by Sandra Heath
The evening ritual over, Anne retired at last to her bedroom, which wasn’t by any means Llandower’s finest chamber in the house, but which had the best view over the maze and grounds toward the Wye. Comfortably furnished in her chosen green-and-gold brocade, with a capacious bed in which she could snuggle on nights such as this, it was warm and welcoming as she stood at the washstand to pour water from the porcelain jug into the bowl. The wind still blustered as she extinguished the candle and then curled up to try to sleep. Fire shadows moved gently on the walls, leaping now and then as another gust of wind tossed rain against the window.
She was tired after a few days that had been hectic from the moment the messenger had arrived from Ballynarray, but sleep would not come. She lay in a half world between slumber and wakefulness, her thoughts wandering over all manner of subjects before inevitably coming to rest on the one thing that made her deeply apprehensive about her coming match— the physical yielding that Gervase Mowbray could, and would, demand of her. Beneath the bedclothes she put her hands to her breasts, a gesture that was half defensive, half wondering. What would her first night as Duchess of Wroxford really be like? Not a romantic occasion of shared tenderness, that much was certain, but would he treat her kindly? Would the consummation be gentle, or would he just take her roughly and consider his duty done?
As she drifted on the boundary of sleep, it seemed she was no longer at Llandower, but in a much grander bed in the principal chamber at Wroxford Park. The door was opening, and her bridegroom was coming in. In her imagination he was tall, but he had no face as he stood looking down at her. He wore a silk dressing robe, and as he loosened the belt she saw he was naked beneath... In her imagination his body was pale, lean but muscular, and very beautiful, as had been the unknown gentleman in the wheat field all those years ago. He was saying something to her, but his voice was a distant echo, and she couldn’t understand. Her heart was pounding, and her mouth was dry as he climbed in beside her. He pulled her toward him in me candlelit darkness and whispered something, but again she could not hear. Then he took her hand and drew it to the hard, upstanding shaft that showed how ready he was to complete this marriage of convenience. He pressed himself into her palm, and the blood thundered through her veins as her fingers closed tentatively around him. Wild emotions ran through her as she felt his heat and urgency, and she wanted to do all the things those other lovers had done, but as he pulled her into his arms and put his lips to hers, the fantasy was shattered by a sudden fierce gust of wind that blew her bedroom window open. It banged back upon its hinges as if it would fly away on the storm, and the curtains billowed as an icy draft swept into the room, where she was very much alone in her bed.
For a moment she lay in confusion, but as the window banged again, she threw the bedclothes aside to get up. Her hair and nightgown were tugged by the gale, and rain spattered her face as she leaned out to seize the window catch. In the darkness below she could see the shivering hedges of the maze and the convoluted path that twisted and turned back upon itself in a pattern known as the City of Troy, because it was said to be a plan of that city’s defenses. The ornamental rotunda in the center of the maze was pale and white, holding her attention for a breathless moment before her fingers felt the catch and she managed to close the window again.
* * * *
Far away in Naples at that moment, Bacchus Night was in full swing as Gervase and Hugh sat in a relatively quiet candlelit comer of the inn farther along the street from their lodgings. Signora del Rosso did not provide meals, and neither cousin tried to persuade her to do so, because she was a dragon of the highest order—in Gervase’s opinion she’d been coughed up by Vesuvius as indigestible, and so would be her cooking.
Macaroni had indeed proved the order of the day, and had been brought to their table by the saucy maid who, from the outset, had made clear her interest in Gervase. Ignoring Hugh, she kept leaning across in such a way that the lighted candle on the table treated Gervase to frequent glimpses of the contents of her tight bodice. Her dark eyes invited, and when he’d tossed her some scudis, she’d caught them deftly. “Grazie,” she’d whispered, as if thanking him for pleasuring her in love, then she’d very pointedly slipped the coins between the breasts she’d made so certain he noticed.
