by Teresa Denys
"Mistress Wisdom." The derision in his eyes made my hands clench. "For my part, I would be happier if he seemed less kind."
"What do you mean?"
"It is all too easy." The black eyes frowned. "If I were Ferrenza, I would not deal so gently with a ruffian calling himself a duke."
My voice quivered with a laughter that was close to tears. "Perhaps all men are not as distrustful as you, Your Grace."
He stared at me suddenly, piercingly. "What, do you like him, then?" he demanded softly.
My eyes fell before his. "I . . . I do not know. I have said, I do not know him." I could not find words for the unease which assailed me when I looked at Amerighi.
"True, and you shall not know him long." Domenico's voice was edged. "I shall speak him fair and get his army from him as soon as I may; then when Fidena is mine again, you will not need to suffer his gaze upon you."
It was himself rather than me that he should guard from those long, calculating looks of Amerighi's, I tried to say; but even as my lips parted, the door opened again, and Amerighi came in like a shadow.
"That is done." Not a glimmer of expression betrayed the fact that he had seen Domenico's hand cupping my face. "My valet will attend my good cousin of Cabria and supply your wants from my own wardrobe—I think we are enough of a size. The lady is more difficult, but something is being done." The intense gaze dwelt on Domenico. "I hope I may have your company at supper, if you are not too tired with traveling—I feel we have much to discuss."
Domenico nodded. "I shall be glad of it, cousin. There is a matter of great importance to us both on which I would like your opinion."
"I shall be impatient to hear it—I am eager to know what brings you so far from your city—Fidena, is it not? Or are you dwelling in Diurno at this time of year?"
"You have a good memory." Domenico's voice was toneless. "We came from Fidena; the court does not remove to Diurno until it is fully autumn."
"I remember. You Dukes of Cabria have always had a fondness for Fidena, have you not?"
"We have. . . . I marvel how you found that out."
"One hears gossip." Amerighi's long hands made a slight, dismissive gesture. "Living here in seclusion, I have little to do but learn the news. I have always harkened to news from Cabria because of our states' old alliance and our friendship."
"We too have heard gossip on our way here." Domenico sipped his wine slowly. "There is much talk of this seclusion of yours; they say you have turned hermit. For a while we were doubtful of our welcome."
Amerighi laughed. "My subjects cannot understand my dislike of pomp and pageantry! I have always disliked them. Since my cousin Bartolomeo has shown himself willing to take on the burdens of public life, I have loaded them on a willing ass and retired to this palace, which suits me better. I care more for superintending my treasures than for governing the state. No one cares for proper order but myself; the people live out their useless little lives without thought, without pattern!" He broke off, his face relaxing into a rueful smile. "But where is the sense in repining? If they will not learn, they will not, and they must be ruled by one who is content to suffer their stupidity. I myself," again that slightly deprecating movement of the hands, "rather choose to withdraw."
"Yet I have heard that you keep your private army garrisoned here. Is not that a strange sort of retirement?"
"I have said I like to superintend my treasures, cousin, and my army is the greatest of them." The thin mouth curved. "I created my army as a sculptor creates a statue, molding, refining, ever seeking the best men, the rarest skills. Now I have a collection of mercenaries whose prowess is the vaunt of Italy; a small force, but invincible. Every man is an expert, proved in his craft, and they have not been beaten yet. I keep them here, close to my hand and my purse-strings, for fear they might be tempted from my service by one richer."
"I applaud your judgment." There was the faintest of smiles on Domenico's lips, and he was watching Amerighi through his lashes. "Nothing is of worth but what is duly prized."
"As you prize this lady." Amerighi glanced swiftly around at me. "We weary you, do we not, madam, with all this talk of soldiers and statecraft? I will send for a servant to take you to your chamber, and you may rest there until suppertime. By now they should have found you something more fitting to wear, and you can cease to be Marcello."
I stammered something, hardly knowing whether to bow or curtsy, and as I followed the manservant from the room, I knew that both dukes were watching me. It was with relief that I closed the door of the bedchamber behind me, shutting out the servant's wooden face and curious stare; then, as I became aware of my surroundings, I gazed around me, entranced.
