by Teresa Denys
I had not even given a thought to my disguise for what seemed like infinity, and a curt order from one of the nobles to take the horses to the stream jolted me back to remembrance. I obeyed hastily, keeping my head down, trudging slowly away from the men while I considered what I should do.
Without Domenico's protection I did not dare let anyone know my true sex; since he no longer cared what became of me, my boy's clothes were my only safeguard. Apart from those like Andrea Regnovi, who were pederasts, and boys like Lorenzo too young to care whether I was man or woman, there were those who would regard a duke's discarded mistress as benison from heaven on this journey; rough, soldierly men like Santi who had no use for other men, and incorrigible lechers like Vario Danese. For the moment, it seemed, my boyhood must continue.
The stream was low, a tepid trickle over the rounded pebbles, but the horses lowered their heads and drank thirstily while I knelt and drank from my cupped hands. I tried to force myself to consider dispassion-ately the consequences of what had happened and not to remember that now Domenico would never hold me in his arms again.
I did not know where he was bound, or why, nor had I any idea of how long the journey would last, but it did not seem to matter. I resolved then that I would follow him for as long as I could, and when I could follow him no further, I would take whatever chance befell. How my life ended no longer seemed important; all I cared for was to hoodwink the rest for as long as I could and to pray that Domenico would not choose to betray me on some idle impulse.
As I led the horses back through the trees, again I saw him, and my heart turned over with love. The men had made camp in an olive grove, and he was standing beside a straight young tree gazing up at the dappling of the sunlight slanting between the leaves. I remembered him in another olive grove, on the ride to Diurno for his coronation, stretched out on the ground and teasing me with laughter lighting his black eyes. Then as I watched, he drew his dagger and plunged it into the tree trunk, gouging and tearing viciously until the sap ran down the trunk like blood. The frenzy of destruction lasted until the bark was in ribbons and the tree's crown of leaves was rent and torn; then with a strange little sound like an animal, deep in his throat, he drove the blade deep into the trunk and leaned against the ruined tree, shaking from head to foot. It was like a deliberate defacing of my memory, a sign that those days were over for good, a rejection more savage for being so impersonal. I had flinched at every blow, as though I were the one being struck.
Beside me Lorenzo watched and said nothing. He had hardly spoken since he heard of his uncle's death, and there was a shadow in his sea-blue eyes which had nothing to do with the duke's violence. I muttered to him, "Come on," and we tethered the horses and went to sit at the edge of the clearing with the other pages, hearing the whine of Andrea's voice as he complained to Baldassare.
"Of all foolishness . . . ! Now we are to sleep in the open, where any Spaniard may stumble over us—what is wrong with the hostelries of Pinzi? It is less than two leagues back along the road, and there we could sleep soft and eat well—what was in the duke's mind to make him sheer away from its outskirts as though the plague were there?"
"Because he knows that the Spanish will go straight to Pinzi when they hear from those soldiers where they met with us!" Baldassare sounded genuinely angry. "When the Duchess Gratiana hears we are on the northward road, she will send troops after us to revenge the death of Lord Sandro. The duke has foreseen her thought and brought us past the place she will look for us."
Andrea looked discontented. "And why are we on the northward road, my good lord, when Diurno lies due west? Answer me that, in your wisdom!"
Baldassare frowned. "That I do not know, but I would guess that we are not bound for Diurno."
The conversation lapsed into whispers after that, and I heard no more, but I glimpsed an appalled expression on Lorenzo's face and felt a sinking of my own heart. Inwardly I had assumed that we must be going to Diurno—where else would the duke seek help?—and had imagined that that one thing was at least foreseeable. There was a second small garrison of men in the hills above the city; the archbishop still waited there to receive Savoy's daughter, if she had not come already. But now I saw no limit to my childish masquerade and must ride unwanted at Domenico's back for heaven knows how long.
A massive hairy hand touched my shoulder, and I jumped. Lorenzo looked past me and said over my head, "Messire Giovanni," giving Santi a faint, fugitive smile. I mumbled an apprehensive greeting, and Santi bent low to whisper in my ear; then he moved on again, leaving me staring after him wide-eyed in fright.
