The Silver Devil

by Teresa Denys

  As we passed the outlying hamlets west of Fidena, I noticed how quiet the fields were. Normally the men stayed working until sunset, but the thought only flickered across my mind and was gone as I glimpsed the walls of the city, at first like a smudge of mist on the lip of the gorge above the bay, then settling into its familiar outlines as we drew nearer. Then Domenico reined in sharply; the whole cavalcade came to a ragged halt, and at once a din arose of drivers shouting to their impatient horses and shrill voices demanding what the matter was. I followed Domenico's narrowed gaze and saw a tight knot of horsemen spurring towards us. I saw Giovanni Santi astride his rawboned mount, then I realized that Sandro was their leader; his rugged face was grim, and shadows of sleep­lessness ringed his eyes. He made straight for Domenico, wrenching his horse to a steaming halt before him.

  "You had best turn about and make for Pinzi, Brother, or else ride along the coast to Sorentino. Fidena is not safe."

  "Are you jesting?" Domenico's voice was harsh.

  "God's death, I wish I were! Naples is stirring against us." For once there was no laughter in Sandra's eyes. "I had the news when I came here three days ago. I have tried to get the city ready for a siege-—his armies are expected any moment. We thought when we saw you coming that you were he."

  Domenico said, "We drove his soldiers back not two months ago. He cannot have mustered another army so quickly."

  "He has levied fresh troops from Spain," Santi put in, and Sandro cast him a murderous glance. "So the rumor runs."

  Domenico was frowning. "Spain! So the cur seeks more help from his master! It must be so, or he could not come against us so soon. Come, you shall tell us what you know as we ride."

  The Bastard did not move. "You had best get yourself and your cohorts to some place of safety. I will keep the city."

  For a moment there was a pulse of silence that seemed to still the surrounding tumult. Domenico was watching his brother as a leopard watches a wolf. Then he said coldly, "We will not trouble your stewardship."

  Sandro's face did not change, but I could have sworn he was disconcerted. "As you will, then," he replied blandly, "but you may wish you had followed my advice."

  The little sneering curl of Domenico's lips was answer enough, and he flicked his gloved fingers for Sandro to turn his mount and fall in beside him. Sandro obeyed, and at a signal the whole cavalcade moved off again.

  I heard only scraps of Sandro's tale as we cantered towards Fidena, but the gist was plain enough. He had made good speed from Diurno, arriving three days ago to find the city convulsed in terror. Outland farmers were crammed in with their city relations within the walls; the port was shut down and the quays manned in case the invasion should come from the sea.

  "They had not even thought to unload the ships," he said scornfully. "They would have left four cargoes of grain rotting in the bay. I saw to that and sent out to discover who the invader was this time, and the size of his force. The men brought back an envoy from the King of Naples with letters for you, so I thanked him kindly and turned him back at the gates, in case he should spy for his master."

  "Where are the letters?"

  "Awaiting your gracious attention, Brother, in the palace. I have not read them."

  Domenico was silent for the rest of the journey, and his horse's hooves rang ominously as he clattered through the gates of the city. There was no whisper in the afternoon air of the acclamation which had roared at his heels when he rode out to

  Diurno; the streets were as silent as though they were under a curfew. The whole city was waiting.

  He dismounted at the southern door of the palace, and the rest with him—the quartet, Sandro, Ippolito, Santi, and a few others. I hesitated, seeing myself forgotten, but as Ippolito helped me dismount, he whispered, like a conspirator, "You had best come with us, lady. The duke may want you."

  I knew he would not, but it was a kindly thought. I followed the men up the worn, curving staircase to a bare stone chamber at the top of the tower, where thin bars of light streamed gold through the slitted windows. Even in full daylight there was not enough light to see by, and I drew back into the shadows as servants hurried in with lights and stood unnoticed while the candles were lit. Even in small things the fear of a siege was apparent; there were fewer candles now than there would have been a little while ago.

