by Teresa Denys
The contempt in Domenico's voice brought Piero up short, and I saw him blink as though he had been struck.
"Once it was not duke's son and lackey," he answered venomously. "Once it was two lads—Domenico and Piero— and it was Piero who lorded it with you! You do not choose to remember—"
"I remember well enough." Domenico's voice was dangerously even. "Forbear to talk of it."
"If you remember, then judge my jealousy. Measure for measure with the love I gave you."
"You loved the son of the Duke of Cabria." The raw fury in Domenico's eyes made Piero step back, but his voice was still stifled. "It was my power you made your court to; you thought to haul yourself higher on my coattails and rule the state from behind my throne. Do not tell me tales of your undying love." His voice festered suddenly. "I have seen you sweat after my very mistress!"
I felt sick with shame. Ippolito had slipped away, his face as gray as death, and the two lovers, or enemies, were confronting one another like gladiators. I swayed, clinging tightly to the bole of a nearby tree to keep myself upright. Somewhere a dog snarled, disturbed by the bitter voices.
Piero laughed on a sour note of self-mockery. "Why not? She is fair enough. I meant to be patient, though—I would have waited until you wearied to take her to bed.''
"No more words, Piero." The duke's voice shook as he spoke, and the courtier's face filled with delighted malevolence.
"Why, my dear! Of whom are you jealous? Your black-haired drab or me?"
There was a moment's charged siience, then Domenico's eyes flared like a berserk wildcat's, almost silver with rage. His face was flushed hectically, and his lips drew back from his teeth like a snarling animal's. "Of you? Do you imagine I think of you? A smooth-tongued slave with more impudence than brain, more cunning for mischief than breeding! For my hate's sake I have let you live so long—it was sweet to see you couch to me, and say 'my lord' so often, when you went in fear for your life—but I would as soon hold a leper in my arms as such a vile scullion! And you dare talk so—you dare—to me—to me—"
Sweat was pouring down his face as he screamed the words. I could see his violent trembling from where I stood, and then his voice seemed to catch in his throat. For a moment I thought he was dying: Then, before anyone could move, he pitched forward like a falling tree, without any attempt to save himself.
Piero caught him as he fell. I heard him say, "Oh, Domenico—your old fit again—"and he bent and pressed his lips to the duke's temple.
No one moved. I simply did not know what to do. What was between these two seemed private, and I clung to the tree as though it were a lifeline. Piero was kneeling, supporting the duke's whole weight across his upraised knee; Domenico lay apparently unconscious, his shining head on Piero's shoulder like a sleeping child's.
It can only have been seconds before he stirred, but to me it seemed like centuries. His head lifted a little, and he seemed to recollect where he was; then he tore himself from Piero's hold and slithered back from him as swiftly as a snake. Piero's hand went out to him, and then the duke, his eyes wide and blank, gasped, "Kill him. Kill him."
There was a scuffle and a sudden clink of chains, and one of the men shouted and pointed at Piero—then, with a rush, the three great boarhounds left their keepers' sides and leapt towards him.
He did not scream. I do not think he believed, in that first moment, that they could be coming for him. Then, when comprehension flooded his face, his hand dropped to his pitifully inadequate dagger, and he turned slowly from one dog to another, trying to estimate where the first attack would come from.
The dog on his right sprang, and he flung up an arm to fend it off. The weight of the animal's body made him reel; the hand that held the dagger was wrenched high, the arm useless as the hound sank its teeth into it.
Riccardo D'Esti whispered excitedly, "A silver piece that he lasts five minutes."
Guido Vassari shook his head scornfully. "Never! Look at the other two."
While Piero was trying to dislodge the brute clinging to his mangled arm, the other two dogs were circling. Then one of them launched itself from behind him on his left side, and then he did scream. He stepped back, trying to recover his balance, and stumbled, dropping backwards to the ground. It was a gift to the third dog. Piero's second scream was short; a man cannot scream with his throat bitten out.
I remember thinking stupidly that those dogs could not have been fed for days. I wanted to look away, but I could not remember how; I could only stand propped against the trunk of a tree, watching, watching. Once, staring at the red, ruined thing that had once been a man, I remembered that I had thought I hated him; but I was weeping, nonetheless, as though I would never stop.
