by Teresa Denys
The mare sidled nervously, and the next moment the leading rein was in Domenico's hand, shortened until we were riding knee to knee. I said, to break the silence that pulsed between us, "Your Grace, where are we going?"
In the shadow of his black hat, his brows twitched together. "Does it matter?"
Not as long as I am with you, I answered inwardly, but aloud I said, "We cannot run for ever."
"Nor will we. Four or five days—-and nights—longer, and we shall reach our destination."
"What is it?" Cheeks burning, I was too anxious for circumspection.
The look on his face made my heart sink, but he only said as though the words were dragged out of him, "We are going to my friend to get his aid."
"Your friend!" I repeated numbly. It was the last thing I had expected him to say.
"Yes. Did you think I had none?" There was a glitter of irony in the dark eyes.
"I do not know. I thought when you did not go to Diurno that you had not thought of . . . of . . ."
"Revenge?" he inquired softly. "I have thought of nothing else since I lost—what I lost."
So it was Ippolito's death after all that had made his eyes so bleak.
"Then why are we not going to Diurno?"
"I will not parade my shame before that old fox, my great-uncle." He spoke harshly, watching my face. "I shall borrow men and redeem it all before he knows for certain how much is lost."
Not Ippolito, then, but his city and the name of duke were the losses that had flayed his pride. The pain in his eyes was the festering of wounded vanity, no more, yet my heart still ached for him. I blurted, "Then it must be . . ." and stopped, my own pain engulfing me like a tidal wave and leaving me speechless.
"It must be . . . ?" he prompted remorselessly.
"It must be the Duke of Savoy's help you are seeking."
There was a moment of silence, and then he began to laugh, a high, derisive laughter which made heads turn and men rein further away from him. The beautiful face was twisted in bitter mirth, and the sound hurt my ears.
"Sweet innocent!" It came on a gasp at last, and I flinched from the mockery in his tone. "Savoy is a coward." His voice still quivered. "He would not put himself in jeopardy for so slight an alliance." He choked, then continued. "He is old and white-livered, and will wait to see who is the victor in this contest before he pledges his loyalty."
"But he must support you if you are to wed his daughter."
He shook his head, and a glimmer stayed in his eyes. "He would deny his pretty bastard to keep out of this broil. He may do so in any case."
I longed to ask whether he would still marry the daughter, but I managed to fold my lips and stay silent. He watched me a moment longer, then said deliberately, "I think I should take her without his countenance. I could not do less for a wench who spends so long in the mountains for my sake."
I gripped the mare's reins fiercely. It was a deliberate torment; Savoy's daughter had traveled to Diurno from her father with servants and goods to go with her, while I . . . I stopped the thought hastily, for it was folly, and he must not know how much his casual words had hurt me.
"Your Grace must do your pleasure," I said, like a sycophant, and turned thankfully as Santi came up beside us. I sensed a sudden wariness in Domenico, like a cat with lifting fur and lashing tail.
"We are to thank you for preserving Marcello, good Santi." His voice was as cold as ice.
Santi looked uncomfortable. "It was nothing, Your Grace. . . . Lord Andrea's heat must have blinded him. The boy has been safe enough." He added as though he could contain himself no longer, "Your Grace, there's little hunting to be had in this valley—it's all tilled lands and vineyards. And our food is gone, and no means to get more. We must do something soon, unless you fancy death's-heads for servants."
I smiled involuntarily, but Domenico stiffened. "We shall be out of the valley by nightfall."
"Nightfall is no good for hunting, Your Grace."
The hoofbeats were loud in the silence. Then Domenico said sharply, "We have money enough, have we not?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Santi looked apprehensive; he guessed what was coming.
"Then we shall buy our bread like the common herd." Domenico's lips twisted scornfully. "And pray that it does not choke us."
Santi cast me a pleading glance, and I said quickly, "Your Grace, you must not."
"Must not?" His voice was uneven.
