by Teresa Denys
The count had assumed such nightmare stature in my mind as we waited that when he came himself in answer to the message I almost laughed aloud. He was a little old man, fat and self-important in a furred gown as tight as a sausage skin, scarlet with exertion, puffing and blowing in his haste. He came through the doorway almost at a run, then stopped and shook himself and his robes into good order.
"So these are the vagabonds, are they?"
"Yes, my lord." The leader of the soldiers was wooden-faced now.
"Hmmm! Well, which is the leader, good Enrico?"
"That one, my lord." A jerk of the helmeted head indicated Domenico.
"He is very tall." The count made his height sound like a deliberate impertinence. "Make him take off his hat in my presence."
Domenico turned then, assessing the little fat man coolly, and before anyone could move, he doffed his hat with a deliberation that made an insult of the courtesy. The count gobbled.
"Well, I . . . firm!" He took in his prisoner's unearthly fairness with starting eyes, and his florid countenance took on an alarming hue. There was a silence while he took several deep breaths, and then he crossed to a high carved chair on a dais at one end of the hall. Seated so, he seemed suddenly more formidable, and I lost all desire to laugh. This man was the ruler of this castle and these Territories, even if he was bald and as fat as butter, and his feet did not touch the floor when he sat in his state chair.
The count's fingers laced themselves comfortably over his ample stomach. "Well now, who are you, sirrah, and where do you come from? Answer me that."
"We are riding on the Duke of Cabria's business." The very expressionlessness of Domenico's voice was somehow disdainful. "We come from his city of Fidena."
"The Duke of Cabria!" The count's eyes popped. "What business makes you risk your heads crossing the Papal States?"
"We were sent in haste to the Duke of Ferrenza, to give a message to him." As Domenico spoke, I heard a stir of excitement from among the Cabrians, as though the words had some meaning I did not understand.
"Haste indeed to travel like that—if you are indeed from Cabria. I heard that a mess of soldiers, some sort of deserting military perhaps, had passed through Bolsino." The count's tones grew peevish. "And I sent for you to make sure that you meant no harm to my people. You could be bandits," he added suspiciously. "Why should I believe this rigmarole of yours?"
"I have the duke's signet." Domenico drew it from his finger as he spoke. "Look for yourself—-my lord."
The count nodded his permission, and Domenico dropped it into Enrico's outstretched hand. The ring was borne down the hall to the dais, and the bald head and the helmeted one bent over it in consultation. At last Enrico said, "It looks real enough."
"Of course, of course." The count was flushed again, this time with excitement. "It never leaves the Duke of Cabria's finger save on a royal embassy or in times of great peril. It is well for you, fellow"—he blinked at Domenico—"that you did not try to trick me with forgery—I should have known it at once. Your duke stayed here at this castle, twenty years ago, and I saw this very ring on his finger then."
"My fa—" Domenico checked his forward impulse, and his black eyes were suddenly searching. "My lord, is it Duke Carlo you mean?"
The count looked annoyed. "Who else, fellow? He was taking his bride back to Cabria, and they stayed here for a night—what are you staring for?"
Domenico said in an odd voice, "Duke Carlo died two months ago. His son reigns in Cabria now."
"What?" The count bounced to his feet. "Are you certain of this?"
"I was at the new duke's crowning."
"But the son is a boy— a stripling! Far unfit to rule! How old is he, do you know?"
There was a faint smile on Domenico's soft mouth, as though he mocked himself. "Nine and twenty."
"So much! And the years ill spent, from all I have heard," the old man fumed. "Witchcraft and murder and women and I know not what else. It is said he had dined on human flesh," he finished interrogatively.
"I have never been bidden to such a banquet."
"All nonsense, I dare swear, all nonsense," came the reluctant reply, "yet there may be something in it for all that. . . . You say it is the son's business you are bound on now?"
Domenico nodded, then added, "Yes, my lord."
"Then it is sure to be some mischief. Why does he send messages to our duke?"
