by Teresa Denys
It was then that I realized how much a sham was his unnatural self-control. Under the assumed calm his thin body was quivering with excitement; his greedy gaze clung like a leech to Domenico's face as it searched for the smallest sign of pain and to the tiny involuntary flexing of Domenico's fingers as my hand fell away from his. I was reminded of a man prodding at a pain-drugged leopard. On Amerighi's set face was a look of craving which spoke strangely of the love he had borne his dead sister. As he watched my hands fall slowly to my sides, he gave a tiny chuckle, like a gleeful schoolboy.
"Come now, to our business."
Chapter Eleven
The chessboard was inlaid in a tabletop, squares of gold and silver set in shining marble. The table stood at the far end of the gallery, a chair on either side, and from a drawer beneath it Amerighi produced the men and set them out, black against white, gold against silver, in gleaming precious ranks.
Amerighi looked across to where I stood. "Will you not watch us?"
"I do not know the game." My throat was dry. "A pity, but no matter. Perhaps I shall be able to teach you, later."
A blush burned my face as I moved towards the table, the glinting gown molding every line of my body, and sat down hastily in a nearby chair. The black and white figures of the two dukes were very close as they conferred briefly together; then Domenico moved, with a studied indifference marred by the harsh lines hardening his sensual mouth, to sit behind the white pieces. Amerighi took the black. Domenico's hand hesitated over the board for a moment and then moved a piece: The game was on.
To me it all seemed like a fantasy. I could not believe that a mere game would decide the fate of a dukedom, that the whole of my future life depended on the manipulation of those beautiful little toys. I watched intently, trying to judge the play, but it was hopeless; my scanty knowledge of the rules made it impossible for me to understand the subtleties of the game being played before me. It was only when the pieces at last began to be lost that I could begin to see the elaborate patterns of check and countercheck.
The discarded pieces were ranged beside the board. Breathlessly I counted them, but the score seemed even. At first the two men played in silence, watching only the board between them, but as more chessmen were captured, the moves slowed, fraught with tension, and they watched each other as they hesitated, each gauging the other's reaction to an intended move.
I could read nothing in Domenico's still face. He lounged in his chair apparently at his ease, supple as a great white cat. The fingers caressing the silver as he debated were as smooth as alabaster, his fair profile impassive, his heavy eyelids drooping; the long dark lashes veiled the expression in his eyes. Against the high back of his bronze chair, his silver-fair hair looked unearthly. In the dust and mire of the long journey, I had forgotten, I thought, how beautiful he was.
Almost lazily he shifted a piece, but as he set it down, he must have sensed my scrutiny, because he looked up at me for an instant and I saw him pause.
"You must keep your mind on the game, Cousin," Amerighi cautioned gravely. "I myself dare not look at her too long, for fear I should lose a pawn or a bishop in contemplation of the prize."
"I can guard my own well enough."
"Can you so? Look, you have not regarded your king's pawn; my rook is waiting—so."
There was anger and an odd kind of fright in the very expressionlessness of Domenico's face as the gold piece swooped on the silver.
Amerighi continued, gently indulgent, "You see, you should never neglect the slightest pawn, or its loss may mar your game—for myself, I cherish my pawns as long as I may unless their loss is inevitable." He added as Domenico's hand hesitated over the board, "Piero della Quercia was one of mine, though he fancied himself more at first."
Domenico's hand checked the merest fraction, then moved smoothly on. "Yes, he confessed before I had him killed." The chessman landed with a hard little bang. "I am not quite blind, Cousin."
The dark brows lifted. "So you killed him? I thought he must have been discovered when his dispatches ceased so abruptly. I judged the man to have more brain than to be discovered so soon."
"He was clumsy." For a moment the soft mouth twisted in distaste, then relaxed again, unrevealing. Domenico's mind must have been in a tumult, but not a flicker of it showed in his face as he spoke Piero's epitaph.
Amerighi shifted his gaze back to the board. Moving a man with a careless movement, he remarked, "Yet I have always wondered why he entertained my plans—a creature of yours who had been yours so long. Was it that he was jealous of this paragon?" The jerk of his head turned the words to an insult.
