by Teresa Denys
We had reached the northern side. As the mare climbed the slope towards the pathway, my feet found the stirrups at last. She ascended the rise, and then as she took off again, I caught the rhythm of her stride at last and sat down on her back.
Now I could risk turning to get my bearings. When I looked behind, I was amazed by how far we had come. The embattled city was now only a distant threat, the bowmen on this side of the gorge clustering opposite its walls like ants on a trail of honey. Far behind now was the siege, and ahead were the path over the crest of the gorge and the road that traced the cliffs running beside the sea.
I thought despairingly: Domenico will have turned westwards to Diurno, and if I cannot turn this animal, I shall never come up with him. But it seemed nothing could stop the mare. -The long wait in the thicket, tethered so close to the fighting, had unnerved her so that now she would gallop until she was exhausted.
I do not know how far we had traveled when I felt her tiring at last, but we had covered the ground at desperate speed. She chafed again as she felt restraint on the bit and resisted, but only for a little, and then her headlong pace began to slow. In a moment she would be cantering, and then if I could manage to turn her . . .
I heard the sound of horsemen ahead.
I hauled on the reins, trying with all my strength to turn the horse, but my sudden panic had communicated itself to her, and she threw up her head and galloped straight forward. Against my will I was catching up with the riders ahead— whether friend or foe I could not tell, but there was little chance of friends. I could see them now, riding hard, and the dust from their horses' hooves was choking me. One of them must have heard me approaching, because there was a shout and those behind reined in sharply, turning to confront me.
One of the horses whinnied, and my mare, unbelievably, slowed. Now she would answer the bit, and I pulled her up, staring with unbelieving eyes at the riders. Two of them had ridden back to meet me, and I found myself gazing incredulously at two of the Cabrian lords. They had taken the northward road, and my horse's panic-stricken flight had brought me up with them. I gave a little sob of relief.
"Where is the lord Ippolito?" The question came sharply from the taller man. I drew a deep breath.
"He is dead, sir."
Both men turned pale. "Dead! But he cannot be! How did it happen?"
"He was hit as he helped me down from the battlements. An arrow pierced his skull and he fell."
The taller man said, "God absolve him," and crossed himself.
His companion followed suit more perfunctorily before asking, "Who will tell the duke of this news?"
His companion twisted to stare at him. "What do you mean, messire?"
The other man shrugged, and I suddenly recognized Andrea Regnovi, muffled up in a soldier's heavy black cloak and clumsy beaver, hiding his embroidered doublet and breeches. "Why, sir, I would not be the one to tell His Grace such news. The death of his own secretary will loose a storm over all our head, and he that brings the tidings. . . ." He made a brief, graphic gesture.
"The boy can tell him, then. We can spare one more brat to appease him."
Andrea looked reproachful. "What are you saying? There are few of the sweet lads enough and little chance of other solace on this journey. If we must spend a boy on this errand, can he not be ugly?"
I shivered, hating him for taking Ippolito's death so lightly; in another moment I would have spoken out impulsively and betrayed myself, but ahead the other horsemen had reined in, and Domenico's voice came back peremptorily.
"Who is that slave? What has happened?"
"He brings news, Your Grace," the tall man called out, "news of my lord secretary."
"Ippolito! What of him?"
The riders surged and scattered, and I saw Domenico, proudly erect in the saddle, in the midst of them. He reined in when he saw me, and a dreadful silence fell. I said huskily, "He has been killed, Your Grace. A Spanish arrow struck him, and his body fell into the gorge."
Even from that distance I saw Domenico change color. He was as white as ashes, and for a moment no one spoke. With part of my mind I noticed the faces of the others—genuinely shocked, as though they had been fonder of Ippolito than they knew—but I cared only for the queer note in Domenico's voice as he asked, "Was no one else with him?"
"No, Your Grace. He was alone when I met with him."