Domenico's long lashes veiled the flash in his eyes as he answered. "His Grace does not confide in me so deeply, but I think they are to inform him who is reigning now in Cabria."
Baldassare snorted and managed to turn the sound into a cough. The count glared at him, then nodded self-importantly, "Yes, very likely that is their tenor. The son does well to continue friendly towards our duke, good fellow—the Amerighis are a mighty family, and our state was never so prosperous as it has been since this duke ruled us. You must bear my commendations to him when you go."
A long relieved sigh whispered from every Cabrian throat, and Domenico bowed ironically. "At your lordship's service."
"Yes, well, that is settled. Unhand these men, good Enrico, they are not brigands, as you feared." The count left the dais and came bustling towards us. "Now I think of it, you shall all stay and dine—and make yourselves cleanly—" He added a little too quickly, "while I write a letter to my lord the duke."
"Our business is urgent." There was a note in Domenico's voice that spelled danger.
"Urgent, to tell him that Carlo della Raffaelle is dead at last? If that news is two months old it can wait a few hours longer, and I tell you, fellow, you will do your new master little credit by presenting yourselves in Majano as you are now."
Domenico stiffened, but the moment he spoke I realized it was in surprise rather than in anger.
"Majano? We are bound for the capital."
The count rolled his eyes sapiently. "Well, you may go there and welcome, but the duke is not there. His good Grace has lately become weary of government, and he shares the burden now with his brother-in-law, who is also his cousin. It is the good Bartolomeo who keeps in the capital, and the duke has removed to his summer palace in Majano, where he lives like a monk, I am told." The discontent in his round face was a comic contrast to the eagerness that had been there when he asked for news of Domenico's licentiousness.
"Where is Majano?" Momentarily all Domenico's pretense of servility had deserted him, and he spoke with unthinking command. The count answered him with a look of astonishment.
"Why, little more than half as far as the capital. From here you may ride southwest across the hills to meet the river and then follow its curve to Toli; once there, there is a road, a rough one, it is true, but good enough, which will take you to Majano in two days' riding."
Domenico nodded abstractedly, and I knew that his thoughts had gone on ahead, calculating, altering plans of which he had told me nothing. Pain caught at me as I realized how little of his thoughts he had ever willingly shown me. Even now I did not know whether he had meant to go to this duke all along or whether he had stumbled into his land by mistake and had woven a swift mesh of lies to extricate us from the count's interrogation.
The count's voice broke in on my thoughts. "Go now then, you and your fellows, and Enrico will show you where you may clean yourselves. We will eat in two hours from now—it seems"—he eyed us all complacently—"that your duke is not overlavish with his servants."
It took longer than I would have believed possible for us to clean ourselves. Enrico and his men escorted us to the stableyard and indicated the well; mere servants of another state's ruler, it seemed, did not merit much in the way of courtesy. As an afterthought our saddlebags were brought, with a comb or two and a mirror, and with the aid of the mountain-cold water we sluiced off the grime of our travels. Domenico was called back to wait upon the count, and his absence made us behave foolishly: Lorenzo and I emptied a whole bucket of water over Santi's woolly head as he bent over the well co
ping, and he spluttered and roared in mock rage while we giggled like children.
Our soaked clothes dried on us in the heat of the stables as we set to to give the weary horses their first thorough grooming in days; then, before I had even had time to wash my hands again to rid them of the horse smell, one of the castle servants came hurrying to tell me that "my captain" was asking for me.
"Where is he?" I demanded, breathless.
"In the castle hall with my master and his family. I will take you back to him-—you had best hurry; he does not look like the patient sort."
"No," I agreed wryly, "he is not."
Most of the household was foregathered in the hall when I reached it. At the dais end the count and his family stood talking, eyeing Domenico with undisguised curiosity: the count and his wife had three daughters, and the sight of them made me acutely conscious of my breeches and of my whole, shaming masquerade. What would these wellborn women, with their ordered hair and modestly cut, well-worn brocades, say if they knew the truth?