Riccardo was sulkily paying his bet to Guido; Ippolito was not there. Among the courtiers I recognized only Santi, who had cleared the dogs away and was clearing up the mess with an unmoved expression on his brutal face. The clearing looked like a butcher's yard. Domenico was still crouched on the ground; he had not moved since he gave the order. Then Santi brushed by him to pick up what looked like a severed hand, and he stood up at last.
There was a long smear of blood down his velvet sleeve where Piero's imploring fingers had caught at it momentarily; but otherwise the struggle had not touched him. He stood looking down at the crimson grass with a lack of expression that was terrifying. Then, as though a thought had struck him, he raised his head sharply.
I watched him come towards me with a sort of dread; if my legs would have held me up, I would have fled him. But I stayed still, half-collapsed and racked with weeping, and his hands caught mine and pulled me upright. His were icy cold.
"That will teach him to betray me," he said with a shaken laugh.
I was shocked beyond reason, beyond rational thought. I wanted to shrink from a man who could wreak a revenge so terrible, so immeasurably greater than the crime it punished. The man I love is a monster, I thought dazedly; he has men eaten alive. . . .
Around us the huntsmen were struggling to calm the hysterical pack, and some of the courtiers had gone to catch the horses. Ippolito was with them when they returned, still visibly sickened, not daring to look at the trampled grass or the stains glistening on the bark of the fallen tree. I felt Domenico stiffen as he met his secretary's eyes above my head; then his harsh grip slackened, and with a muttered "Come," he turned and swung himself lithely onto the black horse's back.
I did not hear what he said to Sandro when we rejoined the main hunting party—some farrago about blood from a wounded deer, and the dogs maddened by the smell on Piero's clothes— Piero who had smelled always of musk and civet. Sandro's eyes were frankly skeptical, but he kept his face wooden enough while he heard the tale.
The ride back to Diurno was long and silent. Soon the palace might be buzzing with gossip and surmise, but now not a man dared murmur—the duke's hunt brought its quarry home in speechless unease.
Chapter Seven
That afternoon I escaped to find Father Vincenzo.
I had not seen him in all the days since I realized that my sins were willingly committed, but now my soul was so heavy with remorse that I could not bear it alone. He was alone in the chapel when I found him, and I think he had heard something of what had happened, for he greeted me without surprise, his gentle manner saying far more than the stilted words he spoke. Slowly the familiar pattern of prayer caught my attention, blotting out the red horror of the forest clearing, and I rose from my knees feeling comforted.
"Another time, daughter, do not wait until you stand in such need; and remember, it is not for you to judge the weight of your own offenses."
I flushed as I met the Jesuit's steady regard. "They are heavy enough by any man's reckoning, Father."
"But not so heavy as to crush your conscience; if they did, you would not have come to me. The duke only uses confession as a means to shock me; a man's death is less to him than the loss of a glove. I tell him of damnation, but I doubt he fears an
ything but the darkness in his own mind."
I must have made a betraying movement, because he looked at me keenly and nodded.
"You know of it, too. I thought you must have guessed something—it is more than the god of his appetite which drives him to such evil. I have sought to make him tell of it in confession, but he will not—I think perhaps he does not know himself what it is."
"He is haunted." I spoke with difficulty, watching my fingers as they twisted together. "I will not tell you more than that. But his pride will not let him admit that a thing can terrify him, and so he never speaks of it."
"Not to you?"
I shook my head. "I am only his mistress. Sometimes he talks in his sleep, that is all."
Father Vincenzo did not answer directly. He pondered for a moment and then said, "He is much changed of late. Did you know that his constancy to you is the wonder of the court?"
"Piero . . ." My tongue stumbled. "Piero della Quercia said something like it, but his every third word was a lie. For all I know there may be fifty others."
"The duke would not be so far kind as to spare you the knowledge of them. He was wont to take a delight in tormenting his mistresses so—favoring one in the sight of another and on the same night betraying both. And the honor he did you at his coronation has been noised throughout Italy. . . ."
"He did it to vex his great-uncle," I interrupted bitterly. "It was no more than a sign that he can do as he pleases now he is duke."
