The Silver Devil

by Teresa Denys

  Suddenly, there in the flood of sunshine, I shivered. I heard Sandro's voice making some laughing comment, and as I turned away, Domenico's fingers caught my wrist, and I felt a spasm of shock go through him. I looked up to see him gazing straight past me, at the opposite wall, and reflected in his face was the image of the unhappy girl in unbecoming black. Half-uncon-sciously his fingers moved, tracing the shape of the silver ring on my finger; he was gripping my wrist until his knuckles showed white. Then suddenly, blessedly, the door opened, and Piero came trotting over the threshold.

  "Your good Grace, there are carriages arriving down below— men from Pisa and Mantua and I know not where. Ippolito is conveying their lordships to their chambers, but I thought you would wish to know of it."

  Domenico turned sharply, turning his back on the portrait. "Well, we will come."

  "And, my lord," Piero bowed low to Sandro, "I am told there is a post come for you—from Naples."

  Sandro gave a short laugh. "The old beldam is loyal, at least! I hope she has sent money with it."

  Domenico moved away from me, and Piero hurried to his side, swaying into the curve of his arm like one resuming a half-forgotten habit. "Come, my dear lord."

  I watched them go, too dazed and shocked to marshal my thoughts into any sort of order. When the door closed behind them, I stood gazing blindly at the painted panels, conscious only of a great yawning emptiness.

  "And of course you will obey him," the archbishop's voice said behind me, "even though it could mean your ruin."

  I turned to find him watching me impassively, so still that not even the whisper of his silks disturbed the silence.

  "I have no choice. The duke will have everything to answer his wishes, no matter what anyone may say."

  "Not quite everything, perhaps." The old man smiled, a startlingly sweet smile that held a ghost of Domenico's radiance. "Have you forgotten what I told you of Genoa?"

  "No, my lord, but I heard someone say"—I stared him straight in the face—"that you did not care whether you be­stowed me there or in my grave so long as you were rid of me. After that your offer did not seem so kind."

  He nodded slowly. "It did not matter then, I admit. But now it is not I who seek to be rid of you. You are not stupid—you know my nephew cannot let you meet his bride. He may succeed in the trick he means to play tomorrow, but only so long as you are gone from court before Savoy's daughter comes. He cannot confront the false with the true. Have you considered that?"

  My hands gripped together, hard. "No, but I have always known I must be cast off sooner or later. There is no help." Even in that moment, the realization of what he meant seemed less terrible than the thought of the years without Domenico stretching ahead of me.

  "I can still help you, if you wish it, to save my nephew's soul from another sin. I could send you to Genoa before he expects it. If you were to go tonight, before the coronation, the greater part of his mischief would stay undone."

  I hesitated. Faced with so sudden a decision, even damnation seemed unimportant. The archbishop spoke again, his voice low and persuasive.

  "You waver, daughter, but remember all you see around you; too many women in this court have sold their salvation for want of resolution."

  I closed my eyes, remembering. One woman had borne three children to different men; another had been an honest merchant's wife before Duke Carlo favored her, and now she was nothing but a court whore. And I had begun to catch hints of other earthly punishments; disease and madness were not uncommon things among the great. The high-piled wigs of fashion were sometimes worn from grim necessity, and that white, dead-looking flesh had a sinister cause. No doubt many of those corpselike palace women had been fair enough once. I shivered uncontrollably and said, "My lord, if you can help me, I will go."

  The old man nodded slightly. "You are wise, my daughter."

  "But I do not know how I shall escape. The duke scarcely lets me from his side."

  He shrugged. "Unless his habit is changed, he sends you alone to your waiting women."

  I nodded half-reluctantly.

  "Then tonight, when you leave him, do not go to them. Leave the palace instead."

  "I cannot. All the doors are guarded, and he sends a servant to escort me in case I should lose my way."

  The archbishop made a dismissive gesture. "I will supply your escort from among my men. Leave it all to me. One of my gentlemen shall meet you and carry my commendations with you by word of mouth to the abbess in Genoa. It is wiser not to write them."