Lorenzo had turned away and was peering at the activity around the fire, and so he did not see my change of expression. I dragged my gaze from Santi's receding back and looked down at my hand.
"Hide your ring," he had said in my ear, "or one of yonder lords will recognize it."
The pearl winked mockingly back, a reminder, a badge of my identity. Quickly, furtively, I drew it off and slipped it into my dagger sheath, where the dagger itself would keep it safe and hidden, but it would do me small good now that Santi knew.
I wondered, sickened, how long he would keep silent. He was moving among his fellows now, exchanging a few words with one of them—my heart was in my mouth before I realized he was directing him to build the fire higher. When he turned, it was heavily, as though he were faced with a task he did not relish, and I watched him come towards me with long, slow strides.
My eyes slid away to the yellow buds of flame growing on the piled twigs—to the dimming sky between the leaves—to the branches stirring in the night wind that had sprung up, making the hair prickle on the back of my neck. I looked anywhere but at the shape of the big man who stood in front of me now, his shadow blotting out the sky.
"Here, boy." The rough voice was low, and the thick fingers snapped as if to a dog. I rose and followed him without a word to where the horses were tethered.
The trees thinned here, and below I could see the road we had traveled skirting the rising slope. We must have turned inland, I realized, for now the dark mass of the mountains crouched ahead of us.
Santi strode ahead until he reached the edge of the trees, then waited until I came up beside him. It was very quiet. Not even the murmur of the other men's voices disturbed the waning day, and I waited in trepidation for Santi to speak. For a moment he did not turn, but then he suddenly frowned down at me, and my heart quaked as I looked up at that brutal, meaty face.
"Lady, how did you come here?"
The question was so unexpected that I could not answer. Then, as I stood gaping at him, I met his eyes for the first time and saw the worry in them.
I swallowed and said, "Lord Ippolito sent me. He met me as he was coming after the duke, and when he . . . when he was killed, his last words were 'Go on!' I could not do less for him than do as he wished."
The horsemaster nodded. In the gathering dusk his gaze was uncomfortably shrewd, but he only said, "And why are you dressed like that?" and made an embarrassed gesture towards my page's livery.
"I bought these clothes from a boy at the palazzo so that I could go up to the battlements. And now"—my voice shook—"I think I am safer as a page."
"Will the duke not keep you safe enough?"
"No," I said levelly, "not now."
There was a moment's silence; then Santi said, "Then you mean to continue as you are?"
"There is nothing else for me to do. I cannot . . . I have nowhere else to go." Something in his silence made me look up to find him gazing at me with troubled eyes. "Will you keep my secret, messire?"
After a long moment, he nodded slowly. "Yes, lady. But this journey will be a grief to you, I think."
"So it is already. Thank you, messire."
Even in the poor light I saw him flush; then he grunted and gestured to my velvet cap. "You must cut your pretty hair, lady; you cannot wear that thing day and night. Do it tomorrow, before the men are up—I will stand guard and make sure th
at no one sees you."
I nodded quickly and looked back towards the camp as someone's voice called him. The duke wants you. . . . The words gave me a sudden pang. It should have been I, not Santi, who was called: I hurried away from Santi before the stupid tears could spill and ran back to my fellow pages, angrily scrubbing my eyes with the back of my hand. If I could not control myself better, I told myself sternly, no alliance in the world could save me from discovery.
I wanted to sleep, but my thoughts would not let me rest; they and the bitter cold. I had never before slept out of doors, and this windswept hill was the crudest dwelling I had ever known. Things crept and stirred in the darkness, tiny unnamable sounds; once a bat wheeled close against my cheek, soft and obscene so that I nearly cried out. I dared not stretch out on the ground for fear I should freeze—instead, I crouched, clasping my knees and shivering. Few of the others slept more than fitfully; The night was alive with little grumbling murmurs, rising and dying away like the eddies in a marsh, first in one place and then in another. Somewhere a horse whickered and stamped, and I caught the far-off howl of a wolf.