Later, as the cousins lingered over their postprandial wine, Gervase glanced around the dining room, in which he and Hugh were among the few not to be wearing Carnival costumes. Disguises ranged from animal masks and skins, through several Harlequins and Columbines, to clothes from previous ages, including, he noted with interest, a large number of bacchantes and fauns—or were they satyrs? No, he decided, they were fauns, for satyrs were the Greek counterpart. Not for the first time that evening he wondered how lightheartedly the Neapolitans really regarded their ancient gods. Was it possible that Bacchus was still worshipped in fact as well as fiction? Yes, he decided, looking around again.
Hugh hadn’t had a good evening. First there had been Teresa, and then his visit to the theater had only served to remind him of Kitty Longton’s preference for Gervase. Now his jealous resentment was being further fanned by the serving girl’s obvious liking for that same unfairly privileged cousin. He had drunk more than was wise and was only just on the right side of pleasantness, although his true state hadn’t yet become apparent as he used the candle on the table to light one of his, or rather Gervase’s, Spanish cigars. His deep antagonism was hidden behind a warm smile and tone as he addressed his cousin. “What are your plans after this? Do you intend serving the serving girl? Or will you perhaps languish alone dreaming dreams of sweet Anne Willowby?”
It was another of the little close-to-the-mark gibes that Gervase found so irritating. He didn’t exactly dream dreams of Anne Willowby, but he certainly lay awake wondering what manner of bride she would turn out to be. He kept trying to banish her from his mind completely, but at night, when he was alone, she crept in and wouldn’t go away. He also wished now that he had called upon her, for at least then he would be able to put a face to the name. Pouring some more wine, he swirled the glass. The wedding night would probably be the one and only time he shared her bed, and he only hoped he’d be able to rise to the occasion! What if the head of the Mowbray family proved to be a limp bridegroom? What if the consummation proved to be a disaster like that of the Prince Regent and Caroline of Brunswick?
Hugh saw his pensive expression and enjoyed the effect his comment had caused. He was about to spitefully press the point a little more when the maid returned to replenish the jug of wine. Before leaving, she bent to whisper in Gervase’s ear. “If you wish, I will make tonight special for you, signor...”
Gervase hesitated. Her attentions all evening had only mildly stirred his interest, but Hugh’s sharp reminder about the unwanted bride awaiting his return to England suddenly made the Neapolitan girl of exquisite desirability. So he gave her one of his lazily seductive smiles and nodded.
Her eyes shone, and she bent even closer to put her parted lips softly to his, but then there was a stir at the far end of the dining room, and she straightened to see what it was about. The other diners had suddenly fallen silent, and all eyes were upon a slightly built man, cloaked and hooded, who’d just entered. Someone whispered a name—Sylvanus—and on hearing it the girl gave a nervous gasp and hurried away. The name had the same effect on everyone else too, for there was a scraping of chairs, and in a few moments the only persons left, apart from the strange new arrival, were the two Englishmen and a local shopkeeper who was too drunk to know what was happening.
Without removing his long voluminous cloak or even tossing his hood back, as one might have expected now that he was no longer outside, the stranger approached the cousins’ table. It seemed to Gervase that his steps were oddly light, almost like the pattering of little hooves, and when he spoke, his voice was peculiarly high and nasal.
“Allow me to introduce myself; my name is Sylvanus,” he said, and as he inclined his head, all they could see of
his face was the faint gleam of his eyes behind a mask, and a chin with a beard that put Gervase in mind of a he-goat.
Hugh rather rudely waved the man away without speaking, but Gervase responded courteously enough. “Good evening, Signor Sylvanus.”
“Just Sylvanus. I trust Naples is to your liking?”
Gervase smiled a little. “How could Naples fail to be to our liking?”
Sylvanus made a sound of approval that was vaguely reminiscent of a bleat. “Ah, yes, for it is the fairest city in all Italy, as so many of the more discerning of your countrymen are pleased to agree. Tell me, gentlemen, have you seen all the sights? Have you visited Pompeii?”
“Naturally, and we’ve been to Herculaneum, the Cavern of the Sibyl, the island of Capri, Virgil’s tomb, and we’ve climbed Vesuvius—twice,” Gervase added, wondering what the man’s purpose was, for clearly there was one.
“All things classical are precious to the British, are they not?” Sylvanus said then.