  Domenico was pacing the room like a caged leopard, turning occasionally to fire a question at Sandro, who stood watching him expressionlessly while the other men simply waited, their eyes gleaming strangely in the candlelight. In the silences I could hear the rumble and clatter of carriages and horses pass­ing through the gate below us. I stepped back into the window embrasure to look out; the noise had reminded me, absurdly, of the Eagle.

  "Have you sent to the garrison at Castle Fucino?" The duke's sudden question made me start, and I turned to see Sandro shaking his head.

  "They are not needed yet. Until we have stronger news than rumors, they are better where they are—we shall have fewer mouths to feed."

  "They will come too late to fall on the Spaniards' backs if we do not send soon." The retort stung like a whiplash. "Or do you propose they should avenge the fall of Fidena?"

  Sandro shrugged. He had had, he conveyed, three days to consider the very questions that were being fired at him, and none of Domenico's angry demands could alter the course of events. For his part he would rather have been left alone to have the ordering of the siege, but if the duke insisted . . .

  "The letters from Naples." Domenico paused again and then said sharply, "Where are they?"

  At a sign from Sandro, Santi stepped forward and handed them over unceremoniously. The Duke nodded briefly, turned, and spread the parchment over the maps on the table, bending above the candle flame to read. There was no sound in the room but the rustle of pages; the light from below painted strange demonic shadows on the beautiful face and touched the silver-fair hair with a halo of warmer gold. Without warning, the pain of my hopeless love engulfed me afresh, and I stood in the shadows trembling from head to foot.

  At last Domenico spoke, still looking at the letter. His voice was as gentle as a summer breeze.

  "Did I not say that Naples was a villain?"

  "Most sure you did, Your Grace—and so he is."

  "I did not say the half, Ippolito. He is not only a villain but a knave—a lying knave—and now he tries his knaveries on me!" His open hands smashed down on the table as his head lifted, and his eyes were blazing.

  "What does he say, Your Grace? Is it some dispute of territories?''

  "He will have it all." Domenico's voice was shaking, and his fingers clenched slowly, crushing the letter. "He demands all Cabria in the name of my mother duchess to buy the favor of his Spanish overlords."

  There was a hiss of indrawn breath in the room as the courtiers looked at one another. Ippolito looked blank. "But she has no claim!"

  "She has invented one. She has shown Naples proof that my father willed her the throne as regent for her lifetime. He bids me resign my dukedom to that old whore and says that if I will not, he will wrest it from me by force. In God's name, does he expect me to give in tamely?"

  There was an instant babble of protest.

  "He must know the story to be false, Your Grace."

  "Your royal father's will is common knowledge. The duch­ess has no such proof."

  "This is only a pretext to cover his invasion."

  "Pretext!" Domenico's eyes flared, and his voice rose to a shout. "Do you give such a name to treason, sirrah?"

  Andrea Regnovi, the most timid of the quartet, quailed. "Your Grace, I only meant . . . rightly disco-vered it is not treason. . . . The King of Naples is not Your Grace's subject and . . ."

  A vicious blow silenced him, and Domenico stared down at him, his fair face flushed and twisted with hate. "Impudent beggar! You would support these traitors, then, and sugar this gall with your tongue. . . . What is that but more treachery?"

  Ippolito interposed
quickly. "Your Grace, he meant no harm! Every fool who does not choose his words well is not a traitor."

  Domenico checked, his breath coming short and fast. I watched with a sick dread as Ippolito struggled to calm him; something had touched off one of those strange fits of animal fury, so different from his usual icy anger, and he was most uncontrollable now when he needed to be most calm. He was shaking with rage, his face dangerously flushed, and real alarm sharpened the quartet's painted faces as they watched him. Only Sandro gazed without a change in his expression.

  "Your Grace . . . my lord . . ." Ippolito was beyond caring what he said. Then, suddenly, Domenico swayed. His curses were choked on his tongue, and his fingers gripped the edge of the table until the knuckles shone white. Then he half turned and simply dropped, slumping unconscious against Ippolito's shoulder.