The Duke of Ferrenza was no miser with the beauty he loved; he had squandered it in this room, lavishing gold and colors on the walls and silk and damask on the hangings of the bed. It was not altogether strange, I thought, that a man should prefer this inanimate loveliness to the living squalor beneath the splendor of the court.
It was bliss to strip the now shabby page's suit from my tired body and to bathe in the steaming rosewater the servant had provided. I scoured myself diligently, rinsing the dust from my hair and glorying in the half-forgotten sensation of cleanliness. When I had done, I looked for the fresh clothes that Amerighi had promised, but all I could find was a tangle of gold and silver stuff spread across the bed, which looked like no fashion of gown I had ever seen. I picked it up and held it against me, staring at myself in the glass in perplexity.
It was a very strange gown. No farthingale; no stiffened, low-waisted bodice; no ruff, no lacing, no petticoat, not even a collar. Instead it clung to me as closely as a shift, rippling and glinting with every move I made, soft, shimmering silk embroidered in gold and silver. The cuffs of its great gathered sleeves were bracelets of gold and pearl; it was high-waisted, bound close under my breasts by a linked girdle of solid gold set with pearls and fastened with a gold clasp at the neck. The draped skirt whispered freely without even a brooch to clasp it, and I blushed at my own reflection. How Amerighi had come by such a garment, unless he kept it for his mistress, I could not guess. My cropped hair looked ridiculous against such splendor, and after several vain attempts I manage to comb the short ends smoothly to the crown of my head and secured them with pins. When it was done, it did not look unlike the French fashion, but I missed Niccolosa's skill sorely.
I stopped short. That was the accent I had been hearing ever since we came to Ferrenza, that harsh, faintly guttural speech that had nagged perpetually at my memory. The count, Enrico and his men, even Amerighi himself, all spoke like Niccolosa. She must be a native of Ferrenza, I thought, and she had never told me. But then there had never been any reason why she should.
There was a cloak the intense blue of the sky which I put on over the gown, and its weight around my shoulders lent me a little more assurance. If I kept it caught around me when I moved, it might hide what the gown revealed; and while I stayed still, I was modestly, even demurely, clad.
My reflection gazed back at me, wide-eyed. Once again I was a stranger to myself: There was nothing familiar in the image that met my eyes. Then I remembered something that would remind me of my own identity—the pearl ring I had taken off at Santi's bidding, my one link with my remembered self in Fidena. Hastily I shook it out of its hiding place and slid it back on my finger with an odd little throb of relief. My hand had grown thinner, and the ring slipped around; but it was my own, one accustomed thing in the midst of so much that was strange, and the knowledge of it warmed me. Then I had nothing to do but to pace the beautiful room until I was sent for to come to supper.
When the summons came at last, I was dry-mouthed with fright. While I dressed, I had kept my thoughts at bay; once I had done, they came flooding back, and I found myself thinking of that first night in Fidena, when Piero had come to fetch me to Domenico. Then, as now, the future had been a blank wall, unguessable, unthinkable—and I had stood waiting, loathing the
present yet clinging to it for fear of what was to come.
Someone entered the room, and I looked around with dilating eyes. But it was no dapper, mocking ghost who bowed before me—only a blank-faced stranger in the Duke of Ferrenza's livery who said stoically that the duke begged for my presence at supper. I did not need to ask which duke, for Domenico would never beg, not even in courtesy.
Piero's shade must have smiled as I followed the man along a corridor and across a broad landing checkered black and white like the floor of the hall below. Time had turned back, and again I was walking barefoot through a strange palace in the wake of a stranger. I turned to go down the staircase to the dining chamber I remembered seeing earlier, but the servant shook his head.
"No, gracious madam, you are to sup in the duke's private apartments, you and your lord. His Grace has given orders that you are not to be disturbed."
I should have guessed, I thought, that these great ones would not deign to discuss their affairs before the household; if Domenico were to humble his pride and ask favors, he would do it in private. At least now I should not have to parade before men I considered my comrades in this immodest gown.
