiled again. "You need not fear for his anger, lady. His frowns are directed at me and not at you. I shall find myself on an errand to the border tomorrow."

  "Surely he would not send you there for so little!"

  He shrugged, wholly unconcerned. He had weighed the of­fense against the penalty before he ever approached me, and he showed no sign of caring that he would be sent into danger— not that I really believed the danger, for Sandro bore a charmed life. The figure of the dance took him away from me, and as our hands clasped again he said, "My brother is not sparing with his punishments, lady. I shall be paying for my pleasure soon enough. Tell me"—I thought I heard his voice sharpen as I turned under our upraised hands—"when does he mean to strike at della Quercia? He has had proof of his treachery for five days and more, and he was not wont to be so slow in his revenges."

  "I do not know, my lord." I felt a sense of shame as I spoke. "He—the duke has said nothing to me. Perhaps he means to torture him with waiting."

  Sandro nodded shrewdly. "Perhaps. You have come to know my brother better since you came here. But for his own safety and the state's, you had best urge him to rid us of this traitor."

  "Where did you learn that caution, my lord? That is none of yours!"

  He laughed outright at that, a sudden, ribald guffaw which rang discordantly over the music. "True, lady! I have been hearkening overmuch to my great-uncle's wisdom. But the old jackal is right for all that." He sobered swiftly. "The court would be well rid of such a plotting knave. You do not love the man—you could persuade . . ."

  "No." I shook my head instinctively. "I will not do more to bring the lord Piero to ruin than I have already done. And I wish I had not done so much," I added in a whisper.

  Sandro remained unabashed. "Stay a little longer at court, lady, and your tender conscience will cease to prick you. In a week or two—a month—a man's life will be nothing to you if it stands in the way of your affairs. Why should you be so squeamish? The man is as good as dead."

  The words shocked me so much that I almost stumbled. So to him—and to anyone else who knew of that damning scrap of paper—Piero was hardly more than a walking wraith; they were only waiting to know when he would die. No wonder the man was close-tongued these days, and cautious. He must be feeling the chill of a phantasm's existence.

  The music ended, and Sandro led me back to the chair by Domenico's side. I curtsied to him automatically as he released my hand, my thoughts so full of Piero and his treachery that at first I did not notice Domenico's expression.

  "So my brother Sandro grows attentive, too?" His voice jerked me back to the present, and I saw a troubling glitter in the dark eyes following his half brother's stumpy figure. "Soon you will have a kennel of these . . . lapdogs vying for your favors."

  I made a movement of protest, and he turned his head, a terrifying hardness about the smile on his lips.

  "Oh, I have eyes. Della Quercia, Bernardo da Lucoli, and my brother . . . you had best be virgin-close with them, or I may grow angry."

  He spoke lightly; his eyelids drooped, and the subject was dismissed. But a senseless joy was licking through me like a flame. My days as his mistress might be numbered, it seemed, but God help any man who sought to anticipate my dismissal.

  Sandro's sudden expedition to the border to brave the clutches of the King of Naples was a nine hours' wonder that barely stirred the eddies of rumor concerning the Duke's marriage. To the court, what was promised was ever more important than what was past, and their tongues relished the speculations like bees around a honeypot. When the duke sent out a dozen messengers on some mysterious errand, rumor had it that they were ambassadors sent to negotiate his marriage; and after that I began to notice again the despising tone in some voices, the contempt in their eyes that had been veiled.while they thought me secure in the duke's bed.

  What surprised me was the change in Maddalena. I thought she would find pleasure in taunting me with the prospect of my fall; but her roughness and spite began to abate, and I supposed, when I saw her whispering with the archbishop and gazing at me, that she had decided I would most likely go to Genoa and not trouble her much longer.

  The next night, I was sitting in my chamber, waiting for Bernardo to fetch me to the duke. Niccolosa had gone to lock up the Cabria diamonds in safety, and I was thinking that soon I must give up those ill-fated jewels in my turn, I could bear the loss of the Duke of Cabria's favor, I was thinking, but how was I to live without Domenico?

  A firefly glimmer moved in the mirror before me, and I met the reflection of Maddalena's green eyes as she came up behind me.

  "I wanted to speak with you." Her voice was low and urgent. "Quickly, before that old hag comes back."

  "Why, what is the matter?" There was a fierce purpose in her face that startled me;

  "I want you to ask Domenico to prefer me as a lady-in-waiting to his new wife. He will listen to you, and once he is wedded there will be no security for women who are not friends with his bride."

  "But h
e has not chosen her yet."