The skitter of hooves broke the silence; one of the riders had, uncontrollably, edged his horse away from the duke's side. Domenico was sitting perfectly still, staring ahead of him with eyes that looked blind, and there was a look on his face which made me feel physically sick. I had never realized how much he had loved Ippolito. I dared not go to him; I could only wait for the movement that would summon me to his side. But nothing happened. He sat as still as stone, and I read no relenting in his face, no welcome. The dark gaze piercing me was full of loathing, as though he were gazing into hell.
Santi said, "Horsemen on the road behind."
I wheeled my horse sharply, feeling terror suddenly chill in the dusty air. The hoofbeats were soft and distant but growing louder every moment; I could see the same thought in every man's face, that the Spanish soldiers were following us. Then the riders burst out of the nearby olive wood, and as they cantered up the road towards us, I recognized their leader with a jerk of my heart.
"Well, Brother." Sandro sounded insanely cheerful. "You had led me a fine dance!"
A few of the duke's followers had relaxed as they recognized him, but then they saw, as I had, the standard which snapped and stirred behind him and bore the Spanish eagle.
"You fooled me by making northwards," Sandro asserted blithely. "I made sure you would go west, and I have a hundred men broiling in the sun on the plain to stop you. Then when they sent word that you had not come, I remembered the old coast road. You always go roundabout!" The twinkle in his eyes was almost affectionate.
"Why do you seek to stay us?"
Sandro's smile broadened. "To kill you, of course, kind Brother! I cannot rule Cabria in peace while you are living, and besides, the old beldam I am yoked with will not be satisfied with your dukedom. She wants your handsome head as a plaything to heal the sting of what you said to her once upon a time."
"So you are Gratiana's errandboy?" Domenico's voice was infinitely soft, the merest breath, and the eyes that gazed at Sandro were utterly black and quite blank.
His half brother's smile faded. "Say her partner, rather."
"As you will. The name does not matter."
"Very true, Brother. We have been plotting for this exigent ever since you banished our beloved stepmother—she thought if she could not rule Cabria beside you, she would rule it beside me. When you are dead, we will hold the state for Spain: Viceroy or duke, the name there does not matter either."
I remembered, without warning, the day I had shown him Piero's cipher and asked whether it could have come from Spain. He had said, "No, not from Spain" so swiftly that I had not thought to question how he had known; but he must have been treating with the Spanish then and had known at once that it did not come from any of King Philip's emissaries.
Domenico's voice stopped my thought. "You are content, then, to be her stud?"
"I shall thrive, never fear!" Sandro chuckled blandly. "Ever since her eye fell on me, I have held her purse strings; at a push I can get the crown the same way. I shall be her ruling consort before the year is out.''
"But you have not killed me." There was insistence in the murmur now. For an instant Sandro hesitated, and I thought he shivered—then he gave his old devil-may-care grin.
"Well, that is soon remedied. To be plain with you, Brother, I had as soon spend few words on the matter. I bear you no grudge save that you were born in wedlock—if your making had been fumbled up like mine, I should be duke at this minute. I only claim the right of the eldest son to succeed his father.''
"The eldest legitimate son."
Sandro's jaw muscles clenched, and
then he laughed. "I will give you leave to rail, since you have lost! I hoped you would fret and stamp, but you take all pleasure from this business with your slow tongue. I wish your pretty whore were here; I know ways to use her that would soon end that patience of yours."
Domenico said nothing, only swayed a little in the saddle. I saw Santi shift restlessly—he was staring hard at Sandro, and I wondered in that moment whether he had led Domenico here on purpose. But Sandro glanced across at him at the same time and beamed mockingly.
"Holla, Giovanni, you mountain of treachery! What do you mean by sliding thus into my brother's service? You will be safer at my back than his—will you change masters again now, before I kill him?"
Santi shook his head. "No, my lord."
"So be it." Sandro shrugged. "Well, my lord Duke, how will you take your death? Hanging like a felon, or would you prefer the sword for your royalty's sake? My men can let you out of the world any way you choose."
"Can you not kill me yourself?"
For a moment Sandro stared at him, and then slowly a broad, delighted grin spread across his face. "God's blood, I have been hoping you would say that! Will you fight with me, then?"
"Willingly." The dark eyes were veiled. "To the death."