  The moments dragged. I found myself praying ceaselessly, "Please, God, do not let him be dead," and I saw the same fear stamped on Ippolito's suddenly aged face before Domenico stirred. He straightened, gazing down at his secretary with eyes that looked sightless; then a child's shaken voice said, "This folly moved me," and he turned back to the map-strewn table as though nothing had happened.

  For hours the discussion raged back and forth, touching on allies, treaties, routes of supply. I remembered that once, long ago, I had felt tired and longed for the time when we should have reached Fidena. Now the idea seemed ridiculous— there was no time to be tired. The coaches had long ago ceased to rumble through the gateway below us, and the palace was sunk in uneasy quiet. I could guess how long we had been there only by the runnels of wax which clogged the bases of the candles.

  Sandro suddenly yawned cavernously and grinned around at the assembled lords.

  "Well, invasion or no invasion, I am for my bed. I have watched these past two nights, and I shall take it most unkindly if the Spanish come to wake me before morning."

  The strained faces relaxed, and even the quartet yawned and shuffled their feet like natural men. Only Domenico took no notice. He still sat, slung along the edge of the table, studying one of the maps spread out before him with his bright head bent and harsh, rigid lines about his mouth that had been there ever since his outburst against Andrea. It was the same fit that had caught him the day Piero died—the ungovernable rage and the sudden collapse, the queer withdrawn quietness afterwards. It was like a sickness, a fever of the mind, a taint which had been bred into him. Perhaps that was what Sandro meant when he said that his brother was mad. . . .

  Ippolito was chivying the rest towards the door, but still Domenico did not look up. Slowly I moved forward out of the shadow. I was chilled to the bone, and I had been gripping the stone sill so tightly that I had to peel my hand away. Domenico looked up sharply. For an unrecognizing moment he stared at me as though I were a ghost, and then the terror faded from his face and his eyelids drooped.

  "Felicia—have you been here all this while?"

  I nodded. "You did not bid me go."

  "Now I do." He rose from the edge of the table and came towards me, his face now as still and unrevealing as a mask. "That damned whore Gratiana is making mischief, did you hear? She claims my dukedom of me."

  "Yes, I heard."

  His Fingers drummed feverishly on the table. "I shall crush her somehow. Our troops are disposed, and we should do well enough when the Spaniards come. There should be lookouts stationed to give us warning," he added over my shoulder to Sandro, "so that they cannot surprise us."

  Riccardo D'Esti bowed and smirked. "They cannot hope to elude Your Grace's vigilance!"

  "And now that we are secure, there are revels toward."

  "Revels!"

  He nodded, his eyes hard and unfathomable. "There have been feasts and shows prepared against our homecoming—it were a shame to lose them."

  His recklessness appalled me. "Your Grace, is it wise to seek pleasure at such a time? Your brother says that the people are already living leanly in expectation of a long siege, and if you were too prodigal, they might resent it."

  As I spoke, I knew I had gone too far; his eyes narrowed, and his voice was bored and cold. "Should we care for the pleasure of a few rawboned vassals?"

  Guido Vassari stepped forward. "By your leave, madam, this course is wiser than waiting in apprehension. These celebra­tions were ordered long before we had the news of this invasion, and everything is provided; all we will do is set them forward. Where is the harm in that?"

  "But the means for one such feast would provide four days' plain victual," I protested.

  "Will you be a general, too?"

  The threat in Domenico's voice made me shiver, and I was silent. For a moment longer the dangerous silence lasted, and then he turned to the waiting nobles. "My lords, we will hold the feast tonight as we planned. We will not let our pleasure wait on the King of Naples's whim."

  I followed them without speaking, to the head of the stairs, and the moment they were out of the duke's presence, a din of chatter and hurrying broke out. Baldassare Lucello, behind me, thrust me forward unceremoniously with a murmur, "Madam, we may not linger," and I thought suddenly, I have heard that on every side ever since I came here. The whole court is in a perpetual hurry—and for what?

  "Madam, the duke!"

  The thought flickered and was lost, and I quickened my pace. The duke must not be kept waiting.

