by Teresa Denys
A sharp little push from Maddalena brought me back to the present, and I turned as she directed. For a moment, I thought I must curtsy to the fine lady who had entered unseen; then I realized that I was looking at my own reflection in the great mirror on the wall.
It seemed that court tailors knew no colors but silver and black, for I, too, was dressed in them. Stiff black silk over a cloth of silver petticoat, a tight-laced stomacher crusted with silver thread, the embroidered skirts spread over a broad farthingale. The gown was cut low, as low as Maddalena's, and my skin showed silver white against it.
I stared, searching for some remembered feature from my reflection in Antonio's pewter pans, and recognized only the color of my eyes, that odd untinged gray like a gull's feathers. For the rest, I might have been gazing at a stranger. Hair black and shining as the silk of the gown, piled high on my head: oval face, oval eyes wide, and cheeks colorless with apprehension.
Well, I thought, meeting the lurking misery and fright in my own eyes, there will be no more of that. The duke should have no weeping, cringing victim—if I had to yield, I would yield with dignity. I took a step away from the mirror. The weight of the gown was so crushing that I was forced into the slow sursurrating walk of the other women, trailing its massy skirts to ease the burden; as I turned, I thought I glimpsed a flicker of compassion in Niccolosa's face, but in an instant her expression was stony: Maddalena's held nothing but flaming antagonism. In that moment, my last impulse to beg for their help died.
The candles flared wildly as the door burst open, and a gaunt gnome of a man, painted and trimmed like a whore, hurried over the threshold and bowed, eyeing me curiously. "Ladies, you are sent for to join the duke."
Niccolosa nodded grimly. "We are ready, Messire Vassari. Tell His Grace we are coming."
"I will, lady." He slanted a look at me under his eyelids. "Is this the latest phoenix?"
"Yes." Maddalena spoke sullenly.
"A sweet thing! And she does not look unduly proud." There was meaning in his voice. "I cannot abide a proud harlot."
Her eyes blazed. "You would not have dared to speak so ten days since!"
"No, but ten days is a long time in the duke's affections. Follow, my lady, or he will be growing impatient."
Maddalena glared, then turned to me. "Come, then. I wish you joy."
She swept imperiously ahead, her wooden chopines clattering on the stone flags, and as I followed her, the two guards stepped from their station outside the door and fell into step behind me. They thought of everything, I thought; even this panic that makes me want to run and lose myself in this echoing maze.
Their footsteps and Maddalena's made the only sound as we went along; the palazzo might have been empty. It was only as we reached a long, bare gallery of vaulted stone that the first sounds came to meet us; at first a whispering growing through the ringing footsteps, then swelling to the din a thousand magpies chattering. I glanced at Niccolosa, beside me, but her stern face showed no surprise.
At the end of the gallery were two great double doors, carved and chased, glittering as though with sweat in the harsh light. I did not know how apt the thought was until the doors opened and the heat and the noise engulfed me both together.
It was like stepping into hell. Blackness yawned before me, a hall so vast that walls and roof were lost in shadow; facing me, a table curved in a half-circle of silver threatened to crush me like a crab's great claw. There were other tables behind it, rank upon rank, crowding the shadows; only in front of me there was emptiness, as I stood on the brink of what seemed a black frozen lake that reflected the blaze of the torches.
For a moment longer the raucous charter went on. Then heads began to turn, and I found myself confronted by row upon row of blanched, staring faces in a terrifying silence. I looked around me helplessly for the two women, but they had drawn back from the threshold, leaving me alone and absurd in the doorway.
In that frozen instant the court looked like the picture of an inferno from one of the painted Bibles in the cathedral. Gone were the opulent colors of the duke's triumphal procession—-everywhere black and silver gleamed with a lurid phosphorescence, turning the courtiers to giant insects under an uplifted stone, or lizards disturbed by a sudden light. The silence grew deathly.
