The Silver Devil (49 page)

I
stammered something, hardly knowing whether to bow or curtsy, and as I followed
the manservant from the room, I knew that both dukes were watching me. It was
with relief that I closed the door of the bedchamber behind me, shutting out
the servant's wooden face and curious stare; then, as I became aware of my
surroundings, I gazed around me, entranced.

The
Duke of Ferrenza was no miser with the beauty he loved; he had squandered it in
this room, lavishing gold and colors on the walls and silk and damask on the
hangings of the bed. It was not altogether strange, I thought, that a man
should prefer this inanimate loveliness to the living squalor beneath the
splendor of the court.

It
was bliss to strip the now shabby page's suit from my tired body and to bathe
in the steaming rosewater the servant had provided. I scoured myself
diligently, rinsing the dust from my hair and glorying in the half-forgotten
sensation of cleanliness. When I had done, I looked for the fresh clothes that
Amerighi had promised, but all I could find was a tangle of gold and silver
stuff spread across the bed, which looked like no fashion of gown I had ever
seen. I picked it up and held it against me, staring at myself in the glass in
perplexity.

It
was a very strange gown. No farthingale; no stiffened, low-waisted bodice; no
ruff, no lacing, no petticoat, not even a collar. Instead it clung to me as
closely as a shift, rippling and glinting with every move I made, soft,
shimmering silk embroidered in gold and silver. The cuffs of its great gathered
sleeves were bracelets of gold and pearl; it was high-waisted, bound close
under my breasts by a linked girdle of solid gold set with pearls and fastened
with a gold clasp at the neck. The draped skirt whispered freely without even a
brooch to clasp it, and I blushed at my own reflection. How Amerighi had come
by such a garment, unless he kept it for his mistress, I could not guess. My
cropped hair looked ridiculous against such splendor, and after several vain
attempts I manage to comb the short ends smoothly to the crown of my head and
secured them with pins. When it was done, it did not look unlike the French
fashion, but I missed Niccolosa's skill sorely.

I
stopped short. That was the accent I had been hearing ever since we came to
Ferrenza, that harsh, faintly guttural speech that had nagged perpetually at my
memory. The count, Enrico and his men, even Amerighi himself, all spoke like
Niccolosa. She must be a native of Ferrenza, I thought, and she had never told
me. But then there had never been any reason why she should.

There
was a cloak the intense blue of the sky which I put on over the gown, and its
weight around my shoulders lent me a little more assurance. If I kept it caught
around me when I moved, it might hide what the gown revealed; and while I
stayed still, I was modestly, even demurely, clad.

My
reflection gazed back at me, wide-eyed. Once again I was a stranger to myself:
There was nothing familiar in the image that met my eyes. Then I remembered
something that would remind me of my own identity—the pearl ring I had taken
off at Santi's bidding, my one link with my remembered self in Fidena. Hastily
I shook it out of its hiding place and slid it back on my finger with an odd
little throb of relief. My hand had grown thinner, and the ring slipped around;
but it was my own, one accustomed thing in the midst of so much that was
strange, and the knowledge of it warmed me. Then I had nothing to do but to
pace the beautiful room until I was sent for to come to supper.

When
the summons came at last, I was dry-mouthed with fright. While I dressed, I had
kept my thoughts at bay; once I had done, they came flooding back, and I found
myself thinking of that first night in Fidena, when Piero had come to fetch me
to Domenico. Then, as now, the future had been a blank wall, unguessable,
unthinkable—and I had stood waiting, loathing the present yet clinging to it
for fear of what was to come.

Someone
entered the room, and I looked around with dilating eyes. But it was no dapper,
mocking ghost who bowed before me—only a blank-faced stranger in the Duke of
Ferrenza's livery who said stoically that the duke begged for my presence at
supper. I did not need to ask which duke, for Domenico would never beg, not
even in courtesy.

Piero's
shade must have smiled as I followed the man along a corridor and across a
broad landing checkered black and white like the floor of the hall below. Time
had turned back, and again I was walking barefoot through a strange palace in
the wake of a stranger. I turned to go down the staircase to the dining chamber
I remembered seeing earlier, but the servant shook his head.

