"That is our watchtower, lady. From that vantage ten men could hold the bridge against an army; it is why the pope could never take Fidena back again, for his forces cannot get near the city walls. If it were not there, Cabria would doubtless still be ruled from the Vatican."
I said, "Yet it frightens me—is there no other way across?"
"By ship, there, where the river runs into the bay, but in battle the city's cannon could sink any vessel before it got halfway. And westwards"—he pointed—"close by the city, there is a collection of rotten planks that some still use who do not mind risking their lives. But it would not support a single armed rider."
I smiled. "Do you think of nothing but battles?"
Sandro chuckled. "Yes, lady, a good deal else. But I have been brought up to fight for all I want, and the language of war comes naturally to me." The moment passed lightly, but the sense of oppression remained with me until we had passed back again into the sun.
Gradually, almost insensibly, I was becoming used to the motion of the horse, and as the party moved in a half-circle away from the gorge and its looming guardian, I began to notice the undercurrents in their gossip. Outwardly it was no more than shallow, frivolous gossip, yet here and there I caught dark allusions, hints of a mystery I could not understand. But I took it for imagination that first morning, and when the talk drifted to the latest amorous intrigues, I stopped listening altogether. Then, when the city gates opened before us, I forgot everything in the sudden familiarity of the sights and sounds of the crowded streets, the dust-choked air, the stink of foul humanity. The courtiers were grimacing, and Maddalena's exclamation of disgust was meant for me to hear—then at my side the duke's head turned with a glint of living silver, and my gaze dropped before the hard curiosity in his.
When at last the horses clattered to a standstill in the palace courtyard, I was swaying in the saddle. The sun's heat and the unfamiliar activity had drained what strength I had left—it seemed years, not less than a day, since I had left the dank silence of the prison.
A groom gripped the gelding's bridle, and I slid from the saddle without waiting for anyone's aid. Domenico's arm came around me from behind, so unexpectedly that I jumped.
"You are tired. Go to your room and rest a little."
"I do not know the way." In spite of myself my voice sounded forlorn, and he laughed.
"Faith, but I never thought of that! Ippolito shall guide you."
With relief I felt my hand taken in a firm clasp, and I was drawn out of the heat of the sun. The patterns of light and shadow before my eyes had no meaning—I was walking like a blind woman— yet for some reason I turned back at the top of the steps for a last glimpse of the duke.
The rest of the day passed in a bewildering pageant. Niccolosa stood guard over me while I slept, and in an hour or two I was caught up in the pace of palace life. One pastime merged into another—eating, drinking, music, sports—without cessation, until I wondered how the courtiers could bear this unreal existence day after day.
In the afternoon a message had come from Archbishop Francesco, as impatient as Sandro and scarcely more subtle, saying that he would answer his great-nephew's summons in good time—he would attend upon His Grace this very evening and be beholden for his lodging for a night or two. Then when the council met he would be rested from his journey; so old a man as he could not care for his health too much.
Domenico laughed when he heard, but there was an edge to his voice. "That old scarlet fox! He must forever remind us that the pope's clemency hangs on his moldering life—he could travel here on foot within two hours, and yet he needs six days to nurse his bones!"
"He is old, Your Grace," Ippolito interjected.
"Old and cunning." Domenico's jeweled pomander swung meditatively between his fingers. "He wishes to learn our mind before we publish it. But his policy grows stale, Ippolito; we shall keep him dangling until we are in readiness."
He looked at the pomander, hanging still, and smiled. "We must honor my great-uncle when he comes. Felicia, be sure to wear your jewels at supper."
So now I stood in the antechamber, waiting for the signal to pass into the banqueting hall, with the necklace ablaze around my neck. The archbishop had arrived scarcely an hour before, and now was deep in talk with Domenico in the center of the room. Ippolito stood beside me, eyeing me watchfully; he had not left my side, and I guessed he had been set to guard me while the duke was at a distance.