Then, somewhere, someone tittered, and another voice took it up. In moments the whole assembly was rocking with jeering laughter as I stood ridiculously before them. My hands clenched uncontrollably; I had been prepared for any humiliation but the martyrdom of laughter. I stood with downcast eyes praying that something—anything—would divert the court's attention.
Then I heard, swelling through the laughter, the music of drums and trumpets. It came from outside, beyond the huge, studded doors behind the silver table, and the eyes were turning away from me towards it. Suddenly the whole chamber seemed to erupt in swinging patterns of brilliance and blackness as the court came to its feet. Servants ran to the doors and flung them wide, and the music surged in unchecked, throbbing through me like a giant's pulse.
I stood rooted to the spot, staring at the oncoming nobles, the brightness of their clothes and jewels hurting my eyes. I recognized Piero's slight, swaggering figure beside a tall, dark-haired courtier with a kindly face; and after them a short stocky man, walking defiantly out of time with the beat of the music. My heart leapt to my mouth, but an instant later I realized I was mistaken—the cropped black hair and square, sardonic face belonged to Alessandro della Raffaelle, Duke Carlo's bastard son. He must have been nearly fifteen years my senior.
He nodded to right and left, and for a moment his eyes seemed to rest on me down the length of the hall; then he stepped to one side and turned, looking back the way he had come like a dog awaiting its master.
By now the hall resounded with shrieking trumpets. Fresh torches were borne in, and at last, moving slowly between the bowing ranks, came the Duke of Cabria. As he walked, his eyes never left my face.
I must have swayed, but I did not fall. Even from where I stood I could read his expression: pure satisfaction, as though to see me there amused him. The trumpets ceased, and in silence he walked the length of the hall and paused by the silver table. In the whole vast assembly there was not a sound.
Then his hand flew out in a swift, imperious gesture, and at once every man and woman dropped to one knee and lifted an arm in salute. I was left standing like a fool, staring into the eyes of the man who had come to the Eagle.
I did not stop to reason how or why he was there. He was waiting for me to kneel, late and confusedly; instead, I stayed stubbornly erect, meeting his gaze about the courtiers' bent heads. They seemed to have been kneeling forever, but stili he waited, watching me.
Then, suddenly, he laughed. It was shrill and a little malicious, but there was a note of genuine amusement in it. The commanding hand fell to his side, and the court rose with a great rustle. I felt the curious eyes fasten on me again like so many leeches.
"You are welcome, lady."
He spoke softly, moving deliberately around the table towards me; the courtiers were as still as stringless puppets. He stopped in front of me, and my breath caught suffocatingly in my throat. Then, with an absurd defiance stiffening my back as haughtily as his, I sank to the ground in a deep curtsy. The rustle of my skirts sounded as loud as a falling forest.
A white hand, heavy with rings, raised me. My fingers trembled in his, uncontrollably, and I looked up into the eyes that had haunted my feverish dreams and saw them blazing with satisfaction.
He was toweringly tall and slender, every poise and motion a conscious beauty; doublet and breeches fitted him like a skin, turning him to a living, moving silver statue. Diamonds studded his hands and flashed in his ears—even his hair glimmered as if with Stardust. But all I saw in that first moment was the fiercely beautiful face, its proud profile, white skin, and the shapely, sensual mouth under the cropped and silken fair beard. The silver-gilt hair clustered in thick curls o
ver the small, proud head; radiantly, blindingly fair, with a devil's dark eyes set in the face of an archangel.
For a long moment he looked down at me, his eyelids drooping and a faint, disquieting smile on his lips. I prayed he could not see my shaking hands or the sudden dryness of my lips; but he could, for there was a glimmer of laughter between his lashes.
"Come." The word was no more than a breath, and I followed him to the head of the great table, too bemused even to fear. I was beginning to think that I must be caught up in some monstrous dream, that in a moment I would wake with the sights and sounds fading into dusk and silence in Antonio's attic. But the silver table was solid beneath my fingers, and my awareness of the man beside me was almost a tangible thing. He had seated me at the right of the duke's carved chair, and as he took his place in it, no one moved to prevent him. Around us the moth-pale heads were laid together, and the whispering began like a breaking sea.