  The darkness seemed to breathe, pressing down on me like a hot, thick blanket. Here and there were gleams of light from the last embers of the torches, and the blackness was peopled by innumerable small sounds, sighs of lassitude, stertorous breathing, the rustle of garments and the kiss of flesh, quieting into a silence of exhaustion; the court's lust had spent itself in one hectic surge, and soon would come the bitter aftermath. I sat staring into space, seeing in the darkness pictures of the gluttony and debauchery to which fear of tomorrow had spurred the Cabrian nobles. The mask of the Seven Deadly Sins played before our faces, sung and chanted, with the servants of each Sin's train engulfing the whole hall in a miasma of vivid color: the spilling dishes, the flowing wine, the sighs and screams of the court as the torches were doused one by one.

  I remembered arms and bodies twining together, masked faces pressing close; the woman a few feet away who fell sprawling on the silver table, laughing at the sweating efforts of the man who lay upon her; Guido Vassari holding fast to one of the young pages and calling for his fellows' help when the boy tried to break free. But now the shouting and the raucous laughter had died away and were replaced by gasps and moans and deep sighs of pleasure.

  Near me something moved, and I stifled a cry; then Domenico moved into the light, as softly as a nightwalking cat. I could not see his expression, only the strange gleam of his dark eyes. It must have been near morning, for the air was thick and stale, and it seemed like hours since we had come down to supper.

  I was fighting my awareness of him as he came towards me, but against my will my hands clenched. When all the rest had begun mauling each other in a lust born of dread, he alone had sat still, watching as though for his private amusement. I had tensed, expecting and yet dreading his touch, but all he had done was to grip my wrist to stop me being drawn into the melee with the rest.

  But now he had risen and was standing above me, tower­ingly tall, a blacker shape than the blackness. I felt dizzy as I felt the warmth of his hands on my naked shoulders; a smooth fingertip caressed my throat lightly, and as a shiver of excite­ment ran through me, I heard, faint and far off, the clanging of a bell.

  Domenico had not heard it, but he sensed my stiffening and raised his head to listen; then he too heard it, and his grip was suddenly cruelly tight.

  The sound came from beyond the antechamber, beyond the palace walls, borne faint and clear through the echoing corridors. Domenico released me and turned to the doorway into the antechamber, swinging the door wide so that the gray dawn flooded in. In that moment I realized what that clamoring bell must mean and forced myself to my feet.


  I was stiff, and I staggered as I moved and clutched his arm, but he did not heed me—he was looking around him at the wreckage of last night's revels. Bodies lay on the floor, ob­scenely sprawled or still clasped, deaf to the bell's warning, too foundered in wine or lechery to rise. Littered across the hall were trampled garments, overturned furniture and puddles of spilled wine. The stench was choking, the reek of guttered torches, the sourness of wine, greasy food, and stale vomit.

  Domenico swore softly and savagely, then threw up a hand to shield his eyes as a man-at-arms came clattering into the hall carrying a torch alight with gouts of orange flame. The shad­ows swung and reeled, and I shielded my own burning eyes, trying to see clearly.

  "Your Grace." It was the captain of the royal guard. "The Spanish army!"

  "What of it?"

  "It . . . it . . . they are coming, Your Grace. Marching under the banners of Naples. They are approaching through the forest to the southwest—they must have marched by night so that our sentinels could not see them crossing the western foothills."

  "God's death!" Domenico's voice held the crack of a whip. "They carried lights with them, did they not? Are all our soldiers blind?"

  "Your Grace, some of them were drunk—they said that a nobleman sent out barrels of wine so that they might join in the carouse last night. No man could have expected the Spanish so soon. . . ." His words died away, for the duke was no longer listening.

  "Send all our forces to the southern wall to scatter these invaders. They shall learn what it is to brave Cabria thus."

  "But Your Grace, that would leave the rest of the walls unmanned. If there were a second force . . ."

  "There is none!" Domenico lowered his hand from his eyes, and it was clenched hard. "You said the Spaniards were com­ing from the southwest; get you gone, then, if you are not a coward, and drive them back as you are bid!"

  The man went white, but he only said in a strained voice, "Yes, Your Grace," and turned on his heel.