The Silver Devil

by Teresa Denys

  "I am charged to visit the duke himself. Why should I not?"

  "Only that your coming might . . . disturb His Grace. He has grown very solitary and strange."

  "Perhaps messages from Cabria will rouse him from his melancholy."

  The count looked dubious. "Perhaps, perhaps. But there is more than that to the matter—men say he is grown a little mad," he finished in a rush.

  "Which of us is not?" The sudden bitterness chilled my spine.

  The count shut his mouth with a snap. "Now, this is no time for your heathen philosophies, sirrah! I speak no more than I have heard, which is that the duke is mad. Certainly he does not conduct himself like one in his right mind. He is scarcely seen outside his palace, save when he goes to inspect that army of his—it is said that is all he cares for, that and his collection of treasures, and he has never given proof to the contrary."

  "I heard rumors of this in Cabria." Domenico spoke frowningly, his fingers absently caressing my ankle. "But you said he still governs."

  "In name, in name! His is the signature and his the authority, but it is his cousin who has all the trouble of government. For all the duke cares, Ferrenza could rule itself, as long as he had his toys—his collection and his perfect soldiers—to play with."

  "Yet none of this is madness."

  "Very like it, when a grown man behaves like a child. The state has awarded His Grace a nursery at Majaro, with every­thing he wants—paintings and statues and I know not what and his mercenaries to guard it all, while his cousin works in the capital with all the pains of a dukedom and none of the glory! He may not sign anything greater than an order for hay, it is said."

  Domenico said intently, "He keeps his army with him, you say."

  "Hmm, yes. It seems our good Ferrenzans do not suffice for the duke. The first thing he did when he came to rule was to draw up plans for the ideal army, cosseted it and packed it with mercenaries, and now he lets it stand idle—he made the perfect tool without bothering whether he was to use it! And yet," he added grudgingly, "they say its fame has gone throughout Italy."

  Domenico nodded. "Certainly the Duke of Cabria knows of it."

  He was relaxed now, toying with the stirrup leather as he listened, his face unreadable. Outwardly all his attention was on the count, but his fingers had slid from the tuckings of the saddle to my thigh, where it touched the leather, and he stroked it softly. I fought my awareness, knowing that it was this army he meant to get from the Duke of Ferrenza.

  "How long has your duke been in this seclusion?" The idle authority in the question stung the count's cheeks to a deeper red.

  "I heard of it six months since—it is disgraceful. The boy should do his duty, beget an heir on some docile wench and leave this unnatural solitude! I have no patience with him. If it is not madness, it is self-will."

  Domenico nodded wisely. "As your lordship says."

  The count swelled. "I do not speak in ignorance, I may tell you! Judge for yourself if this humor of his is not unnatural—not to see his own kinsmen when they visit him, not to enter­tain man or woman save at his express invitation, and still to be unwed at nine and thirty! A dozen years ago no man would have dreamed this. The boy was never merry, to be sure, but he was always civil—none of these hermitlike humors then. No monk either, but that is what he has become."

  The impatient shifting of the other horses came loudly into the silence before Domenico spoke, his voice casual, almost inhuman. "Poor Amerighi!"

  I thought the count would expire from an apoplexy, but before he could get out a word, Domenico had moved from my side and mounted his horse in one, almost liquid, impulse.

  "My thanks, my lord," he said lightly, "for your informa­tion," and then he turned his mount and was gone, a couple of coins tinkling on the cobbles behind him.

  With the count's safe-conduct our way was much easier, for now there was no need to avoid the villages in our path. We reached Toli that night, and in the morning early we were on our way to Camuzza; from there it was little more than half a day's ride to Majano itself. It seemed that nothing could stand in our way—only the nightmares which seemed now to pursue Domenico like avenging furies and left the implacable revenger a crying child in my arms. I was grateful in a way that I had no time to think of the other deaths—Ippolito's, Sandro's, those nameless Spaniards'—and I could almost, with his head buried in my shoulder and his nails clawing at me for comfort, forget that if he succeeded in his battle, I must give him up.