  His plan was ready, I thought despairingly. It only wanted my consent. "If the duke should miss me . . ."

  "I can supply your place with a willing woman." The thin lips smiled sardonically. "I have never known my nephew to refuse an offered bedmate—if she only stays him for half an hour, you can be clear of the city. He will never know where you have gone."

  My heart felt leaden, but I managed to say stiffly, "My thanks, my lord."

  Footsteps sounded outside the door, and the archbishop's expression changed. I caught his whisper, "After supper, when you go to your own chamber. My servant will be waiting." I barely had time to nod before Piero was bowing in front of me.

  "Mistress, the duke sent me to find you. You should have followed him."

  I paid little heed to the curious glance he gave me. I was thinking: This is the last time he will fetch me to the duke.

  Supper was ending in the familiar riot, in Diurno as in Fidena. The torches struck'flickers of color from the painted walls, and music was loud in my ears. I sat still amid the noise, staring at the flame reflected on the rim of my wine cup. Beside me I could hear Domenico's voice directing Ippolito to call him at dawn, and I strove not to think of where I might be when the dawn came. The archbishop's face was expressionless, skull­like again as the old man brooded; then as Domenico rose and drew me to my feet, he looked up, and I saw the quick gleam in his gray eyes.

  "I hear you have had letters from Ferrenza, Domenico."

  The duke's lips curved scornfully. "Oh, from Amerighi! Yes."

  "What was in them? Does he come here for your coronation?"

  Before he answered, Domenico glanced at me. "Go on, I shali not be long. I must play the statesman a little for my uncle."

  For a moment longer I stood, storing up the sight of him in my memory; then I dropped my gaze and turned without a word. The voices followed me, fading into the hubbub as I walked towards the door.

  "He cannot come, but he renews his vows of friendship and sends yet another invitation for me to visit him."

  "I do not trust this friendship," the archbishop responded thoughtfully. "He has an army to match the pope's own."

  "But he will not use it against us. I am his good cousin still."

  The huge doors closed behind me, leaving me suddenly cold and desolate. For an instant I wanted to rush in again, forget­ting wisdom and salvation; then a figure stepped out of the shadows.

  I could see only the glimpse of a pale face and the black and scarlet of the archbishop's livery as the man accosted the soldier who was my escort.

  "But I have orders—" the guard protested. There was a clinking as some coins passed from hand to hand, and then he chuckled and fell back a pace. "Well, then, take her if you have a mind to her, so long as the duke does not find out—and make haste, or he will come before you are done."

  His footsteps died away down the passage, and the cloaked man turned to me. "Lady, I am sent by my lord archbishop."

  "I know. He promised to send someone, but I did not think he could have done it so swiftly."

  "It is bis trade; he is the pope of spying and statecraft. That dog of a guard was right, however, and we must hurry. By your leave, lady. . . ."

  Obediently I went with him through the darkened corridors. It was easier to obey than to think, and soon the little familiar­ity I had with the palace was lost. We were hurrying through rooms I had never seen before and along bare stone passages to what looked like the
kitchen quarters.

  "Quickly, now! There is a carriage waiting."

  Already, I thought miserably.

  The night wind blew in my face as he opened the door. We were in a little courtyard which served one of the kitchens, and where the carriers' carts should wait stood a small carriage drawn by two restless horses. The gentleman thrust me in and scrambled after, with a quick word to the coachman; then the carriage door slammed, and with a great jerk the carriage rumbled forward. It was apt, I thotight, that I should be carted away like refuse.

  The archbishop's man sat silent, moving easily with the lurching motion of the coach. I could see only the shadow of a beaky profile, and to him I could have been nothing but a shadow in a silver-webbed gown. It was cold, and I wished I had thought to bring a cloak. I wondered momentarily if the archbishop still held Domenico in talk, and my nails dug into my palms in sudden anguish. I had thought I could bear the pain of parting from him, but now I sat staring into the rushing darkness thinking only that every turn of the wheels was taking me further from the man I loved.

  The gentleman said suddenly, "You need not fear pursuit, lady. The archbishop knows well enough how to hold the duke in check."