Domenico answered indifferently, "I do not know what he thought."
"But the lady does. Look how she blushes. He wrote of you in his last letters, lady, but I dismissed what he said as the effusion of his fancy; he had ever a way of wrapping what he had to say in dainty terms and salting his spying with a grain or two of poesy. As I remembered, I cared little for his report save that you might figure as a means for me to injure my cousin. But now that I see you, I do not wonder he spent so much ink in describing the duke's new mistress."
Domenico said detachedly, "Have you cared for eleven years only to injure me?" He took a white knight zigzagging down the board.
"What else should I care for?" There was genuine astonishment in the question. "For your father, I had only to wait for him to mold away, for I knew him white with pox. And all he did to Isabella was slight compared to your . . . sport. He only tormented her—it was you who killed her."
A tall king moved into the white knight's path.
Domenico frowned and shook his head as though to clear it, and I realized that on him, as on me, the fatigue of the long day was taking its toll. Amerighi watched the countermove intently and smiled a smile that Domenico did not see. I thought: He is winning.
Until that moment I had been thinking only of what defeat would mean to Domenico. The loss of his hopes, far more than the loss of his dukedom, would maim his arrogant spirit; it would be like seeing Lucifer transformed to Satan before my eyes. But now I thought for the first time of what the end of it might be for me, in the unvarnished terms of crude fact. In my heart of hearts I had not really believed that I should have to keep Domenico's bargain; I was convinced that somehow he would always have his way. But now . . .
Amerighi murmured, "Check," and Domenico frowned. His hand hovered briefly, and he shifted a man, relaxing as he did so; the glossy brown head made a civil inclination, and as Niccolo studied the board, his face was suddenly stamped with the image of his sister's. There was the same birdlike, bony angularity, the same down-drooping eyes and thin wide mouth, the same sallow skin and the same unhappiness.
In the man's face the marks were clearer; he was twice the age of the girl in the portrait, and there were deep lines etched in his hollow cheeks and from nostrils to chin: But the resemblance which had startled Domenico at their first meeting was shockingly vivid.
The hands, toying meditatively with a castle wrought in gold, were as bonily elegant as his sister's—but where Isabella's had been clenched tightly before her, his were relaxed, even graceful. He said again, "Check."Domenico leaned forward, one elbow on the table, and stared down at the board. Then, with another dismissive little shake of his head as though to dispel a mist before his eyes, he moved a chess piece forward.
Amerighi's next move was so swift that he must have foreseen the counter. Gold pounced upon silver, and the bony fingers tightened on the captured chess piece, triumph lighting his gaunt face.
"You must betake yourself to your defenses, Cousin; you have lost your white queen."
Something in his voice made me start, and I remembered the name he had given me earlier. Then I saw the chess piece he held in his hand; the figure of a woman, robed and crowned. The white queen.
Amerighi's fingertips rested lightly on the little image, gliding with an almost lascivious delight over its cold smoothness. He was
looking straight at Domenico, and his mouth curved slowly, as if he were pleased with what he saw, before he put the piece down amid the captured ranks. There were few pieces left on the board now; the glittering movements were fascinating me, and I could think of nothing else.
"Check," the beautiful voice said, "and . . . mate, my dear Cousin."
Domenico said, "No," harshly, and Amerighi shrugged.
"Of course, I do not expect you to concede easily when so much hangs upon the outcome. I will stay your leisure: If you can free your king from this predicament, I will play on."
There was something terrible in his patience as he sat waiting, his gaze fixed on Domenico's face. The seconds dragged into leaden minutes, and my nails dug agonizingly into my palms.
At last Amerighi broke the silence. Domenico had not moved. His bright head was bent over the pieces, obsessively searching, searching for a way out. "You will concede, Cousin, that I have won?"
The sound that broke from Domenico was so quiet I was not sure I had heard it, half a sigh, half a groan. Then a breath of a voice said, "Yes," and I shivered as though the gallery had grown cold all at once.