Ah, now we come to it, Gervase thought. The fellow has some fake treasure or other to hawk. “We admire your heritage, sir, for it is our own,” he replied.
Hugh wasn’t inclined to be even vaguely polite. “Be off with you, whoever you are, we don’t want to be bothered by someone trying to sell something,” he said, tapping the ash from his cigar carelessly onto the otherwise spotless table.
“I am not selling anything, sir,” Sylvanus replied with studied courtesy.
“How true, for we aren’t buying, nor are we about to empty our pockets of scudis. You’ve made a mistake in choosing us, for we are armed and not easy targets, so if you are just another of the lazzaroni, you would be better advised choosing other victims.”
Gervase could have sworn he heard Sylvanus stamp his foot with annoyance—or rather, he thought he heard the thud of a small hoof upon the stone floor—but if the strange little man was momentarily angered, he was soon in command of himself again. “You do me wrong, signor, for my purpose is to your advantage. You may think you have seen all there is to see around Naples, but I will wager there is one place you have never even heard of, let alone seen.”
“I doubt it,” Hugh answered superciliously, gazing at the man through a curl of cigar smoke.
“I speak of the grove where lies the wedding diadem great Bacchus gave to his beloved Ariadne. It fell from her fingers moments before she died, and now lies at the bottom of a pool, and Bacchus in his heartbreak decreed that it should never be retrieved because hers were the last fingers to touch it. Of course, if a human were to find it...” Sylvanus’s high-pitched voice died away tantalizingly.
Hugh gave a disparaging snort. “I’ll warrant you make a handsome living this way! How many fake diadems do you sell each year, eh?”
“I have already said that I do not sell anything, sir!”
The cloaked figure bristled so comically that Gervase would have given much to see the expression on his face. However, it was time to pour oil on the troubled waters, before Hugh’s unpleasant temper got the better of him completely. Gervase gave Sylvanus a placatory smile. “You must forgive my cousin, sir, for I fear he is a little in his cups,” he murmured, giving Hugh a warning look.
Hugh scowled, but to Gervase’s relief took the hint and said nothing more.
Sylvanus turned his attention upon Gervase. “The story of the diadem is not a myth, signor, and if you wish to be the first of your countrymen to visit the grove, you must follow the track that leads up beyond the disused church with the broken spire. You will find your way straight to your destination.”
Hugh had begun to pour himself some more wine, but irritated now, put the jug down with a thud. “Just go away and take your nonsense with you before I do something you may regret!” he growled, for Sylvanus irked him considerably.
“You cannot harm me, sir,” was the quiet reply.
Hugh began to rise furiously from his chair, but Gervase restrained him. “For God’s sake sit down!”
Hugh hesitated, and then resumed his place, but Sylvanus suddenly seemed intent upon goading him. “Could it be that you are afraid of Bacchus, signor?” he taunted.
“I’m not afraid of a nonexistent Roman god!” Hugh would have leapt up again had not Gervase held him back.
Sylvanus shrugged. “Are you so sure he does not exist, signor?”
“Yes.”
“Then prove it by going to his sacred grove at dawn and risking his wrath by searching for the diadem.”
“Risk the wrath of Bacchus? The only risk I will be taking by going to your damned grove is that of ambush by you and your lazzaroni cronies!”
“You have my word that this has nothing to do with the lazzaroni, or indeed with any form of robbery. Sir, I am telling you of the greatest lost treasure in all Campagna. Can you imagine the fame and fortune that will be yours if you find it? Or are you indeed too timid?”
“I’m not afraid of anything!”
“Then come to the grove at dawn.”
Gervase would endure no more and looked a little coldly at Sylvanus. “Sir, I don’t profess to know what your real purpose is, but I know its effect, so I would be obliged if you would remove your person and allow us to finish our wine in private.”
But Hugh had taken the bait. “All right, I’ll go there—we both will!” he said recklessly, dragging Gervase into it as well.
Having clearly achieved what he came for, Sylvanus pattered away without further ado, and as the street door closed behind him, Gervase looked uneasily at Hugh. “We aren’t going anywhere at dawn, Coz. You may have been incited into scrambling around Italian groves, looking for mythical diadems, but you can leave me out of it.”