I glanced at Domenico; his face was a mask of polite indulgence as he listened to the archbishop, the torches reflecting from the clothes he wore so that all the light in the room seemed to shine from his silver-clad body. The old man made a lurid figure beside him, scarlet cassock and cape like splashes of blood. Against the bright silk his hollow-cheeked face was as pale and unyielding as bone; white hair was cropped close to his long skull, and the thin, veined hands were bare but for his ring of office. Watching him, I thought that it would take riches and the might of a dukedom to win God's forgiveness from such a priest as that.
"Have no fear, lady," Ippolito said reassuringly. "The duke will not leave you neglected for long."
I started and blushed unaccountably. "I was not thinking of that."
"Whatever it was did not make you happy."
"I was thinking of—of the duchess." I said the first thing that came into my head. "Why was she banished?"
He looked astounded. "The duchess!"
"Yes, the old duke's wife. I heard she had been sent away but not the reason. Does it mean she has entered a retreat?"
Ippolito made a wry face. "No; rather, she has been routed. The duke—my lord Domenico, I mean—banished her from Cabria the same day he had you brought here. He had given orders already for..." He checked, then continued quickly. "He was gone from the feast for close on three hours that night, and when he came back to the palace, the old duke was dead and the duchess ruled the roost. She asked to see him privately that night—we never learned what she said to him, but next day she was banished and gone."
"That was cruel," I said quietly.
Ippolito's kind face twisted into a sour look. "Do not waste your pity, lady. The duchess was as sorry for her husband's death as I should be if I were elected pope tomorrow. They whisper that the young duke took care not to be by the night his father died, but it is as likely that the duchess waited for him to be absent before she poured the wine."
"You think..."
"No." He was smiling again. "I do not think. I dare not. The old duke is dead and the duchess packed off to her Spanish kin in Naples; that is all any man here knows but he." He glanced at Domenico and then away. "And we know enough when we know so much."
"But Duke Carlo was old. I thought when I heard he was dead that he had died naturally."
"It is safer to think so. Believe it." Ippolito helped himself from a jug of wine and lifted his cup in salute. "Now we must bury our thoughts of the duke who is dead and serve the duke who is living."
I nodded. I was not even shocked; it would be a lucky man indeed who lived out his natural span here. All around us, even now, plots and subterfuges were in train—a whisper here, a few ambiguous words in passing, or only a look. Sandra's face came back to me, the swiftly masked expression when his generalship was mocked, and Piero's, watching Domenico when he thought he was unobserved. Duke Carlo could not have inspired more hate or love in any who surrounded him, and he had been murdered.
"The duchess" — I spoke again to stop my thoughts—"does no one care that she is gone?"
"Her faction went with her," Ippolito returned blandly, "and she is not much missed, I can assure you. Duke Carlo only married her to fill his bed and found it would not contain her; no young and handsome man was safe with her. Even Lord Domenico — pardon me, lady, my tongue trips on all these dukes — even he could not be certain that the name of Mother would hold her off him. We are better for her absence. No one mourns her—except perhaps Lord Sandro, who misses her as a man misses a ragi
ng tooth and sleeps the sounder without it."
I was slow to take in the implication, because I could not believe it.
"She was the mistress that the—the duke banished?"
Ippolito looked guilty. "I forgot whom I spoke to," he said quickly. "I should not have said it—but perhaps you should know, if you are to keep afloat in this foul sea. It is known they bedded together at the duchess's importunity, but it was not incest, except in the strictest ruling of the Church. They are no kin to each other save in name. Lord Sandro is the old duke's son by a woman none of us has ever seen. He was born close on old Carlo's first marriage, and Madam Gratiana was his third wife."
"The third! What became of the first two?"
"The first—Lord Domenico's mother—died in childbed, and the Duchess Isabella died in an accident. She was childless, so there is none to dispute the dukedom, thank God!"
I hardly heard his thanksgiving. "They are an ill-starred family," I said wonderingly.