Slowly, as though he savored it, Amerighi rose to his feet. "I offer you my condolences. You were weary, and much has happened to disquiet you. But I am not so saintlike as to relinquish my prize for pity's sake—that would savor too much of turning the other cheek."
Even as my hands began to tremble, I wondered what kind of brother could think of his sister so.
"Lady." Amerighi had crossed the black and white floor and was bending to hand me out of my chair. "I claim what I have won."
I could not answer. The chestnut head turned, and Amerighi glanced back at Domenico.
"Cousin, the game, is done. Leave the pieces."
Domenico swung around sharply in his chair, and his arm swept the board clear in one vicious movement. The precious figures scattered on the flags, bouncing and ringing, and Amerighi nodded slightly.
"So, now you need not gaze on them any longer. What you shall see now will be far more diverting."
The dark eyes lifted. "I am not in the vein for pageants."
"What." Amerighi's eyes were brilliant, "not the pageant of Venus? Come, I would have seen you invested with the generalship of my army—I crave only so much courtesy of you, that you will see me invested in my . . . rights to this lady."
Domenico drew a sharp breath, then shook his head decisively.
"No? But you will watch, my dear cousin—I should be loath to have you dragged, and my lady Felicia might love me less if I bade my men cut off your eyelids. Think now," the deep voice sharpened, "think of all I might do to her without the restraint of your presence."
Without a glance behind him, he guided me, with incongruous courtesy, to the doorway through which he had brought the silver casket, and only then did he turn and look back. His eyes were feverishly bright.
"I regret I must be so crude, but you will appreciate the necessity for my guards, I know. I wish to make sure you lose nothing of this . . . spectacle. The guard, here!"
Footsteps came running up the stairs in answer to his shout. My fingers felt icy cold as they rested in his, but I felt no fear for myself; this strange man did not want me save as an item in his collection or a counter in his game of revenge. There was more of the connoisseur than of the lecher in the dry touch of his hand.
He had dragged his gaze from Domenico and was looking down at me almost curiously. His voice, gentle and reasonable, was a jarring contrast to the fanaticism in his face.
"I must do this, lady." He sounded like a child, anxious to explain himself. "I do not want to injure you, but it is the will of God. I would have killed him if you had not been here, but by sending you, God delivers me from the sin of murder. Now he can live and suffer as I did, by losing the woman he loves beyond his life."
I said, "He does not love me, my lord. I only share his bed."
He stared at me arrestedly for a moment, and then he glanced over my head and smiled. "No, lady, do not bother to lie to me. It is too plain."
Before I could try to convince him, the guards came clattering through the arch at the end of the gallery, and all the gentleness drained from Amerighi's face.
"You will stand guard at this doorway here. This man"—his voice stripped from Domenico even the courtesy of his name—"is to stand before it and watch what passes within; you will ensure that he does not close his eyes or turn away. If he resists, kill him, but not before I have done. Take your stands and bring me a light within here so that he misses nothing. Quickly!"
The sudden impatience in his voice goaded the two guards into action. One of them hurried to the wall and took down one of the lamps to take to the room behind us, eyeing me amazedly as he passed; both men seemed bewildered by their master's orders and stiffened warily as Domenico rose from his chair and came slowly down the gallery towards us.
"My compliments, Cousin," Amerighi said. "It would have ill become your dignity to be dragged to us. This is dukelike indeed."
Domenico gave a very faint shrug; his face was set. He was not looking at Amerighi as he drew level but gazing at me, his black eyes holding mine with a queer insistence. I had forgotten there was anyone else in the room when Amerighi tugged gently at my hand. "By your leave, lady."
The guards stamped to attention, and the tasseled pikes crossed behind me as I followed Amerighi down the steps into the windowless chamber and looked wonderingly about me.