  I think Baldassare must have recognized me, either at Mesicci or soon afterwards—he never spoke of it, but there was a consideration in his manner which contrasted sharply with the jesting of most of the others. To them I was the Duke's "Ganymede," and I had heard the term applied too often to the pretty boys and painted striplings at the Palazzo della Raffaelle not to know what it meant.

  When we lay at Camuzza, worn out after a day's hard riding, Domenico ordered our saddlebags to be brought into the inn; tomorrow, he said with irony, we must be fit company for a duke. So, tired as we were, we cleaned ourselves and tried to freshen our travel-stained clothing, although there was little enough we could do.

  Domenico was cramming things back into his saddlebag when the crackle of parchment arrested him, and he looked down with a queer little laugh.

  "That old dog's precious letter! I had forgot."

  I asked in a low voice, "Will you deliver it now?"

  "Perhaps." There was amusement in his face. "If I remem­ber it tomorrow.''

  "Do you believe what he told you about the Duke of Ferrenza?"

  "I think he believed it. As for me . . ." He made a slight dismissive gesture.

  "I know. It does not matter to you whether the duke is mad or sane so long as you can get what you want from him."

  He looked at me sharply. "You are growing politic. Soon I shall have to consider the things I say to you before I speak aloud."

  "Soon you will be married, and then I shall be gone." I felt a twinge of pride at the steadiness in my voice.

  "Not until I have won back all that has been lost." There was an odd, hard look about his mouth. "You are eager to have your precious freedom."

  "Yes, Your Grace," I answered calmly and saw his black eyes smoulder.

  "Still so stubborn?" Something twisted in his voice.

  "Still?" I dared not speak for the tears that filled my throat, and his lips tightened.

  "Well, I shall be patient for a little longer." The white fingers tore the count's letter across and across. "And then we shall see. . . . After tomorrow"—the fragments scattered— "when I have seen my friend Amerighi, we shall resolve this once and for all."

  Chapter Ten

  It was with a heavy heart that I set out the following morning. I had grown used to the comradeship that had grown up among us on the road, to the freedom of boy's clothes, even to the sense of fatalism that carried me on in the duke's wake because I felt there was no other choice. But now Domenico's world was beginning to exert its force again, a world of politics and statecraft in which I might easily be swept aside and forgotten, and in which the choice of whether to stay or go would no longer be my own.

  He would win back his dukedom with Ferrenza's army, I thought, watching his supple back; and then it would be as if none of this had happened. By now his Savoyard bride must have reached Diurno and the welcomes of the archbishop— Domenico would marry her, and I would face a lifetime of not having, of learning to resign myself to emptiness and forgetting that I was ever his mistress for a few short weeks.

  It was a sour little consolation that I had never once con­fessed how much I loved him. At least I had salvaged my pride from the wreck.

  Majano was a small city, far smaller than Diurno, built on a high ridge which thrust two arms across the plain towards us. Its houses and palaces were clustered on its slopes like limpets clinging to a rock; its streets were cobbled and precipitous and looked fit for nothing but donkeys to traverse. After so long in the open, the
tall buildings seemed to crowd, and everywhere I saw the blazon of a she-wolf, in marble, in bronze, in wood. Andrea tittered and said, "One would think we were in Rome," but Baldassare hushed him.

  "Ferrenza has the ear of the pope and his province's loyalty is very strong, so have a care what you say."

  Andrea was unrepentant. "In God's name, then, what are we doing here? As well to put our heads into the lion's mouth as to parley with the pope's friend."

  Baldassare said nothing. He was watching Domenico uneasily. The duke had reined in beside a passing citizen and was exchanging a word or two. Then with a nod of thanks he turned his horse, and we followed him back through the streets, away from the center of the city, until we came to a shallow ravine with a slender, arched bridge facing it.

  "Ferrenza's winter palace," he said softly.

  In the afternoon sunshine it looked very fair, built like a small fortress on the raised ground above the ravine, its walls gleaming pale gold, not the bleak gray of Fidena or the opulent rose of Diurno, but a warm, gentle color, as though centuries of sunlight had been absorbed by the stone. Trees clustered at the foot of its tall towers and I could see others growing beyond the great gate, within the courtyard.