"Should not. If you were seen or recognized . . ." My voice died away as I saw his expression, and I made a little gesture of despair to Santi. There was nothing for it but to follow, to offer Cabrian gold to the pope's own people and try to be gone before Pius learned of it. Santi shrugged faintly, then fell behind to tell his companions what had been decided. There were exclamations and even a smothered oath, but Domenico did not seem to hear. He was staring at me now as though he were trying to read my innermost thoughts.
He said at last, very softly, "Would you care if I were taken?"
"Indeed, yes, Your Grace." My voice quivered between laughter and tears, and I thought he stiffened in triumph.
"Why?" It was achingly gentle.
"Because no man else knows where we are bound," I retorted.
As ill luck would have it, the next place we came to was a fair-sized market town, but nothing would turn Domenico from his purpose. The horses, made restive by the unaccustomed bustle in the streets, had to be coaxed through the press of people and the rumbling traffic of carts and horses; I patted my mare's neck and whispered soothingly to her, but inwardly I was as fearful as she. Every face seemed dark with suspicion, every sound an alarm. I dismounted at Domenico's bidding and held his horse's head, and he flicked my chin casually, as he might have done to any pretty page. The caress seemed to linger on my skin as he walked away into the crowd, and I watched him go, feeling sick with dread.
Every moment seemed an eternity until he returned. The reins were twisted tightly around my fingers, stopping my blood, but I did not notice. I started at every sudden motion in the crowd, and I could see my own fear mirrored in Baldassare's face, taut and gray with strain. I had decided, calmly, that when Domenico was dead, I should kill myself and trust in God's mercy, when he returned. Santi, beside him, carried a basket of loaves, and Domenico was in wild spirits.
"God's death, we are rare chapmen! That knave would have charged us two gold pieces for that moldy bread and said they were not right money. But when I made him know their value, he sang another tune."
I put a restraining hand on his arm. "They are coins of a different state, remember. To him they are not right money."
"He will go a long time before he is paid for his bread in gold again."
And a long time, I thought wryly, before he ceases to talk of it. Even now my fear had not wholly left me, for despite the travel dirt upon him and the broad hat hiding his bright hair, passersby turned to stare at Domenico's great height and arrogant grace. And listening to the chatter around me, I realized that the people spoke with a different accent, one with a vague familiarity which teased my brain. But what was important was that we Cabrians were foreigners, outsiders who would be remembered for our speech.
"What are you thinking?" Domenico's voice was full of sudden, angry curiosity, like that of a child who sees it has lost its mother's attention. His hand covered mine as he took the horse's reins, and from a distance I heard the outraged snort of two of the townswomen at the stranger's familiarity with his page.
"We had better move on," Santi said abruptly.
It was only as we remounted that I saw what he had seen over the heads of the crowd. A group of liveried men at arms, with all the airs I remembered from the Eagle of men off duty, had entered the street and were strolling towards us.
"Where the devil do they come from?" one of the courtiers demanded.
"I do not know," Baldassare returned quietly, "but at least they are not Spanish. Perhaps some local lordling keeps his own soldiers."
W
e had to ride through them to reach the end of the street, and my mare's ears were twitching nervously as she picked her way through the knot of cheerful men, as though she sensed my dread. They looked up as we passed, and to my eyes their faces changed, suspicion replacing good humor. Their startled looks as they avoided the mincing hooves seemed unnaturally marked, and I knew they turned to watch us as we rode away. It took all my strength of will not to set spurs to my horse in shameful, betraying panic.
No one spoke until we had left the town behind. The mere chance of meeting soldiers unbargained for—whether they were enemies or no—had shaken the confidence which the quiet days in the mountains had lent us. It was as though contact with mankind had reminded each of us that we were fugitives, and we were tasting afresh the bitterness of it. Without warning, I found myself thinking of Maddalena, for now we were like her—badged as surely by the hatred of men as she by her leprosy.
Night was falling when we reached open country again, and I noticed Santi glancing worriedly about him; there was nowhere we could sleep in this open valley, so near the common haunts, and we would not risk lying by the roadside as we had done before. Then I saw a dark shadow against the darkening sky, a barn standing isolated in the midst of a field.