It was like a shrine: a shrine to the dead Isabella. Candles, their flames darkened by the lamplight, bumed in front of a laughing portrait; a single glove lay there, a child's crucifix, a plain set of ivory chessmen ready to play. A man might have dedicated such a room to the memory of his wife rather than his sister. A couch stood in the center of the floor before the portrait, and I shivered at the thought of the hours the duke must have spent sitting there amid his hallowed relics, reading his sister's confession and dreaming of revenge. And now that his revenge had come crowding in upon him, he meant to take it where it had been conceived, here in his sister's room.
Amerighi halted beside the couch. His thin hand, sallow and lightly freckled against the ruffle that framed it, gripped my shoulder. My flesh crept, and I fought to remember that lack of resistance, meek submission to his enemy's desires, was the last and only way I could help Domenico. Over the duke's black-clad shoulder, I could see him lounging in the doorway—by his pose he might have been awaiting the start of some common entertainment, leaning idly against a pillar, one hand reaching up to the crown of the archway as though he were leaning in at a low window. The goggling soldiers with their crossed pikes might not have existed. He was waiting for me to betray him, I thought despairingly, waiting for me to shudder away from Amerighi's touch or recoil from his unwanted kisses. Well, I would not: He had pledged me, and I would keep his pledge.
Amerighi murmured, "Now he will know what hell is like, a little," and drew me unresisting into his arms.
His kiss was calm at first, even passionless; then his arms tightened, and I felt the trembling which shook his thin body. I was afraid suddenly—some thread of self-control in him had snapped, and the detachment I had trusted to keep me safe was lost in the clutch of half-frenzied, long fingers digging into my flesh. I wanted to twist my mouth away from the rough, inexpert pressure, but I knew I must not.
He lifted his head and drew a long, unsteady breath. "I begin to think my revenge will be doubly sweet."
As he kissed me again, he was fumbling at my throat, and the blue cloak slid rustling to the floor; my fingers were quivering with the effort not to strike at him, not to fight him as once I had fought Domenico. Then the thin fingers were cupping my face, caressing my neck and my shoulders—for an instant the hazel-green eyes stared almost blindly into mine, and then Amerighi whispered roughly, "So beautiful . . ." and his mouth came down on mine with a sort of blind ferocity, punishing me until the muscles of my face were numb and there
was the taste of blood on my lips. I gasped then, in revulsion, but it was so low in my throat that only Amerighi heard it. He said tauntingly, his lips against my ear, "Did the Cabrian teach you no better tricks?" and, catching my hand as it hung by my side, drew my arm about him.
A shudder ran through me. I might force myself to keep the letter of Domenico's wager, but I felt nothing but disgust for the gaunt body pressing against mine. I could win, I knew, if I fought him; he was not half as strong as Domenico. But I did not fight. I stood tamely, letting him loosen the golden girdle so that the Madonna's robe fell open, seeing the vein throbbing in his temple as he caught the shining folds and lifted them away. Almost tentatively, his hand came out to touch my breast; it shrank for a second as though I had burned him and then returned, squeezing and stroking urgently.
His head bent, and I hardly noticed the touch of his mouth, for past him I could see Domenico standing still in the doorway, relaxed and casual, one hand lightly clenched as if in impatience at having to see this spectacle through to the end.
Amerighi's hand ran greedily down my body, pushing me back on to the couch; then, as he parted my thighs, I wondered how I could bear to let him possess me without crying out. Domenico was not ten paces away—if I called him . . .
But even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew I would not call, for the look on his face had been too clear. Indifference hooded his eyes and stamped a sullen curve to his mouth; indifference had been in every line of his body. He would not stir even if I called; why should he risk his skin against Amerighi's guards for something so trifling?
I stared up at the vaulted ceiling above me, gazing at the beasts of heraldry, grand or grotesque, which clustered about the bosses and clung to the ribs of the vaulting. I knew I must not look at the black figure stooping over me, tearing with sudden clumsy impatience at its clothes. I must not think of the man in the doorway. Amerighi's breathing had quickened, and one thin knee was upraised and resting possessively on the unyielding cushion between my legs. He must look ridiculous, I thought hysterically, like a heron; too excited to undress himself. Then the impulse to laughter died as ice-cold panic gripped me.