The soft snap of the duke's fingers cut short my thoughts, and as I turned, he slapped my cheek lightly with his glove, a gentle buffet that was almost a caress.
"You attend me disgracefully, Marcello." The hooded eyes glimmered. "I had to send a slave to search for you in the end." The empty fingers of the glove rested on my cheek and were drawn down the side of my neck like the brush of a butterfly's wing. I swallowed and turned away.
"Your pardon, Your Grace." Even to me my voice sounded breathless. The laughter faded from his eyes and he stood still, his empty glove resting its fingertips on my shoulder, and then he seemed to wake and crumpled the glove in his other hand. I noticed absurdly that he had not been able to rid himself of the blood of the two Spaniards he had killed; it was lodged in the cracks beside his fingernails in spider-fine lines of brown.
He thrust his hand back into the glove again, and I looked up to meet his eyes, black and utterly opaque.
"What do you mean to do?" The words were out before I could stop them.
"Bear with this old dog if I can. Eat his food and leave his letter in a ditch on the way to Majano."
"Then you are truly going to the Duke of Ferrenza?"
He nodded. "I have not so rich a choice of friends. Amerighi is my professed ally—it is time he proved his goodwill. He has been soliciting me to visit him time out of mind—and now I shall do so, with my mistress and all my court." There was a sardonic twist to his voice. "What better could he wish for?"
"When you are done conferring, fellow," the count called out, "I would speak with you myself. Come here."
Domenico did not move for an instant; then, with a studied deliberation, he moved to the count and bowed low. Near me one of the Cabrian lords hissed "Sa-sa!" and Santi stiffened like a dog about to utter a warning snarl. It was like watching a leopard making obeisance to a pug-dog; at any moment the dog might be rent to shreds. Around us the talk had fallen silent.
"Here is your master's ring again, sirrah," the count said importantly, "and the letter you must bear to my kinsman the Duke of Ferrenza. And here I have writ you a safe-conduct to take you through our lands to Majano; otherwise, you and your men will find the liegers less easy than we of Mesicci."
Domenico bowed his head. "My good lord."
"Well, and you will deliver my letter?"
"With all due care." Was there the faintest emphasis in that toneless voice?
"Hm! Ha, well—here's for your pains, then."
Everyone was watching as though spellbound as the coins passed from hand to hand. Domenico stood as though carved in stone, staring at the money in his palm; then he lifted his eyes, and the blaze in them made the count start.
"Well, are you dumb?"
"Dumbfounded, rather, at your lordship's generosity." Baldassare's voice made everyone jump. "My lord, our captain is not a man of many words; I thank you for him, and for us all, for your hospitality."
The words were the expertly gauged flattery of a man who has made his fortune by flattering; but Baldassare's face was anxious, and he was watching Domenico, not the count.
The little man's alarming color subsided, and he grunted. "Prettily said, fellow; you are all welcome. Come on, now, and eat well before you depart."
Lorenzo dug me in the ribs as we followed him, and nodded towards the duke. "Do you think he can keep his temper?"
I shook my head. "I do not know. Perhaps, if nothing else provokes him. Quick, let us sit down."
When the meal was over, I realized I had not tasted a crumb, for I had been too intent on Domenico. The count and his family passed down the chamber on their way out and halted near us.
"Well, fellow, I wish you all Godspeed!" The count puffed a little as Domenico rose to his feet, purposely towering over him. "Take heed, mind, that you deliver my letter!"
I saw a scathing answer rise to his lips, but the count had gone. He stood perfectly still as the hall emptied, his face frighteningly calm, and then said softly, "And we are to run the errands of that old dog and thank him for his payment. Bow to an upstart yeoman who should bend his knee to us, and smile, and answer insults patiently. . . ."
His voice was rising dangerously, and I could see the flush I dreaded rising in his lean cheeks. I caught his arm instinctively, saying, "Your Grace . . ." and he spun around on me so fast that in that blurred instant all I saw was the lightning flare between his lashes and the sweep of his hand as he struck.