Sandro seemed not to hear the odd, almost hungry note in Domenico's voice; he was breathing quickly, and there was an eager glint in his eyes. "I shall enjoy seeing you lie low at the finish, my damned, legitimate brother."
As he spoke, his hand went to the pommel of his sword, and I realized with a shock that Domenico-was as good as unarmed. His slim-bladed dagger would be useless against Sandro's fighting sword, and he was making no attempt to use it, sitting so still that he seemed to be waiting to be killed.
Then he moved, too swiftly for my eyes to follow; swerving, wrenching his horse back on its haunches and then spurring forward, hard, straight into the bunched spearmen. His right hand flashed out, dragging the spear from the hand of the nearest Spaniard, and he had turned again, hefting it critically, almost before Sandro had wheeled his own mount.
Sandro said pleasantly, "You always fought foul," and the bright head bowed as though at a compliment; in the same movement Domenico swayed, smoothly avoiding the dagger that flashed towards his throat from Sandro's hand.
"You were a fine tutor, Brother Bastard."
Sandro had not waited to see if his weapon found its mark. As it left his hand, he had turned to his standard-bearer, snatching the pennoned spear from his grasp, and as soldiers and courtiers scattered, the della Raffaelle brothers were left confronting each other in the middle of the dusty road.
Sandro's eyes flickered around him and back to his half brother's face. "This is a poor place for a tilt."
Domenico's face was expressionless. "It will serve."
"The distance is too short."
"Then ride off a little."
Sandro chuckled. "I would as soon turn my back on a coiled adder! I thank Your Grace, I will make shift as we are."
"Come, then," Domenico said breathlessly. "Finish it."
There was a silence broken only by the sound of a pawing horse, then a sudden surge of movement, the clink of metal, the creaking of leather, the drumming of hooves, and the crash of impact drowning it all. I closed my eyes involuntarily, and when I opened them, the eagle standard was in the dust under the hooves of Domenico's horse. Sandro's spear had snapped in two.
Now there was no laughter in the Bastard's face. Domenico turned his mount at the edge of the open space and lowered his spear again. I heard the clatter as Sandro threw away the useless butt of his weapon, and one of the Spaniards tossed him another. When the dreadful rending crash came again, some of the men cried out, but I stayed desperately silent, biting my lips in an effort not to scream.
Both men were still in the saddle, their spears unscathed, and were wheeling again for another assault. By now dust was mantling them and their horses, turning blacks and golds to the same grayish brown and dimming Domenico's bright hair; only their eyes gleamed hard with murder, as merciless as the glinting points of their spears. I wondered how they could keep their seats through the jar as they came together; shock shivered their spears and through their arms to their shoulders and must have hurt them cruelly.
I saw Sandro's jaw tighten as if for the final effort, and he spurred his horse with sudden fury. It seemed as though he would ride his brother down if he could not unseat him and trample him into the dust by brute force. Then, somehow—I could not see how—everything was changed. Sandro's onslaught was driving him on to the point of Domenico's spear, the blade sliding smoothly between the armor plate and twisting viciously downwards into the flesh and sinew of the thickset body. The thrust lifted Sandro out of the saddle like a bale of hay; then with a dull crash, like a thing already dead, he landed on his back on the ground. The spear shaft still protruded from his body, and his brown hands closed round it almost greedily, fondling it as though it were his own flesh.
Domenico had released the spear and reined hard, one of his horse's hooves leaving a print on the edge of Sandro's cloak. In the silence the noise of the dying man's rattling breath sounded like the roar of a wounded bull.
The rugged face was caked with dust, set in a grin of agony like a satyr's mask. Sandro's breathing heaved and tore, but he would not die; still the men watched and waited, and still Domenico's expressionless eyes watched his suffering. A strange bubbling sound came from his throat, and he stirred, dragging himself over; his contorted body hunched over the spear like a gross baby, his hands clutching the shaft, and he was laughing. Laughing helplessly at the last bitter jest of his life, he said in a harsh difficult voice, "I wonder—who Gratiana will find-to pleasure her now?" and then the laughter caught in his throat with a noise like a pig snorting, and blood welled from his mouth and he died.