  "My good Baldassare." Domenico was gazing at the palace with a frown between his brows. "You shall be our envoy. We will not go skulking to Ferrenza like beaten dogs—ride and tell him that Cabria is coming. We shall follow behind."

  We waited for minute upon crawling minute after the sound of hoofbeats died away, until Baldassare should have given the fitting warning of a royal duke's approach. Domenico gave no sign of impatience; he sat still in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the gate beyond the ravine with the attentiveness of a cat at a mousehole. There was no reading the expression on his face, and looking at him, no one dared speak. When at length he wrenched away his gaze, it was to give the signal to move on, and at a slow and regal walk our tired horses crossed the last bridge and entered the gates of the Palazzo Amerighi.

  Baldassare was waiting under the trees, the look of long strain gone from his face, and beside him stood a small plump man with a pudgy face and thinning hair who immediately stepped forward and bowed to Domenico.

  "Welcome, Your Grace! I am Filippo Marcionni, secretary to His Grace of Ferrenza. His Grace will be here directly, but he did not wish you to enter his palace ungreeied^—if you will please to dismount, you and your followers, the grooms will see to your horses."

  Dismounting, I gave a farewell pat to the nervous mare I had ridden for so long, thinking absurdly that my last link with that long ride was breaking. Marcionni was bowing again; looking at the sober richness of his clothes, I realized for the first time just how shabby all of us had grown.

  "If Your Grace will allow me, I will inform the duke of your arrival; he was insistent that he should know at once."

  I felt a pang of astonishment, for this overwhelming gracious-ness accorded ill with the old count's tales of a half-mad recluse. But perhaps, I thought with an involuntary smile, it is only his talkative kinsmen that the duke hides from.

  Domenico was questioning Baldassare almost under his breath.

  "How were you received?"

  "Coldly at first, Your Grace; the duke would receive no visitors, they said. I told them I was an envoy from the Duke of Cabria, and they said I should have ridden to the capital."

  "And then?"

  "I sent one of the grooms with a message to the palace—he was loath to go, but I greased his palm for him, and a little later there came one to say that no petitioners come here. I said that I was no petitioner but came on business to His Grace of Ferrenza."

  Domenico's voice was bitter. "You lied. We are petitioners right enough. Go on with your story."

  "They told me the duke would do no business, that he was in retreat here, and much else besides that I will not repeat. At last I made them understand that I was in earnest, and they fetched Master Secretary Marcionni; after that all was well, for he took me to the duke at once." "What did Ferrenza say?"

  "But little." Baldassare frowned. "I could not understand him. He was . . . strange. At first he was cold and reserved— civil, but he stared through me; then when I told him I came from Cabria, he . . . he changed. He smothered me with welcomes, made me sit down, sent for wine for me to drink— Your Grace's name is a powerful charm with him."

  Domenico said nothing. There was no answering smile on his face, and after a moment Baldassare continued.

  "Under Your Grace's pardon, I thought for a little that he was foolish. When I said that Your Grace was at hand, he did not seem to understand me. He only stared, and then said, 'Raffaelle is coming here,' and he . . ."

  "Well?"

  "He smiled, Your Grace. Like a—well, like a saint! He was transfigured!" Baldassare looked eager. "I swear that Your Grace will be made truly welcome."

  Before Domenico could reply, the door behind him was thrown open, and he turned swiftly. Marcionni stood there, bowing on the threshold and ushering out the man behind him, and I saw Domenico's expression of negligent watchfulness wiped out by a look of cold shock. It was gone in an instant, masked, but the white fingers had clenched; and I realized then that for all their professed friendship, he had never seen the duke before.