  "Have you not heard?" Her smile was scornful. "It is all over the court that he is to wed the Duke of Savoy's bastard daughter. She is rich, they say, and fair enough for Domenico to overlook the accident of her birth. The archbishop has done all he can to oppose the match, but now he has given way."

  I stared at her blindly, wondering which of those dimly remembered portraits had been of Savoy's daughter. The names and the faces had all run together in one hurtful blur. I said in a voice that did not sound like my own, "I had not heard. You would be welcome if I could do it, but I dare not beg an office for myself, let alone for you.''

  "You have no need of an office!" Her eyes narrowed like a cat's. "It would be nothing to you . . ."

  "When the duke is married, I shall be cast lower than you!" I turned to face her, trying not to let the tears spill down my cheeks. "You at least are nobly born, but I have no foothold here but the duke's favor. When he weds, I shall have nothing." I heard the pain in my own voice almost detachedly, but Maddalena had taken the words literally.

  "He has given you more than ever he gave me!" There was a flash of the old, sullen jealousy in her face. "Besides, when he marries, he is sure to give you a dowry, and, if it does not tempt a nobleman to marriage, it will induce one to take you under his protection."

  I said bewilderedly, "Why should he give me a dowry, more than another?" and saw Maddalena's wide mouth curve in a cynical smile.

  "You cannot be as mealy-mouthed as that! There is no need to play the innocent—the whole court knows."

  I felt suddenly weary. "I do not doubt it. What do they know now?"

  "Why, of your parentage, of course. It has been common knowledge since Domenico's envoys came back—they could not keep such news to themselves. When they found that you were truly Duke Carlo's daughter. . . ."

  "No!" I said. "No, I am not."

  "It is proved." Her scornful tone dismissed my interjection. "Domenico's agents discovered more than he foresaw when he sent them to find out your father. Did he not tell you he was seeking him?"

  "He once said he might." A voice in my brain was repeat­ing monotonously, This cannot be happening. None of this is real. "But I never knew that he had discovered anything."

  Understanding flooded her face, and she laughed. "That man is a devil! I thought he had used his tongue to coax you into continuing to share his bed, but not to tell you—that outgoes everything!"

  "Please." I put my hand on her arm. "Please tell me plainly what you are saying. I cannot—I cannot make myself under­stand you."

  She gave an impatient little sigh and began to speak slowly and clearly as though I were a half-wit. "Domenico has discov­ered that you are his father's child. You are his half sister." Her tone changed as she saw my expression. "Well, is it so surprising? Duke Carlo was not faithful to any of his wives, it is well known—he had dozens of other bastards besides Sandro, and all of them were small and dark like you. They say it is clear from how swiftly you settled here, and how fond you seem to be of Sandro. . . ."

  I did not hear the rest of what she said. I just sat still, not daring to move or speak in case something should happen to prove that this was reality. As long as I knew it was a nightmare, I thought, I could bear it.

  I had been sleeping with my half brother. The love which had seemed so glorious, so total, was a tie of blood after all! My ignorance had betrayed me into incest, and what I had accounted a venial sin was one of the blackest that man or woman could commit, as much as if I had mated with Antonio. My brother.

  "Why did he not tell me?" I said at last.

  Maddalena shrugged. "Because he knew you would take it so, I would guess. These days no one cares for con­sanguinity—any kin now, next to full brother and sister, is winked at by priests. But the common people,"—the dis-missiveness in her tone was more insulting than contempt— "still hold it sinful to mate with kindred. If he had told you, you would have refused him."

  I stammered, "Why should I believe you? It may not be true. . . ."

  "It is true enough. If you doubt me, ask him. Ask Domenico." She caught my hands and pulled them away from my face, kneeling beside me with her eyes hard and bright as pale emeralds. "He will kill me if he finds out that I have told you: you must swear not to tell him what I have said. I know I hated you when you first came here, but that is past—I have Sandro now, and I can hold him as long as I choose. I swear to you, I thought you knew all this—it is nothing, I tell you! The court thinks it sport, no more!"

  I gave a little cry of despair, and Maddalena rose to her feet with a great rustle as Niccolosa entered; through my tears I saw her come flapping towards me like an agitated crow. "Now, my lady. Madonna Maddalena!" Her voice hardened. "What have you been saying to my young lady?"

  "Nothing." Maddalena's deep voice was as indifferent as ever. "Nothing it is not good for her to know."

  "Seeking to make mischief, no doubt. What is it, my lady?"