Numb with cold and utter loneliness, I did not hear the footsteps until they were almost upon me. Then a gruff voice said, "Here," and someone dropped a heavy cloak around my shoulders; Santi vanished into the dark again before I could draw breath to thank him.
I huddled myself into the warmth with a whimper of relief. It was good heavy wool, well lined, and smelled of tobacco. Going by its size it must have been Santi's own; he would miss it, I thought tiredly. I must find him and give it back to him. . . .
I awoke stiff and cold but still wrapped in Santi's cloak. The dawn was breaking, and it was the shrill song of a bird that had woken me. Around the glowing embers of the fire, men were stretching and groaning, and I forced myself to my feet in haste. As I slipped out of the enveloping cloak, the morning air struck me like a blow, and I staggered as I straightened.
Near me Lorenzo lay stretched out under his own cloak, his eyes closed, his cheeks bearing the telltale stains of tears he would not shed in daylight. I turned away, not wanting him to wake and see me looking at him, and caught sight of the massive figure of Giovanni Santi crossing the clearing towards me. Yesterday I would have flinched in dread; in the palazzo I would have turned away in dislike and distrust; now I felt only gratitude and relief. I had never thought to look beyond the big man's villainous appearance—only when I was forced to recognize it could I see the steadiness of his ruffianly gaze or hear the diffident note in his growling voice.
"You, Marcello!" He hailed me for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, and I almost jumped at the strange name. "Come and help me, quickly now!"
One of the other men shouted a jest, and Santi stopped to scowl at him from under his heavy eyebrows. I was scrambling in his wake in an effort to keep up with his long, curiously light-footed stride until we were out of sight of the camp, then he slowed so that I could draw level with him. The olive trees screened us from curious eyes as we stood, beside an outcrop of rock where the stream fell tinkling and ran down the hillside. Santi looked grave.
"You had better make haste, lady. I will stand guard over you."
I nodded and quickly splashed my hands and face in the stinging water to drive away the sleep which clung to me. The cold shock made me gasp, but it cleared my brain and brought me back to a sense of urgency. Santi had his back to me, scanning the hillside as I snatched off my cap and drew my dagger; then memory assailed me so suddenly and sharply that I stood paralyzed, my hair streaming around me, and a great dull pain in my breast.
"Help me." My voice was a dry whisper. "I cannot do it. Help me." Domenico sleeping, his "fair cheek pillowed on my hair, sweeping the locks aside with an imperious hand to put his lips to my neck . . .
The big man turned sharply, catching his breath, looking at me with sudden uselessness. "What do you want?" '
"Cut my hair. Please. I do not know how to start."
Santi hesitated a moment longer, then folded his lips tightly. He took a step forward, his normally deft fingers clumsy as they took hold of a fistful of hair. He took the dagger in his free hand and, sucking air between his teeth in a sharp hiss like a woodcutter, brought the blade around and slashed.
He had finished the job in seconds, and I stared down at the soft masses of black at my feet, fingering the short ends of my hair unbelievingly. I asked shakily, "Have you cut enough?"
He nodded in a quick, embarrassed fashion. "It will do. I am no barber, though."
"Thank you, messire." I was glad that he was bending to pick up the shorn hair and did not see my lips quiver as I spoke; I was ashamed of the vanity which made this trivial loss seem like the end of the world. I must think of the future, I told myself fiercely, and not dwell on the cloudy reminder of the past that hung from Santi's hands. To stop my thoughts, I said, "Why Marcello?" and Santi's somber gaze lifted in real surprise.
"What do you mean?"
"You called me Marcello while we were in camp." I forced my voice to a steadiness I did not feel. "And I wondered why—I do not know anyone with that name."
Santi crushed the hair into a ball and crammed it into the leather pouch at his waist, an unaccustomed tinge of color in his heavy cheeks. "It is my son's name."
"Your son! I did not know you had one."
He nodded. "Two. And one daughter. The name came easily to my tongue, and I thought it would serve as well as any other.''