  Amerighi was nearly as tall as Domenico himself, rawboned and loose-limbed and thin almost to emaciation. He had a bony, sardonic face with a long nose and down-drooping hazel eyes, and a thin, straight mouth that had once been smiling and was now ridged with lines of ill health or grief. It was a gaunt face, a little forbidding—clean-shaven in contradiction to fashion—but not unattractive. His chestnut hair was combed smooth and lay like a cap over his head in a straight, glossy fringe. For a moment I thought I felt a pulse of recognition, but then I forgot it, for I saw the way he was looking at Domenico, staring almost hungrily, drinking in every line of the beautiful face and graceful body. Then, even as I looked, his face changed; he gave a wholly charming smile and came forward, his hands held out.

  "My dear cousin." His hands gripped Domenico's and held them. "At last, the promised visit!"

  "Unlooked for, I fear, after so long a delay." Domenico's smile did not touch his eyes.

  "Unhoped for," the elder man corrected gently. "You must be worn to death after so long a ride! Come in and refresh yourselves." His glance barely skimmed the rest of us. "And afterwards you shall tell me what occasion makes me so happy."

  "I thank you, cousin."

  Amerighi shook his head. "No, it is I who am grateful. I have ordered a chamber to be prepared for you, and my ser­vants will see your people bestowed fittingly—if you want anything, I beg you will ask for it."

  I had already turned to follow the plump secretary, fear of the unknown beginning to cramp my stomach, when Domenico answered.

  "I must crave your courtesy for my mistress."

  I stood paralyzed. There were startled movements among the Cabrians and I knew they were staring blankly at one another . . . except Santi. And perhaps Baldassare. I heard Amerighi's deep, rather grave voice, and thought irrelevantly how beautiful it sounded.

  "At your service, cousin. Does she come after you?"

  "No, she is with me." Domenico's voice altered. "Felicia . . ."

  I turned as though compelled and went to his side, and with every step I could feel the eyes on me, astonished, almost accusing. Somehow the silence was worse than an outcry.

  For the first time, Amerighi looked away from Domenico. "A pretty fellow," was all he said, but it brought the blood stinging to my cheeks.

  "A prettier wench." Careless fingers pulled off my cap. "I thought it best for her to ride so among my men—we came in haste, and there was little time for gallantry." His fingertips brushed my flaming cheek, and I looked away to find Amerighi gazing from one of us to the other with an odd, arrested look on his face. Behind us I could hear voices receding in the distance as Marcionni led the others away. I longed, suddenly, to be going with them, to be free of this
stranger's curious stare and the breathtaking touch of Domenico's fingers.

  Amerighi said in a tone that robbed the words of any compliment, "I wonder you ventured so delicate a lady on so long a voyage."

  "She ventured herself. I beg you will use her well."

  Amerighi's dark brows lifted. "What should I do else? The lady is welcome, for your sake and her own. Will you present me?"

  I sensed Domenico's reluctance and spoke before he could. "In these clothes I am Marcello, Your Grace. I shall not feel like myself until they are changed."

  "Marcello, then." The hazel eyes smiled, but I had the impression that Amerighi's brain was racing. He ushered us out of the sunlit courtyard and in among the cool shadows of the palace; to my sun-dazzled eyes it was pitch dark, and I was still blinking when I found myself in a small, richly furnished room with a long window looking out on the lazily stirring trees. Amerighi was handing me a cup of wine, and the metal in my hands felt cold and heavy.

  "If you will give me leave, I shall take order for your night's lodging. We are ill prepared for guests, especially such great ones." He went to the door and paused by it. "Forgive me, but you have no baggage?"

  Domenico shook his head, and Amerighi smiled.

  "Then we must contrive. I will not be long."

  As the door closed, Domenico turned to me, a brooding look in his eyes.

  "What do you think of our civil cousin, Felicia?"

  "That he will prove a generous benefactor."

  "Belike he will." The white fingers drummed impatiently. "But that was not what I meant. Do you think we are as welcome as he says?"

  The question echoed my own uncertainty, and I said after a moment, "If he has asked you to visit him before, and you have refused, he must be doubly glad to see you now."

  "Do you believe that?" His fingers gripped my chin and forced it up.

  "I do not know what else to believe. I have no cause to mistrust him—he had been kind beyond mere courtesy, and I have scarcely seen him yet. But there is something . . ." I shrugged. "It is as Baldassare says; he is strange."