  I shook my head, unable to answer, and her lips thinned. "You must not heed any stories of His Grace's new wife. Some even say it will be you, and I do not doubt"—she glared at Maddalena—"there are jealous ears enough to give even that tale credence."

  "He will never marry me." That dreadful, cracked whisper was my own. "He would not if I were an empress. And if he asked me, I would refuse him."

  Both women tried to soothe me; Maddalena seemed half-startled by what her words had done. But all I could think of was that I had fallen in love with my brother.

  When Bernardo came to fetch me, I went with him like one in a dream. By habit, I followed; by habit I waited, sitting on the great bed. It was not until Domenico came to me that the dream dissolved, and I found myself facing reality.

  To my horror my new knowledge made no difference to my inward response. When he kissed me, I felt the same excitement, the same languor. I was so deep in iniquity that I could love my own brother as carnally as if he were no kin. But somehow I forced myself to stay rigid in his arms, and after a few mo­ments he lifted his head and looked down at me, his dark eyes angry and puzzled. "I thought we had thawed this ice, Felicia."

  "Your Grace, I cannot." I could not say more. "Forgive me."

  In answer he bent me back with a strength that made me shiver, I longed so much to succumb to it. His kiss was rough, as demanding as it had not been since the first night when he forced me—then his hold eased and his watchful eyes searched my face. "What is the matter?"

  I wanted to tell him, but I could not speak the words. If he had taken me knowing that the deed was incest, why should my knowledge of it make him pause? Instead I whispered brokenly, "I beg you . . ."

  His beautiful face was grim. "This is more than coyness. Is it that you are sick?"

  I said yes, snatching at the excuse, and his frown lightened. "You should have told me—I am not such a novice that I know nothing of women's matters. We will forbear tonight."

  Shaking with reaction and relief, I stood beside him with bent head as he summoned Bernardo. Inwardly I knew that this excuse would not serve me long, but now it was a respite from the first shock; by the time the plea of illness had ceased to serve me, I might have thought of another. But my eagerness to escape almost betrayed me. As Bernardo appeared in the door­way I hurried towards him so quickly that Domenico tensed with sudden suspicion, and even through my unhappiness I could sense the sudden distrust that radiated from him, scorch­ing my skin.

  "Take the lady back to her chamber, sirrah." His voice sounded curt.

  "Your Grace!" Bernardo was obviously astonished, but he extended his arm to me without continent. I took it gratefully, and my clutch, as on a lifeline, made him glance at me in surprise. I managed to force my lips into an unsteady smile, and then he led me out into the gallery and back to my own room. Tactfully, he did not ask why he had been called for such an unusual office but only bade me good night in a tone of heartfelt sincerity and kissed my hand at parting.

  For three nights afte
r that the duke did not send for me, and I spent their watches on my knees, praying for God's forgiveness; I dared not take this sin to Father Vincenzo. The days I spent by Domenico's side, an unresponsive statue, avoiding the ques­tion in his eyes each morning or answering it with a mute denial.

  I had expected the pain of estrangement, the longing to cast out my conscience and kiss the grimness from his sensual mouth and the glint of growing anger from his eyes. What I had not anticipated was the physical agony of separation, the consuming ache of loneliness. There was a fever in my flesh, a terrible sense of emptiness, as though I were starving to death. I hoped—or perhaps feared—that lacking me Domenico would find another woman to lodge with, but the court spies were abuzz with the prodigious news that the duke was lying alone.

  I no longer marveled at how I came by the news of the palace. Like the rest of the court, I was learning to glean it from a word or a look. Bernardo told me, stumbling with shyness, of the Duke's bad dreams since I left sleeping with him; more than anything else, the news nearly overset my resolve. But, I told myself grimly, it was for the best in the end—I might save Domenico's soul by keeping away from him.

  After supper on the third night I sat alone at the banqueting table in the light of the dying torches. The hall was half-deserted, filled with strange scufflings and shadowy forms that shunned the light and drew back into the dark. The court was pairing: partners were being chosen for an hour, or a night, or longer. Spies watched alertly for every new coupling that might alter the intricate web of policy and lust spun every night. A countess who bedded with a lord would cause gossip tomorrow; a countess who bedded with her groom would cause a scandal. Honors would be called into question, an eyebrow raised—and somewhere, sooner or later, there would be a swift, secret death for the groom.

  I was learning, I thought, as I listened to the noises in the shadows. I was learning to be surprised if a couple stayed together longer than a day; not to be surprised when men paired with men. I was even learning to ignore the sights and sounds that gnawed like rats on the edges of my consciousness.