The Jesuit sighed. "Like enough."
"And I know he will keep me only until he is wedded. He told me so."
I had known the truth of that before I spoke the words; but the sound of them, baldly stated, was so painful that I sat as still as if I had received a wound, not daring to move in case it increased the hurt. Father Vincenzo glanced at me sharply, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and gentle.
"Remember, daughter, I will always bear half your burdens if you ask me."
I bowed my head in a sudden flood of gratitude and kissed his thin hand, and as I did so, a mocking voice sounded from the doorway.
"Here is devotion, Ippolito! Are you seeking to set a fashion in piety, sweet? You will have few enough followers at that."
I turned to see Domenico in the doorway, Ippolito and the quartet at his heels. He was lounging lazily, a half-reckless smile on his lips, and I obeyed the peremptory flick of his fingers perforce; it was only when I reached his side that I could see the new, remote look in the depths of his dark eyes.
He continued smoothly, his fingers closing on mine. "Were you seeking absolution for your crimes? For those you should ask pardon of me—I swear I can devise you softer penances than any priest."
The men behind him sniggered, and the priest smiled rather sadly. I said, "Will you stay, Your Grace?" but he shook his head sharply, almost angrily.
"I will keep my own road, I think." His voice was light, the smile still on his lips. "And trust to your prayers to keep me from the devil's clutches."
"That may be beyond my power, Your Grace."
"What, when you are backed with my good confessor here?" Domenico glanced sardonically at Father Vincenzo. "My soul is to him as the Augean stables were to Heracles."
The young priest inclined his head. "I thank Your Grace for the comparison. Heracles finished that labor, and eleven more to boot.''
Domenico straightened. "Do so for me, and I will make you the next archbishop."
"Your Grace forgets," the priest retorted gently, "that you are not yet pope."
Domenico might not have heard; his fingers were hard on mine, and his remote gaze was fixed on my face. "If you had not stolen from me, you might have heard the news I have told the court—we are for our travels again. We start for Fidena tomorrow morning."
"Fidena! But I thought you meant to stay here until . . ."
Until Savoy's daughter came, I meant to say, but he cut me short.
"There is no need. Our great-uncle remains behind to manage our affairs here, and there is no need for us to fool it here any further." The sudden twist of impatience in his voice warned me, and I bowed my head in acquiescence; what I tried to do by prayer, he sought by flight, leaving Diurno far behind.
But as I learned, there was much grumbling in the court when the move was announced, and Sandro swore downright and sulked thunderously.
We were to travel back at a much slower pace than we had come, Ippolito told me that evening, and smiled when he saw my expression.
"Do not look so glum, lady. We will not ride at a walking pace. Look." He drew a map from his pocket. "See in the mountains there—and there as the road crosses back towards the marches—those are castles belonging to the duke's lieger lords. We will stay at each of them for a night or two, and see some triumphs—and sleep soft—and that is what will make our journey slower."
I sighed with relief. "You are a great comfort to me, my lord."
He started in mock terror. "Do not say so before the duke, lady. I should be of little comfort without my head."
"What, lady!" Sandro's voice made me jump. "I must tell tales of you to my brother if you get his secretary into corners."
I looked around to find him regarding me quizzically, and laughed. "We were talking of the journey back to Fidena, my lord. Lord Ippolito was showing me the route we are to take."
"Ah, yes." Sandro's eyebrows lifted. "A week of meandering through clefts and gorges to take in a night or two at moldering castles whose owners seek to evade my royal brother's tithes. You will enjoy yourselves!"
"Do you not come with us?" I asked quickly.
"Not I! The pace my lord secretary sets favors the sickliest jade on the heaviest-laden coach. I and my men can make the same journey in four days; and I have the royal leave to post ahead. I told my brother a wench claimed marriage of me and I wished to leave in haste—it was a likely tale enough." "Did he believe you?"
"Not a word," Sandro admitted cheerfully, "but he looked at me from under his eyelids, so, and said in that voice of his as if he were musing, 'You have your reasons, I doubt not; go if you will.' And I shall take him at his word." He made a rude grimace. "It is always his way to seem to know what is in a man's mind."
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.