"Messire," I called quietly, and he started.
"What is it?"
"Over there—a barn, I think. We could sleep there."
"Where?" He strained his eyes in the gloom.
"To our left, beyond that dip in the ground."
He peered, and then his heavy face lightened. "You're right, I think. Blessings on all farmers who build their barns close to their hayfields and far from their homes! What do you think, my lord?" He addressed Baldassare, who had come up by his elbow.
"It will do well—we shall be spoiled to lie under a roof two nights together."
I smiled at the dryness of his tone. I had never liked him so well in the court of Fidena—there he had seemed a frippery creature, one of the painted satellites who encircled Domenico. But now, in adversity, he was assuming a character of his own, and what had shown as a look of mild kindness in his eyes was proving to be a strength and patience I had not suspected.
Santi said, "Tell the duke," and I spurred forward obediently, just as a voice called sharply, "Marcello!"
I heard Andrea snicker, "Ganymede, he means," and then I met the flickering flame in Domenico's eyes.
"We did not give you leave to leave us."
"I ask Your Grace's pardon."
"We do not grant it. If you will not know your duty"—his gaze held mine—"you must be taught."
I was thankful that he could not see the color that stained my cheeks in an uncontrollable tide. "It was my duty that kept me back. There is a barn, if Your Grace will consent to sleep there—Messire Giovanni thinks it will suffice."
"Messire Giovanni!" he echoed sardonically, and I knew my use of the big man's name stung him.
"If Your Grace will . . ."
"Why this ceremony?" His voice had roughened. "Do you think my title will sweeten this hell?"
My throat grew tight, and I said woodenly, "As you please." I would have gone then, but he stayed me with a hand on my horse's bridle.
"I will suffer your barn, good boy," and I saw his fingers clench, "so I need not sleep among the general ruck. And you shall stay by me and keep off the dreams."
My heart was beating fast as I turned and signaled to Santi to turn off the road. We tethered the horses outside the barn and went inside in silence.
It was dark and smelled sweetly of hay, and so warm that I knew we would hardly need our cloaks. Santi put down his basket of loaves to light a wax taper from his tinderbox, and the little flame showed a high, windowless place heaped high with hay. In one corner a ladder led to the loft, and a lantern hung beside it; by some miracle it was not dry, and after a minute or two Santi could blow out his taper and survey the barn in a dim yellow glow. When the reeling shadows had steadied, Andrea indicated the high dark loft and giggled, "Your royal chamber, Your Grace."
"So." It was so quiet that I was not sure I had heard it, but Andrea's giggle was silenced as the duke's head turned; then Domenico's fingers closed around my wrist, and he caught up one of the loaves from Santi's basket.
"Come." His whisper was quite clear in the warmth of the barn. "We will lie somewhere less populous."
The rest became ostentatiously busy spreading their cloaks on the hay and dividing the rest of the bread. I felt myself pulled back out of the circle of lamplight and looked up apprehensively into the beautiful, shadowed face. As I climbed after him into the hay-strewn loft, I heard a ripple of knowing laughter that came from throats other than Andrea's.
I did not understand why no one came in the night to disturb us, until I learned later that Santi had slept like a great door ward at the foot of the ladder. It was as well for my boyhood that they did not, for no boy ever lay with his lover as I lay with Domenico that night. His dream came to him, and he smothered his screams in my breast; I thought he would never sleep, and it was only thanks to my fear of discovery that I was dressed again in my boy's clothes when the soldiers broke in upon us with the first glimmer of the morning.
I heard the commotion below and rolled over quickly to peer through the hole in the floor of the loft and found myself face to face with a stranger climbing the ladder. It would have been absurd if it had not been so startling. I recoiled, and Domenico said sharply, "What is it?"
The man's head and shoulders came through the floor and peered around, a ridiculous armed tortoise. "Well!" He sounded startled. "Are there no more of you?"
Domenico shook his head. His hands on my shoulders were clenching, slowly clenching, until I felt sick with the pain.
"Will it please you both to come down?" the soldier inquired sarcastically. "We have the rest of your crew safe enough."