He said softly, his narrowed eyes belying his light tone, "You look at me as though I were a ghost. Am I so monstrous?"
"I thought the duke would be here." It was all I could say.
"The duke?"
"Our duke. The Duke of Cabria. He sent for me." "How do you know he is not here?"
I met the intent gaze steadily enough. "I have eyes."
"And you would know the Duke of Cabria if you saw him?"
I nodded, certain now that he was baiting me. "I saw him on his way to the cathedral. And though you sit in his place and take his homage, you are little like him."
"A bold wench, this." He spoke over my shoulder to the Bastard, who sat on my other side, watching and listening. "She says to my face what no one else dares whisper behind my back. Shall we make her know us better?"
The Bastard grinned. "If you are bent on knowing her, Brother, it is a pity she should not know you!"
Brother? I thought. No, surely the name must be a title of affection. No two men so different could be close kin.
Alessandro said relishingly, "I must present my brother to you, lady. Domenico Giordano della Raffaelle, Duke of Cabria and Lord of the Marches. These and sundry other weighty titles he has lately inherited from our lamented father, Duke Carlo. And he is said to favor his mother," he added wickedly.
"Do you mean the duke is dead?"
Sandro lifted his wine cup in mock salute. "He is, lady. And now long live the new duke!"
I shook my head in disbelief. "When did he die?"
"The night I had you brought here." It was the duke himself who spoke; he might have been referring to the death of a dog or a mule, he spoke so calmly. "Only such a coil could have made me defer this business so long. Were you not told of it?"
I was silent, not daring to trust my voice. A half-forgotten phrase of Beniamino's was repeating itself in my head. That silver devil . . . silver devil . . .
"I wondered why Piero called you cold." Amusement quivered in his voice. "I did not find you so in your brother's house. Did you think that old ram, my father, wanted you?"
I nodded dumbly, and he laughed.
"Faith, he would have done you little harm! You need not fear I cannot bear my part more ably than he could."
I found my tongue. "Your Grace, your friend spoke truly; I will not yield willingly to you or any man."
Alessandro whistled. "There's for you, Brother!"
Dark eyes studied me for a long moment, then the duke said softly, "We shall see."
My face flamed, and I turned sharply away to stare at the chattering nobles. They were glancing often at the high table, discussing each word and look. I had feared the father when I should have feared the son—all I had heard I had misconstrued, because I had not known of Duke Carlo's death and had not recognized his son in the procession. Now I understood Piero della Quercia's gibing comments and Maddalena's jealousy.
I did not dare look back at Domenico. Sprawled catlike in the silver chair, he was watching me; I could feel his eyes resting on my bare shoulders as actual as a touch. So the black and silver has a reason, I thought: not just a macabre fashion but court mourning, worn for Duke Carlo.
Servants were threading their way between the tables with platters and dishes, the torches striking flickers of gold and angry red from the silver as they passed. Someone heaped my plate, and I looked at it with nausea—so much rich food after so long fasting threatened to turn my stomach. I averted my eyes quickly and met Domenico's gaze.
He was leaning back in his chair, watching me with a lazy possessiveness that terrified me suddenly. I gasped and started to rise to my feet.
"Drink some wine, lady." His voice checked me. "You take your pleasure too sadly."
"I do not take pleasure in this," I retorted breathlessly.
"True, it is trifling. But you shall know greater ones tonight."
Alessandro was leaning forward, listening blatantly, and he grinned as he caught my eye. "My lord and brother, the lady blushes. You had better tame your tongue."
"She is modest yet." The duke's tone was idle. "I am making war on a scrupulous virginity."
"Then parleying is a waste of time. You had best resort to battery."
"I will take your word. Your generalship is famous—for the most part."
The Bastard's jaw tightened for an instant, then he grinned. "No delaying, then! If you are to fight, you will have no stomach for feeding, and a city starved by siege is soonest entered." I tensed, and the duke laughed.