  I said tautly, "The duke is not easily stopped."

  "No, but my lord archbishop has thought of that." Meant to soothe, the calm words stabbed at me like knives. "He will tell the duke that you fled because you hate him and to avoid a public shame. His Grace is too proud ever to pursue an unwill­ing woman—he will not follow you."

  Remembering how little unwilling I had been, I wanted to laugh. But it was true—Domenico would not own by word or deed that he wanted a woman who would have none of him. So I nodded meekly and sat back in my seat, trying not to think or to remember. The gentleman advised me to sit at ease and then said no more. But I could not; I sat erect and tense against the seat back, listening to every sound on the road outside.

  The horses settled down to a steady pace, and my companion composed himself for sleep. The lights of the city had fallen away behind us, and now there was nothing between me and the end of my journey but the empty hours of travel.

  I must have been dozing in a torpor of misery and exhaustion when the coach jerked to a halt. It was so violent that I was almost thrown to the floor. I heard the archbishop Vman utter an exclamation, and then he flung open the coach door and jumped down into the dark roadway. There was shouting out­side and the sound of hoofbeats. Dazed, I wondered whether we had lost a wheel, but at once I realized that the floor of the coach was still level. As the door slammed on me, I was beside it, wrestling with the catch and vainly trying to see through the tiny window.

  Outside there was a scuffling noise and a sharp cry, and then I felt the door seized, the catch dragged from my fingers as it was wrenched open from the other side. Then, as I saw who filled the doorway, I let out a little frightened cry.

  Domenico's face was ashen under his bright hair, and anger lit his eyes to a fiercer silver than the blade of the sword he held. He seemed to tower over me like an avenging angel, and I cowered back against the seat too shocked for speech. I remember wishing that he would kill me there and then; any­thing rather than see that look on his face.

  He did not speak but only cast me one smoldering look and slammed the door shut behind him. Outside a man's voice shouted; the coach creaked as the horses threw themselves into their collars, and slowly the equipage began to turn. I caught one glimpse of Domenico's face as his followers' torches cast a yellow blaze in the darkness; then we were past them, and he sat back in the shadows. I could feel him taut with the fury I had seen in his expression; it radiated from every nerve in his body, scorching me as fiercely as once his desire had done.

  Not once during the journey back to Diurno did he break the silence. I sat huddled in the furthest corner from him, not daring to voice the question burning in my mind: how had he found me so quickly? Perhaps he was in truth the devil. How else could he have uncovered his great-uncle's plot?

  Now he sat rigid, not looking at me, and after that one glimpse of his face I was glad. I could not have borne the anger in his eyes. I dared not contemplate what he would do, any more than I could understand how he had learned so soon that I had gone.

  The coach lurched to a standstill. Hard white fingers bit into my wrist, and I was half-dragged down the steps into the main courtyard of the palace and towards the Titans' staircase. Domenico did not look around; he was moving so swiftly that I could hardly keep up with him, and I stifled a gasp as a stitch stabbed my side. The palace corridors were dark and silent— only the guards stared, openmouthed, as we reached the room which Domenico used as his study. On the threshold he freed my wrist with a cruel jerk and spoke to one of the guards.

  "Bring those knaves to me. And the scribe, to write the indictment.''

  As the man hurried away, the duke turned back to me. I had sunk to my knees in the middle of the floor, my legs too unsteady with reaction and terror to support me; I dared not look up, but I knew he was moving towards me and now stood over me, hesitating. I could feel his dammed-up violence threat­ening me like a great storm. Then, as I started to raise my eyes against my will, there was a clatter of footsteps outside the door.

  The guard had come back and with him soldiers, pair upon pair, and between each pair a prisoner. I stared at them dazedly, wondering what crimes they had committed and why they had been brought here; then I recognized one of them and began to guess.