Even as I thought so, someone moved out of the shadow into my path. For a moment I could not see who it was—then I recognized Lorenzo, neat in a borrowed suit of clothes, with trouble furrowing his brow and shadowing his sea-blue eyes. I gasped.
"Oh, you startled me!"
"I am sorry." He blurted the words, and his eyes would not meet mine. "I mean—I wanted to ask pardon for the way I spoke to you on the journey."
"There is nothing to forgive."
He shook his head. Clearly he meant to utter every word of his apology and would not be deterred. "I did not know, you see. I thought you one of those pining milksops who sigh after the duke—there are enough of them among the pages, heaven knows, and they turn my stomach—but if I had known—had known—" He broke off and then said simply, "I think you are very brave, madam."
I felt my lips quiver as I smiled at him. "Thank you, Messire de'Falconieri, but you were right to speak as you did. I was truly a pining milksop, I promise you, and not brave at all. And I have to thank you for protecting me from my lord Andrea—-I did not do so then."
Color flooded Lorenzo's face, and he stammered, "It was nothing—I am glad—I mean I was not then, but I am now— that I could be of service to you."
Something in the way he spoke reminded me of Ippolito, and I held out my hand to him in silence, not trusting myself to speak. I expected him to grip it and let it go, in the way of young boys; instead, he bowed low and kissed it and looked up at me half-shamefaced. It must have been the first time he had kissed a woman's hand.
"By your favor, madam . . ." The servant's voice made me start.
"I must go, Lorenzo," I said quickly. "Thank you again."
As I hurried away, I knew that the boy was still standing looking after me. Then I forgot him as I caught the murmur of voices at the far end of the gallery.
The two men were talking idly, half-silhouetted against the dying sunshine streaming across the checkered floor. Amerighi in black, seated in a low chair, his dark head cocked like an attentive bird's; Domenico a startling contrast in creamy white, propped lazily against the edge of the table, speaking softly. As I came nearer, I realized what he was speaking of, that the conversation was not idle at all; my apprehension came flooding back, and I stood listening, hardly noticing that the servant had gone.
". . . so I am forced to ask you to trust me, cousin. Believe me, you cannot be more reluctant to give your trust than I am to ask it of you."
Amerighi's thin fingers drummed on the arm of his chair for a moment, and then his downcast eyes lifted suddenly, a queer green gleam in them. "Should I be reluctant to give you my trust?"
Domenico's lips tightened; then he shrugged. "I have told you how fortune has served me. All my estate is lost in Cabria—I cannot conceive that my mother duchess will give me a pension to wage war against her. I reached your land" —his voice was perilously even—"with a few half-starved horses, some paltry followers of my own, and the Great Seal of Cabria." He moved his hand to catch the light, and the great ring flashed. "That is the extent of my pledges, and if you will not trust me to honor my debt when I return to Cabria, I can promise no more."
Amerighi murmured thoughtfully, "To make war on your mother duchess . . ."
"She will be lost without my brother's guidance." Domenico spoke with all his old arrogance. "I know her; she is too proud to take counsel from her captains. I can take Fidena back again if I come upon her quickly enough."
"And you mean to lay siege to her with my men." A shadow crossed Amerighi's face, and he stared unseeingly ahead for a moment. Then he said suddenly, "Why should I give you my aid to reclaim your dukedom?"
"To save Ferrenza from the Spanish. What chance will you have to survive if Gratiana rules in Philip's name? With Naples, Cabria, and all the northern states under the Hapsburg yoke, Pope Pius will be your only bulwark—but as long as Cabria is safe, the two halves of the Spanish force are severed."
Amerighi nodded slowly. "Well, I will consider. I am honored by these confidences, Cousin, and but for one trifle . . ." He broke off as he saw me, frozen half-out of his chair, gripping its arms convulsively. Astonishment momentarily drove every vestige of expression from his face.
"I bid you good evening, lady."
I walked forward, horribly aware of the way the gleaming gown clung and rippled. I said shyly, "Good evening, Your Grace," and wished insanely that Domenico would speak.