"I can be patient a little longer. I have a mind"—his voice was almost a purr—"to give our stepmother duchess's diamonds to this lady. Perhaps they will soften her heart a little."
"Those!" I thought Alessandro would say more, but he checked himself. "I did not think Gratiana would have given them back without blood."
"They were the gift of our father, hence the state's. She gave them back when I bade her."
Alessandro looked fascinated but forbore to press the question. "Good, they will shine the brighter on this lady. They have hidden that old hag's wrinkles for too many years."
"So I thought. Ippolito . . ."
Miraculously, the man he addressed heard the murmur from his place beside Piero and rose at once to bow at the Duke's shoulder. He was dressed in black, with barely a trace of silver, and his dark face reminded me of a contented cat's. He listened attentively to Domenico's lazy instructions, and as he hurried away, I watched him until he was swallowed up in shadows; anything rather than look at the duke. It was a relief when Alessandro claimed his attention.
"Brother, if you are in a bountiful humor, will you grant me a favor?"
The duke looked a negligent query.
"That harlot Maddalena Feroldi." The Bastard's eyes were greedy. "I have been wooing her these ten days past, but because she thinks you will return to her, she spurns me as roughly as a maid would do. If you showed her that her reign is over, she might be open to a fresh assault—so far I have had nothing but coldness and blows."
"Does your taste run to viragoes, then? You will have little peace."
"She shall not have much either. Once I have bedded her, I'll tame her fury and leave her little time to trouble you. Come, Brother." The blue eyes hardened. "You owe me a mistress—my last bedmate is banished by your means."
I looked at the duke and saw his lips tighten.
"I am persuaded." He smiled, but it was not pleasantly. "You shall have the bitch."
I felt a pang for the woman who was being so casually disposed of and then a sudden dreadful apprehension. If he had meant what he said, this was how Piero meant to ask for me; and when the time was right, no doubt I should be given just as casually. But by then, I thought chillingly, it would matter little.
I looked covertly at the tall figure sprawled in the shining chair. Seeing him, I understood why so many of the court blanched hair and skin to an artificial fairness to seem like him; Piero's pale curls and brocaded doublet were a travesty of this man's beauty.
His head was turned away from me as he spoke to some
one on his other side; then as I watched, he stretched, shifting his weight with the unconscious delight of a pampered cat. For an instant the whole world went dark before my eyes.
When the hall ceased its drunken reeling, I still sat, my eyes fixed, my nails dug savagely into my palms. Mercifully, it seemed, I had not made a motion or a sound. I lifted dazed eyes to Piero's face—he, if he had seen, would be delighting in my confusion-—-but he too was watching the duke, and the naked desire in his face at that moment mirrored my own.
I wondered hazily why he should say he wanted me. His popinjay manners and feminine tricks were recognizable even to me—yet the purpose in his face when he looked at me was real enough, too. Then the duke turned his head, and I looked down swiftly. I felt his gaze on me, compelling me to look up, and fought his will doggedly; but at last, against my will, I raised my eyes to his.
He did not speak, for there was no need. I knew without words that I was not to sit for much longer making a pretense of eating to lengthen this joyless banquet.
"Your Grace." Maddalena's deep voice interrupted my thoughts. "You asked for me?"
The triumph on her face was painful. She did not know why she had been bidden; it was enough that he had asked for her. He?nodded, his expression unreadable.
"We have a secret which concerns you, lady, that cannot be proclaimed throughout the court. Come close and we will whisper.''
She darted me a jubilant look and went to him, bending her head to listen. I saw her give a little shiver of ecstasy as his bright hair brushed her cheek; then I turned away, trying not to hear his poisonous, sibilant murmur.
He spoke only a few words, and when he had done, she stared at him disbelievingly, her pointed face ashy pale.
"You cannot do that to me, Domenico! I will not be cast off on your brother after all we have been to each other!"
"You forget yourself." The duke's voice was bored. "Be grateful that you are provided for, and do not speak so wildly."