It was uncannily quiet without the sound of Sandro's breathing. Domenico stared down at his half brother's spitted body, his gloved hands clenched hard on the reins; the look on his face was one of bleak indifference.
I hardly heard the leaderless Spaniards retreating. They must have been dumbfounded by the speed with which events had turned against them—I had forgotten all about them until the sounds of their precipitate flight made me wrench my eyes from Domenico's face. I looked up to see them galloping back into the grove of olive trees and knew that they were going to report their loss to the Duchess Gratiana. Santi made a move as though to follow them, but after a glance at the duke he forbore and let them go.
Baldassare Lucello dismounted and went to Domenico. For a moment the hooded eyes still dwelt on the flies settling on the body in the dust; then they lifted, level and incurious, to the living face of the courtier.
"Your Grace." The man sounded shaken. "What is your will we should do with this . . . ?"
"Nothing." The reply was curt.
"But Your Grace, we should surely bury him! The flies . . ."
"Let them finish what they have begun."
"But Your Grace, he is your brother—"
"Let be." Domenico's voice made me shiver despite the hot sun. "This . . ." The word was choked. "All this is his contriving, and that whore duchess's. If I could, I would stay until the flies had made an abhorrence of him, but since I cannot, he shall lie unburied in his turn, at least."
He was thinking of Ippolito, I realized; Ippolito, who lay smashed and broken at the foot of the river gorge some miles behind us, the prey of kites and crows—and of these growing swarms of buzzing flies. Baldassare started to protest, but Domenico's soft mouth twisted in a grimace of purely animal savagery.
"I said let be! We will not spend time on bestowing carrion!"
He turned his horse as he spoke, turning his back on the olive grove which hid the Spanish soldiers, and spurred it to a trot away from Fidena, leaving us to follow as best we might, without a backward look. My whole being clamored to go after him, to comfort that savage grief, but I did not dare. If I had ridden forward—if I had bee
n in his arms—I could not have reached him; his mind was with the dead, and he did not want me. It was a worse punishment than I could have imagined for the folly that had made me come after him and for the cowardice that had delayed Ippolito—perhaps even caused his death.
Between them, Baldassare and Giovanni Santi were dragging Sandro's body to the side of the road and remounting hurriedly; the flies buzzed and wheeled, then settled again. But I was staring at Domenico's proud back, watching him ride away as indifferently as if he had never known me. With a sudden sense of weariness, I kicked my now tired horse into motion and set off after him, unwanted and unregarded as I was, because there was nothing else I could do.
The thoughts that occupied me for the rest of that day's ride were so confused and bitter that I cannot well recount them. My brain was reeling with the shock of all that had happened— the city's fall, Ippolito's death, Sandro's murder—-but one memory I shrank from, uncontrollably: the final loss of Domenico. Even now I could hardly believe it, but watching the rigid line of his back, the shuttered stillness of his averted face, I knew it must be true. He had not so much as glanced around at me since I gave him my news; the chill of that had killed his lust, and he had no other feeling left for me.
Tears were stinging my eyes as we drew rein by the roadside and started to make camp for the night. The afternoon was scarcely worn, but horses and riders alike were tired, and no one argued when the order came. At first I thought the duke would not dismount—he still sat on his horse after everyone else was out of the saddle, staring unseeingly ahead—but then Andrea went to him and said something, and at last he slid to the ground and suffered his horse to be led away. The courtiers crowded around him solicitously, but after one look at his face, they drew back. He brushed by them as though they did not exist.
Santi's gruff voice spoke into the silence. "There is a stream not far from here, and good fruit growing all around. We may as well eat, for my belly is as empty as a drum."
There was a murmur of agreement, and I suddenly remembered that I had had nothing to eat since the afternoon of the day before, except a few mouthfuls of the duke's nightmare banquet. I had not spared a thought for food since then, but when Lorenzo, Ippolito's nephew, offered me a handful of olives, I took them with fingers that trembled with eagerness and wolfed them like a famished schoolboy.