  The trial, if it could be called a trial, was over in minutes. It was a burlesque of justice; Domenico pronouncad his accusations; the men, protesting or pleading their innocence, were con­demned and sentenced to die the next day. The first prisoner was the soldier who had handed me over to the archbishop's man—his crime was taking bribes to betray the duke's service, and he was condemned to hang. The two next were guards at the palace gate—their crime, unspecified, was neglect of duty. One shouted as he was sentenced that the duke would never have caught me again without his testimony, but Domenico, whiter than ever, paid no heed. The scribe was shaking so much that he could hardly grip his pen; then, to my horror, I saw that the fourth prisoner was a woman.

  She was panting and disheveled, and her cheek was marked in a long jagged line. It looked as though a whole strip of flesh had been freshly torn out, and it hurt her, for she was weeping and kept putting her fingers to the wound in a disbelieving way. There were ugly marks too, on her neck and arms, and I knew she must have been roughly handled by the guards. When she heard herself accused of treason she did not utter a defense; it was as if she did not understand what was happening to her. I remembered the archbishop's light promise to fill my place with some willing woman and shivered. I must have made some sort of sound when he sentenced her, but he did not even glance around.

  The procession seemed to go on interminably, the voices of the condemned ringing in my ears like an accusation. I crouched shuddering on the floor in a vain attempt to stop my ears— soldiers, servants, any who might have had a hand in my escape, were paying with their lives for it. This was Domenico's way of torture, punishing me with the cries of the condemned so that I would know that mine was the blame. Even two of the archbishop's servants—innocent men—were condemned as a threat to the one man he could not touch.

  When the last prisoner was taken out, there was silence but for the frantic scratching of the scribe's quill. Imperiously, Domenico extended his hand.

  "Sirrah Scribe."

  The man looked up quickly. "Your Grace, they are scarcely ready. . . . Your Grace's proceeding has been so . . . wonder­fully swift, I could scarce write them. . . . They are not done half so well as I would wish."

  The dark eyes dropped to the papers in the duke's hand, and there was a contemptuous twist to his mouth. "Are you in truth a scribe, sirrah, or an untaught knave?"

  The scribe's mouth opened and shut, but no words came. The procession of deaths had so frightened him that his hand had lost its steadiness; it was a wonder
that he had remembered the names of those condemned. I did not remember hearing them.

  "You must want practice." Domenico's voice was a poi­soned whisper. "Write another warrant, that will mend your scribbling, and put your own name to it."

  The man gave a sob of fright, and the sound pierced me. I felt that somehow I had to prevent this last, purely wanton murder; I had nothing to lose, for I would be dead within the hour. I looked up, the tears drying on my cheeks.

  "Your Grace, this man has committed no crime. He has not even neglected to do his duty. Why should he die?"

  I saw his fingers clench on the papers, but otherwise he gave no sign of having heard. A pulse was beating in his temple, and suddenly his voice rang out, choked and savage.

  "Sirrah Scrivener, out of my sight, and quickly!"

  The scribe needed no second bidding: he vanished as though he had wings on his heels. Domenico stood unmoving, the dangerous flush fading from his face, and gradually the resolve which had strengthened me ebbed again, leaving me crouched abjectly in the middle of the floor.

  Domenico moved towards his desk and sat down, spreading the crumpled death warrants before him, and picked up a quill. His head was bent, his eyes unwavering, and yet I knew he did not see what was before him. He read each warrant through with unnatural attention before setting his signature, and I wondered if he was waiting for me to break down and beg for mercy. I could sense the danger burning in him more and more fiercely, and yet his slowness was the slowness of reluctance, as though he were loath to make an end.

  He signed the last warrant and sat staring at the seven lives spread out under his hands; then he stacked the sheets carefully together and put them on one side. I saw his attention fix as he looked down—then, slowly, he reached out to pick up some­thing which lay half-hidden among his papers. It was a knife.

  He must have used it for trimming pens, and I could see its sharpness in the delicacy with which the white fingers turned it over and over. The torchlight flashing on the slowly turning blade lit Domenico's face to a fallen angel's beauty; the light in his black eyes was pure fascination, and he touched the sharp­ened steel voluptuously, as though making love to it. Then, as his eyelids lifted, and he gazed straight at me, I knew he meant to kill me.