Ippolito shrugged. "Well, what would you? The state is held in the shadow of the pope's anger since the della Raffaelle wrenched the land from him. He will excommunicate us all once the breath is out of the archbishop's body."
"The duke said that, too, and I have heard it since I was a child, but I do not understand what you mean."
"Lady." His kind face was full of wry laughter. "I have talked too long of dangerous matters. For that you must delve into the palace library and read the Cabrian histories; it is a tale of years and far too weighty to be told before supper."
"But I cannot read." I looked beseechingly at him. "Will you not tell me?"
"I dare not, for my health's sake! Do not wheedle me, lady; if the duke should see you gaze at me in such a way, I should be good for nothing but bait for fishermen." His eyes twinkled at me over the rim of his cup, and I looked back at him with a sudden feeling of affection.
As he sipped his wine his gaze traveled past me, and I saw him stiffen in astonishment and lower his cup. Then, with a word of apology, he brushed past me and went to the duke's side. He was back almost at once, the perplexity as clear on his face as it had been that morning in the duke's chamber.
"He wants you." All his courteous phrases had deserted him in the stress of the moment. "You are to be presented to my lord archbishop."
I wondered whether one of us was mad or deaf, or whether the duke's brain had turned. To present his whore—his base-born whore—was worse than folly. It was madness. Struck dumb with apprehension, I followed Ippolito through the crowd and sank in a deep curtsy before the della Raffaelles. There was a sudden silence, then the archbishop said coldly, "I heard a rumor, Domenico, of your new mistress."
"Do not wrong your intelligencers, good uncle." Domenico spoke over my head, very softly. "They took some pains to let you know of it. I have my whisperers, too."
The thin hand, so close to me as I knelt, clenched and relaxed again. "You do not have your wits!" I was taken aback by the venom in the archbishop's tone. "Have you not heard what they are saying?"
"Little that is true, I swear. My lord, you are forgetful of your manners and your dignity to leave her so long unsaluted."
"I do not think"—the old man's voice was icy—"that God's blessing can be on such a woman as this, my dear Domenico."
"No? But His mercy is said to be infinite."
"Do not presume to instruct me. I know the scriptures well enough."
Domenico's cruel mouth curved in a seraphic smile. "And the verse which speaks of casting the first stone?"
The archbishop's lips tightened. Raw red patches stained his hollow cheeks, and his nostrils flared as he extended his hand to me: as soon as I had kissed his ring and taken his scanted blessing, he snatched it back in an angry swish of scarlet. Domenico's fingers caught mine with quick possessiveness as I rose to my feet.
"Uncle, I present the lady Felicia; she has no other name. She is our guest at court."
The hard eyes narrowed, giving the old man the look of a scarred alley cat preparing for battle. "No name? How is that?"
Domenico ignored the calculation in the deliberately mild question. "It is too long a tale to tell you now. When you are better acquainted with her, you will know how little it signifies."
"It might signify greatly if any part of what I hear is true." The archbishop stiffened, and when he spoke again every vestige of urbanity had fled from his voice. "Domenico, are not those the Cabria diamonds?"
"Yes." The duke's face was full of malign amusement. "I thought you would know them again."
"And you have recovered them from your stepmother to give them to..."
"To my guest, good uncle. They become her well enough, do they not?"
The archbishop was breathing heavily. "You are behaving like a madman, Domenico. You are not yet proclaimed, and yet you deck your light-o'-loves in jewels the Raffaelle women have worn since Cabria was ruled from Rome!"
Domenico had not moved; he was standing with bent head, indifferently contemplating the tip of one shining shoe. Then as the hasty speech ended, he looked up. The archbishop flinched.
"I have not given them lightly, uncle, and you need not fear the commons' censure—they will consent soon enough when they hear my reasons."
"So you had reasons?"
"If I should need more reasons than my will—you probe less subtly than you did, Uncle."
"I greatly fear you may be turned lunatic!"
A laugh, high and jeering, was his answer. "There is none to arraign me for it if I am! I am duke in all but the coronation—I have the name, the homage, and there is no one to dispute my title. The commons will not see Cabria given back to the pope because I lay dull stones on her bright skin."