When I looked at him, he had straightened out of his lounging pose, all pretense of relaxation stripped from him. I thought he breathed more quickly, but his face was still; only his narrowed eyes, blazing black, betrayed the wild animal under the artificial calm. I met his gaze for a fleeting instant and shivered as though he had touched me.
Amerighi gave an odd little laugh, his gaze flickering from me to Domenico and back again. A flush stained his hollow cheeks, and there was a glint of overexcitement in his eyes, but when he spoke, there was only the slightest tremor in his voice.
"I thought to have asked your pardon for those garments I sent you, lady, but I cannot find it in my heart to be sorry. They become you better than the woman for whom they were made."
"Why, who is that?"
"The Blessed Virgin, lady." Amerighi laughed again as he saw my expression. "It is true, I assure you. There are no women here to supply your needs save a fat old grandam or two—I have no wife, as doubtless you have heard." The mobile mouth twisted. "And if you had scorned those things, I had been lost. But I lately commissioned a painting of the Annunciation from Lombardetto, and he left behind the robes in which he portrayed the Virgin Mary. They are for a lay figure and not a living woman." He glanced significantly at the hem of the gown. "But I hope they may serve for this one occasion."
Domenico said deliberately, "It must be a fair picture," and Amerighi seemed to start at the sound of his voice.
"I thought so until now. Shall we go in to supper?"
"And your answer?" It was very soft.
Amerighi shook his head, an almost malicious brilliance in his eyes. "Not before we have eaten, Cousin, I beg you! I will give you my decision soon, but for now, armies and territories are bad sauces to good food, and I will not discuss it further."
It was lightly said, and he turned away as he spoke, affecting not to see Domenico's involuntary stiffening, but I felt a spasm of dread as I saw the way the muscles ridged about his mouth. The Duke of Cabria would have punished that presumption with the full weight of his capricious fury, but Domenico della Raffaelle, landless exile, must stay silent and humble his fabulous pride to a compelled meekness.
I took Amerighi's proffered arm and went with him through another, lower arch, into one of the chambers off the long gallery. By now the sun was almost gone, and candles cast a soft glow over the loaded table, their tiny flames reflected in
numerably in the bright gold of plates and goblets. From above, within the carved and shuttered minstrels' gallery, the music of lutes fell softly down.
It seemed uncanny that we should sit there, leisurely eating and drinking and pretending that nothing lay behind our presence there. It might have been a long-awaited state visit from Cabria to Ferrenza—there was no word of armies, of usurping duchesses, of exile or death. I watched Domenico, seeing the impatience behind his lazy unconcern, and wondered whether his great-uncle's rebukes would have galled him more than this eggshell pretense.
I had expected that talk would flow stiltedly between us, but the Duke of Ferrenza seemed determined to leave no awkward silence, and after a little Domenico curbed his temper enough to answer him civilly.
Amerighi spoke of his collection of art treasures, describing each piece as though it were to him a living thing, his controlled face growing animated as he warmed to his theme. He talked of paintings, jewelry, statues, all beautiful things for use and ornament that he had gathered around him. Watching the acquisitive cock of his smooth chestnut head and the sharpness of his profile, I was reminded again of a bird: Sandra had said, once, that the della Raffaelles were a family of magpies. Did the Duke of Ferrenza, too, like to steal bright things?
But there was no greed in the almost ascetic face, nothing in the beautiful voice but a faint sharpening of excitement, and the overbright eyes burned with eagerness rather than rapacity. Amerighi was too adult, too controlled, to be betrayed by open boasting, but his exhilaration was that of a child showing its prized possessions to other children. He had been too much alone, I thought compassionately. The duke's excitement thrilled from him, lending a curious waiting atmosphere to the meal, but I had the oddest feeling that no one was really listening to what was being said—that the stream of words itself counted for more than its import.
At last, when the meal was over, Amerighi sat back in his chair, his eyes brightly mocking.
"You have been very patient with a man obsessed." He smiled faintly. "To hear of my collection is nothing—the pleasure is all mine in the recounting—but if you saw some part of it, you might understand my passion better."