"Who are you, and whom do you serve?" Domenico demanded. The half-hidden face hardened.
"It is for us to ask the questions-—come down quickly."
He backed down the ladder to watch us descend. My palms were slippery as they gripped the wooden rungs, and I tried not to see the ring of faces watching—our own men and a score of others. A crimson, glowering Santi was being held by three men, and Baldassare's lips were tight with impotent anger.
The man who had mounted the ladder now stood back and regarded us, arms akimbo. He was evidently the leader, and clearly he had counted on dominating the situation until he found himself having to look up into Domenico's face. He grunted and thrust his thumbs into his belt.
"You are the captain of these men, I take it."
Domenico's eyes lit. "You take it correctly."
"And why did you bring them here?"
"To sleep."
"You have a charter then, do you, to sleep where you fancy? Or do you style yourself King of Italy?"
I felt Domenico tense and prayed that he could hold on to his temper. I held my breath as he opened his mouth to speak and then let it out in a gasp of relief when he only said in a stifled voice, "No."
"I should think not!" The soldier grinned. "Our lord would have a word or two to say to that, not to mention the duke."
"The duke?" Domenico's head lifted sharply. "Is there a duke in these parts?"
"Where have you come from?" It was a jeer. "Of course there is a duke! The pope's domain ends an hour's ride south of here, beyond Bolsino."
A sound escaped Domenico that made everyone jump; a hiss like a cat's of sheer exultation. There was a blaze of triumph in his face, and he said lightly, "Our thanks." Luckily the soldier was hardly listening to him.
"It is good you are so pleased," he retorted angrily, "for you'll wish you had never come here soon enough. Our lord sent us to see what manner of men passed through Bolsino in such haste, all mired and dirty—and talking so soft, like singing birds," he added scornfully.
As he spoke, I noticed again the harsh accent I had heard in the market, and again it sti
rred something in my memory. Someone I knew spoke like that, and I could not quite remember who it was.
The soldier continued. "We've orders to bring you before him if we think fit, and I've a mind to do it—entering a man's barn without his leave could be a crime. Perhaps you'll speak less haughty then and look humbler, too."
"What lord is this of yours?" Domenico spoke as though he had not heard.
The man answered, "The Count of Mesicci," and scowled at his own compliance.
For a moment the fair face was a mask of calculation; then Domenico said, "Well, we will follow you."
"We are honored." The soldier's face was flushing ominously, and I could see grins on the faces of one or two of his men. "I know my lord will be grateful for your presence. Bring him after me," he shouted suddenly, "before I flay him alive!" and he turned on his heel and stalked out of the barn.
Left behind, his men circled warily around Domenico and closed in almost apprehensively. He suffered them to hem him in, but as one of them put a hand on my elbow to draw me away, he said suddenly, "Do not touch the boy."
One of the soldiers laughed. "Don't be jealous, captain. I'm one for a wench myself."
I wished miserably that it were jealousy. But it was no more than the warning snarl of an animal whose dead quarry is approached too closely.
Surrounded on all sides by the count's men, we were forced to travel at a hard pace—too hard for our tired horses to keep up for any length of time. I thought that the leader's anger was betraying him into foolish haste, for there was no sign of any dwelling, when suddenly I saw a single stone tower clinging to the side of the valley above us, half-obscured by trees.
The castle of Mesicci was old, nearly as old as the Palazzo della Raffaelle but barely one-tenth the size. It looked as though it had once been a watchtower, and even now it was a building for use and not for luxury. From its gates the road fell steeply away, curling down the side of the valley, and straight ahead the rocky side of the cleft reared straight up into the sky. Then the soldiers closed in behind, blocking out the view.
When we had dismounted, we were taken under guard to the castle hall and stood waiting while the leader sent a message to his master. I glanced up at Domenico; his face was as still as a mask, his eyes shuttered and somehow withdrawn. Only his black-gloved hands betrayed him. To lose everything now, after four days' bitter journeying, for the intrusion of some unknown petty nobleman!