Hugh grinned as he stubbed out the remains of the cigar. “You’ll come,” he said with quiet confidence.
Gervase would have felt more uneasy still if he’d known that in the street at that moment Sylvanus was with Teresa, in whose native tongue he was as fluent as he was in English, but then his race was fluent in every known language, except that of cats and dogs. His tone was piqued, for this was not the first time he’d come at her bidding, and he felt imposed upon. “Teresa, if I do what you want, I must have your word that my indebtedness will be discharged once and for all. Do you promise?”
“Of course, Sylvanus,” she replied.
“I do not like your demands of me, you know,” he grumbled, his head revealed for a moment when his hood was blown back by a sudden breeze. He was middle-aged, snub-nosed and ugly in a rather appealing way, with pointed ears, and two stumpy little horns sprouting from his forehead.
“You have my word I will not do it again,” Teresa said soothingly.
“If my master should discover...” Sylvanus made an anxious bleating sound, for he knew that in becoming embroiled in Teresa’s scheming he was guilty of the utmost folly.
Teresa rightly thought he was on the point of trying to wriggle out, so she spoke swiftly. “Remember that I saved you from drowning. You owe me, Sylvanus!”
He scowled, forced to recall his terror when he had fallen into the deep pool in the grove. Yes, he did owe her his life, for his kind was supposed to haunt water, and therefore to have no fear of it, but he was terrified of it and couldn’t swim! Worse still was his dread of his master’s fury should this business with the Englishmen come to light.
“Provided you do it as we agreed, no one else will ever know anything.” Teresa was persuasive, being determined to have her revenge for what had been done to her tonight.
Sylvanus shuffled reluctantly, “Oh, all right,” he said at last.
“It must be both of them, mind, for the duke did but carry out what his equally vile cousin has thought of doing ever since they entered my mother’s house. They are as bad as each other and must both be punished.”
Sylvanus was a little perturbed. “Are you quite sure it was the duke who assaulted you? I mean, he doesn’t seem the sort of man who would stoop to such a thing, but his cousin, oh, yes, he is one I can well imagine wo
uld force himself upon a woman.”
“It was the duke—I recognized him,” Teresa insisted.
Sylvanus gave in reluctantly. “Very well, if you are so certain...”
“I am.”
“It will be done at dawn.” A wind sprang up along the Riviero de Chiaia, and Sylvanus glanced toward the wooded heights above the city. “It’s time I went back to sleep. I shouldn’t be down here at all, and without sufficient sleep I’m not as vigilant as I should be.”
He turned to push his way through the crowds. As he went, the hem of his sweeping cloak lifted, revealing his rough brown goat fur and cloven hooves, for Sylvanus was a faun, and the master he served was great Bacchus himself. Fauns were able to cause uncontrollable desire between men and women who might otherwise loathe each other, and they could turn men to stone; at dawn he would be lying in wait for the two Englishmen, ready to use the latter power to exact a terrible fate upon them both.
Chapter Four
The dawn air was cool as Gervase and Hugh rode up the track behind the church with the broken spire. Both men wore winter clothes, Gervase the greatcoat that had led Teresa to believe him to be her assailant, and Hugh a mock-military coat for which he still owed his tailor. Gervase wished he hadn’t allowed Hugh to persuade him to come on what might prove a hazardous exercise, but it was too late now.
Behind them the moonlit bay was dotted with the torches of fishing boats, and Naples itself was still ablaze with lights. The city rose from the quays, tier upon tier of houses that in daylight were bright terra-cotta, yellow, coral, and parchment, and from time to time fireworks could bee seen and heard. But up here the only sound that really mattered was the disturbing rumble of Vesuvius to the east.
Violets and anemones scented the air as the track wound up through groves of oranges and olives, and then the shadows became purple and mysterious as evergreen trees, oak, and cypress closed in around the track. The atmosphere was strange and alien, and the horses were nervous, tossing their heads occasionally as if sensing something disagreeable nearby. At last the track petered out into nothing, seeming to offer no certain way forward—only the prospect of returning down the mountain. The trees whispered unsettlingly, and suddenly the lights of Naples were nowhere to be seen.