He talked on as we went back towards the camp, and I listened eagerly, trying to distract my thoughts from the flood of self-pity which threatened to swamp them. He had been married for six years, he said, and had first come to Fidena to earn more money for his wife and children. But he had taken care never to let them know what his life was like or to bring them to the palace; they thought he lived in luxury and was happy and that the court was some sort of paradise. "But I would as soon take them to the worst brothel as bring them there," he finished somberly.
I did not reply, for we had reached the olive grove and I knew that among the other men I would be wiser to stay silent. I looked for Domenico: he was standing staring into the glowing embers of the fire, his face drawn and paper-white. He had not slept much either, I thought.
I had no appetite for my share of the scanty breakfast and gladly turned it over to the other boys to divide between them. As they ate, I sat watching the duke furtively from under my lashes and saw that the shock of Ippolito's death still gripped him. He did not speak to anyone, only stood staring blindly into some hell of his own, with a look on his face that made all around him fee! afraid. I longed to go to him, but I did not dare; I could not endure that brutal, wounding indifference a second time.
In the end it was Baldassare who spoke to him and persuaded him to mount. The rest bustled about, packing the few remnants of food together and scattering dust on the dying fire; then they hauled themselves wearily on to their horses' backs. At a signal from Santi, the riders moved forward, and the remnants of the Cabrian court rode down the hill towards the road again.
After a few hours in the saddle, my muscles were almost as sore as my heart. The duke was pressing hard, and our pace seldom dropped below a canter as we crossed the plain and climbed the western foothills. A feeling of urgency had infected us all, and not even Andrea lagged or complained. The other pages were as saddle sore as I, but they set their teeth and made no complaint. To me the hard riding was a thankful opiate—I could forget everything but the need to keep up, stay in a man's saddle, and manage my skittish mare. I saw little but the rump of the horse ahead and heard little but the incessant drumming of hooves. I knew that this haste was to outstrip the Spaniards who would be pursuing; once we crossed the mountain border into the Papal States, not even the haughty Philip would dare send troops after us into Pope Pius's lands. Any man was sure of sanctuary within the see of Rome.
Any man but the Duke of Cabria, for Cabria's dukes held lands that had been the pope's own
half a century since. Belike Philip would hardly need to hunt his quarry through Pius's territory when Pius himself would do the job for him. Philip, Pius, Gratiana . . . Domenico had so many enemies. In the pride of his power he had laughed at their hatred, but now what he mocked threatened to crush him.
The horses slowed as the road grew steeper, picking their way over the sliding stones of the rough track. On either side of us the mountains loomed, the shadows stretching towards us as we went onwards, the cruel heat of the afternoon striped with the ice-cold shade of the peaks. Several times we had to leave the road to avoid a village clinging leechlike to the slopes; once the houses of a fair-sized town came into sight, and a murmur ran through the bunched riders, "Aviglio." Then we turned aside hurriedly, for there was no knowing whether someone in so large a place might take note of a band of strangers and tell of them again. We skirted the town with wary looks and fast-beating hearts, climbing up the side of the cleft in which the buildings clustered. There was traffic on the road for some distance, and we stayed on the difficult paths of the higher slopes until Santi judged the main road was safe again.
By now every man was hungry and thirsty, and the horses were beginning to labor, but we dared not stop. Santi shouted that we were approaching the main road to the coast: all the traffic from one side of Italy to the other passed along it, and we must cross it and ride well clear before we halted.
At the crossroads I gazed around me wonderingly, stirring in my trance of pain for the first time. The great road from Fano to the mountains had been laid down first by the Caesars—it still showed signs of its origins in its clear borders and evenly paved surface. And the people who used it were still untouched by the events which had blasted my strange, artificial life. They had their own concerns—trading, politics, families, farming— and cared nothing for the shifts and tides in the fortunes of those who ruled them. These busy people, whom we must avoid as though we were lepers, were the lifeblood of Cabria— of Italy—and yet their destinies seemed like childish games, untouched by the overwhelming joys and sorrows I had known. Such a little time ago the most important thing in my world was the setting of straight stitches and the scouring of pots; now I tagged in the wake of an exiled duke, and my heart broke because he no longer desired me.