He was using me, I thought, as an excuse to gird at the old man. His glee was the mischief of a naughty child insulting its elders, and he was reveling in the archbishop's suppressed wrath. I whispered, "Your Grace..." and he checked, the jeering lines smoothed from about his mouth as he looked down at me. "What, must I be more civil? Stop my mouth, then."
His kiss was brief and hungry, and his eyes were dancing as he raised his head. "You see, Uncle, I can be ruled."
The archbishop did not appear to be listening; he was gazing through me. "These rumors I have heard, Domenico..."
"What is it your spies have told you?" The duke's breath fanned my hair.
"Something I could not find it in my heart to believe when I heard it. I thought you incapable of such rashness, but now I am less sure. They say you think of choosing..."
"Not here, good Uncle." There was a threat in the very softness of Domenico's voice. "You will learn soon enough what I intend, if you do not plague my ears with poisoned tattling."
The archbishop cast him a strange look but said nothing; he only turned and whispered to a nearby servant.
Domenico smiled. "No, Uncle, your spies will not find it out either."
"Now it is you who are too hasty." The skeletal hands spread placatingly. "I sent the man on a message, nothing more. I shall not plague you, as you term it, to know your mind—what I know now will suffice me."
Domenico nodded idly, but his eyes narrowed with suspicion, and there was a moody thrust to his lower lip as he turned away. "Come, let us go in to supper."
"Ego te absolvo." Father Vincenzo made the sign of the Cross over me, and I rose from my knees, feeling comforted. My conscience would not let me take Communion while I was in a state of sin, but the young priest had heard my confession and given me penance for the good of my immortal soul. It brought me more solace than the ceremonious mass held in the palace chapel—the court worshiped with great pomp but to little purpose, the atmosphere in the chapel mingling derision with some superstitious fear, as though the nobles believed they were propitiating some immortal revenger.
I kissed the thin, olive-skinned hand. "You are too lenient with your penances, Father."
"God does not seek to punish you for the sins you are forced to commit, as long as you repent
them in your heart."
"And as long as I sin no more. But until the duke wearies of me, I have little choice."
The priest lifted the stole from his neck and folded it reverently. "That is your salvation, daughter. Now, listen to my advice, for we have little time; you may be sought for at any moment. Will you believe that what I tell you is intended for your good?"
"Yes, Father."
He hesitated. "Even after the ill service I have done you?"
"You have done me much good since," I said simply.
"Then listen." The priest's eyes were almost fanatically steady. "While you keep at court you must learn the ways of it. There are many who will try to oust you from the duke's favor, so you must be circumspect—Ippolito de'Falconieri is an honest man; him you can trust, but no other. If any others of the duke's retinue seek an alliance with you, be wary, for they will try to undermine you."
"But why should they? I am no more than a passing fancy of the duke's."
"You have held him for four days now! He is wont to look for a new woman after an hour. Some, like the lady Maddalena Feroldi, he has returned to more than once, but she is as hot-backed as he, and it was half her seeking. You are a wonder in the court. Have you not seen it?"
I shook my head. I knew that I was treated with an exaggerated courtesy which bordered on insult when Domenico was near; but when he was absent, I read my true worth in the disdain of the women and the insulting familiarity of the men. That it might spring from envy had not crossed my mind.
"His Grace the archbishop already looks askance at your power—he wants the duke wedded and the succession secure, and while you hold sway the duke cannot be persuaded."
"I have no power."
"It is greater than you dream of." The priest's earnestness almost convinced me. "Only remember my warnings, daughter."
I shivered. "I do not need them. Hatred is in the air I breathe. But thank you for telling me about the lord Ippolito."
"He will help you if you ask him and will tell you what you need to know of the life here. Benedicite, my daughter."
I caught his sleeve as he turned away. "Father, I—I have a question to ask you. About the archbishop."
Denys, Teresa Page 10