The blow rocked me with its force; I felt as though my head had been jolted from my shoulders. Baldassare was gripping the duke, and Domenico stood with one arm around his shoulders while great shudders shook him from head to foot. I held my hand to my stinging cheek, trying not to weep. So now I could not even comfort him; what had seemed like joy when he discovered me was nothing but pleasure in regaining a thing he had thought lost. I averted my eyes as he lifted his head and heard him say "Marcello," sharply, just as the door behind us opened.
"My lord bade me tell you that your horses are ready," one of the count's men said, "and you can be on your way."
"We will come presently." Domenico's answer was curt, his gaze never leaving my face as he spoke.
"You're an absolute fellow!" The man said half-admiringly, and withdrew.
I did not hear a footfall in the silence after he had gone, but the duke's hands gripped my shoulders, and I knew he had come up behind me. Paying no heed to those around us, he pulled me around to face him, and his piercing eyes scanned my face.
"Did it hurt?" His voice was so treacherously gentle that I felt my heart turn over.
"Your Grace is no weakling," I answered stonily. "Am I to ask your pardon?"
I was so startled that I looked full into his eyes. There was mockery there, and the dying embers of his rage, and a hard intentness that made my eyelids fall before it. His fingers dug cruelly into the hollows of my shoulders. "Answer me, boy."
"Your Grace does not need to ask pardon of such a sullen lad!" Andrea struck in, as though from a great distance. "He well deserved his punishment."
Domenico said levelly, "Keep your tongue," and gave me a slight shake.
I managed to say, "No, Your Grace," and his fingers tightened; then he thrust me impatiently away and strode towards the door.
The stableyard was almost empty as we saddled our horses, and they, too, were impatient to be gone now that they were fed and rested. My mare fidgeted and would not be harnessed up, and even when I had her saddled and bridled, I could not mount. I was stranded with one foot in the stirrup, trying to pull myself up while she minced in circles, keeping me just off balance. I was beginning to lose patience when I felt myself gripped and thrown almost bodily into the saddle. I was so astonished that I nearly slid off on the other side, and righted myself to look wildly down into intent black eyes.
"Does that quit us?" There was no trace of the expected laughter in his voice.
I told myself that I was a fool. So many times I had had the same bitter les
son, and always my resolve failed when he looked at me like that. I should have left him long ago, and yet I could not tear myself away; even now, when his magnetism held me like a rabbit charmed by a snake, I could not take counsel from that blind blow and remember that he was incapable of love. I shivered and looked away, more a helpless prisoner of my own heart than I had been in his dungeon.
He did not speak again, and when I looked back, his fair head was bent and he was tightening the mare's girths. I gasped suddenly; over his head I could see the count come hurrying out of the castle, his popping eyes fixed on Domenico's back. Perhaps he had changed his mind, I thought with a sickened drop of my heart, and had decided not to let us go after all.
"You there, fellow! A word with you!"
Domenico seemed to freeze. For a moment he stood as though petrified; then, as the count reached him, he turned and looked down at the little man. He looked like a cat, hackles risen, fur lifted, eyes narrowed to slits of light.
"My lord." His voice was toneless.
"I have a thing to tell you that I could not say before them all—it would not be fitting." The count cast me a disgruntled look. "Nor do I wish to speak before your—hm!—page. It is somewhat private."
Domenico shot a glittering glance upwards. "Marcello is a secret to a fault, my lord." His hand closed painfully on my foot. "He can be deaf and dumb at need."
"Hm! Well, so he had better be, for this is most secret. It concerns His Grace of Ferrenza."
Domenico said softly, "Proceed."
The count looked at him strangely for a moment, but he was so big with his tidings that they would not be contained. "It came into my mind that if you did not know of the duke's retirement, you might not know of the reason for it, and that if you knew that, you might rather go to the capital and present your message to His Grace's cousin."
