by Teresa Denys
"You are not hurt?" I demanded.
"No. The soldiers say I bear a charmed life—doubtless I am doomed to suffer a worse fate than death in battle." His mouth twisted wryly, then his fingertips trailed fire down my throat and rested on my thundering pulse. "I am glad to see you're restored to womanhood—I doubt the good Father would give consent for me to wed a boy."
I gaped at him. "Wed you? But . . ."
His face hardened suddenly, white and set. "You have changed your mind?"
"No, but here—now—Domenico, why?"
"I have had word that the archbishop has left Diurno—no doubt he grew weary of kicking his heels there. He is due to reach Fidena tomorrow or the next day." The sensual mouth was tight. "If we are wed before he comes, he will not be able to touch you, but if we wait upon his blessing, the old fox will find ways to hamper our proceedings. I have seen him at such work too often to doubt it! But if you are my wife, he dares not harm you."
A thrill ran through me at the words. His wife—I had never truly believed it would happen. But he misread my silence, and impatience edged his tone as he spoke again.
"If you long for pomp and ceremony, I will have my uncle marry us again in the capital, with half Italy to stare at us! Now we must make haste and the bare words must suffice. The priest here is willing to marry us."
I glanced at Father Vincenzo, whose gentle face wore a serene smile.
"As willing as you are to be wed," he said quietly, and I smiled back at him. "Thank you, Father."
So there, in an empty chapel in the midst of a city torn by the wars of princes, I married the Duke of Cabria. A mercenary captain gave my hand to him, and a courtier and a waiting-woman were the only witnesses. It did not matter: It could have been the most magnificent state marriage that ever took place, and I would have not have needed any of it. All I saw were the candle flames reflected brilliantly in Domenico's dark eyes, as I felt the clasp of his hand and the firm touch of his white fingers as he thrust the signet ring on my hand. I heard him make his responses after the priest; but my own voice I could not hear—I seemed stricken with the dumbness one has in dreams, yet I must have spoken, for the ceremony went on unchecked.
At last Father Vincenzo said, "I hope you have not forgotten how to sign your name," and I laughed, shaking off the dream as I took the proffered pen.
"I hope so, too. It would go ill with me if the world learned I had to make my mark!"
As I wrote, I could feel Domenico's eyes on me.
"You must teach me how to write my new name now, Father," I remarked light-headedly, and Domenico's hand covered mine as I spoke. He pulled me around to face him and held me so, pressing my imprisoned fingers against the breast of his embroidered doublet.
"I shall teach you," he promised softly, "all the duties that belong to the Duchess of Cabria."
Epilogue
The archbishop was hardly reconciled to what had been done, but at last, after Domenico had threatened to kidnap a cardinal to do the work, he relented and agreed to conduct the state ceremony. It was as the duke had promised, in the Cathedral of San Domenico, two months later. Half Italy came to stare, and the Duke of Savoy, whom I had never seen before, obediently treated me as his daughter. The drought had ended the previous week, and a torrent of rain seemed to scour the streets of Fidena of all the filth and fever left behind by the burning summer. Already the citizens were squaring their shoulders and beginning to rebuild, and the worst of the city's battlescars were hidden.
The court rested in Fidena for the rest of that year, and it was there that I waited through the winter and burgeoning spring for the child that now lies heavily in my womb, fighting to be born in this dark, stuffy chamber. It is the duchess's chamber, and tradition demands that the babe must be born here, as Domenico was, and his father before him. But it is too hot, and I cannot breathe for the press of people who watch for fear I shall substitute a changeling for the duke's child. . . .
I can feel the baby turning, and the pains are coming faster. There is no time now for thought or memory. All that matters is the child. I must give Domenico his son. If that woman would only stop screaming, I could concentrate. . . . It is coming. . . .
Such a small creature to cause so much pain. The sun has gone now, but they are holding up the baby in the light of the torches so that I can see him, lusty and screaming, with black hair like mine. They are firing guns from the battlements in rejoicing, and the echoes are coming back from the bay. I have told them to fetch His Grace the duke to see his son and so that he shall know that I am safe and will not die; he threatened to hang the doctor if he let me die, poor man.
Arms around me, lifting me up from the pillows, and a fair head buried in my neck. In a minute or two, when I have comforted him, I shall make him look up and see our baby.