"No,
gracious madam, you are to sup in the duke's private apartments, you and your
lord. His Grace has given orders that you are not to be disturbed."

I
should have guessed, I thought, that these great ones would not deign to
discuss their affairs before the household; if Domenico were to humble his
pride and ask favors, he would do it in private. At least now I should not have
to parade before men I considered my comrades in this immodest gown.

Even
as I thought so, someone moved out of the shadow into my path. For a moment I
could not see who it was—then I recognized Lorenzo, neat in a borrowed suit of
clothes, with trouble furrowing his brow and shadowing his sea-blue eyes. I
gasped.

"Oh,
you startled me!"

"I
am sorry." He blurted the words, and his eyes would not meet mine. "I
mean—I wanted to ask pardon for the way I spoke to you on the journey."

"There
is nothing to forgive."

He
shook his head. Clearly he meant to utter every word of his apology and would
not be deterred. "I did not know, you see. I thought you one of those
pining milksops who sigh after the duke—there are enough of them among the
pages, heaven knows, and they turn my stomach—but if I had known—had
known—" He broke off and then said simply, "I think you are very
brave, madam."

I
felt my lips quiver as I smiled at him. "Thank you, Messire de'Falconieri,
but you were right to speak as you did. I was truly a pining milksop, I promise
you, and not brave at all. And I have to thank you for protecting me from my
lord Andrea—I did not do so then."

Color
flooded Lorenzo's face, and he stammered, "It was nothing—I am glad—I mean
I was not then, but I am now— that I could be of service to you."

Something
in the way he spoke reminded me of Ippolito, and I held out my hand to him in
silence, not trusting myself to speak. I expected him to grip it and let it go,
in the way of young boys; instead, he bowed low and kissed it and looked up at
me half-shamefaced. It must have been the first time he had kissed a woman's
hand.

"By
your favor, madam..." The servant's voice made me start.

"I
must go, Lorenzo," I said quickly. "Thank you again."

As
I hurried away, I knew that the boy was still standing looking after me. Then I
forgot him as I caught the murmur of voices at the far end of the gallery.

The
two men were talking idly, half-silhouetted against the dying sunshine
streaming across the checkered floor. Amerighi in black, seated in a low chair,
his dark head cocked like an attentive bird's; Domenico a startling contrast in
creamy white, propped lazily against the edge of the table, speaking softly. As
I came nearer, I realized what he was speaking of, that the conversation was
not idle at all; my apprehension came flooding back, and I stood listening,
hardly noticing that the servant had gone.

"...so
I am forced to ask you to trust me, cousin. Believe me, you cannot be more
reluctant to give your trust than I am to ask it of you."

Amerighi's
thin fingers drummed on the arm of his chair for a moment, and then his
downcast eyes lifted suddenly, a queer green gleam in them. "Should I be
reluctant to give you my trust?"

Domenico's
lips tightened; then he shrugged. "I have told you how fortune has served
me. All my estate is lost in Cabria—I cannot conceive that my mother duchess
will give me a pension to wage war against her. I reached your land" —his
voice was perilously even—"with a few half-starved horses, some paltry
followers of my own, and the Great Seal of Cabria." He moved his hand to
catch the light, and the great ring flashed. "That is the extent of my
pledges, and if you will not trust me to honor my debt when I return to Cabria,
I can promise no more."

Amerighi
murmured thoughtfully, "To make war on your mother duchess..."

"She
will be lost without my brother's guidance." Domenico spoke with all his
old arrogance. "I know her; she is too proud to take counsel from her
captains. I can take Fidena back again if I come upon her quickly enough."

"And
you mean to lay siege to her with my men." A shadow crossed Amerighi's
face, and he stared unseeingly ahead for a moment. Then he said suddenly,
"Why should I give you my aid to reclaim your dukedom?"

"To
save Ferrenza from the Spanish. What chance will you have to survive if
Gratiana rules in Philip's name? With Naples, Cabria, and all the northern
states under the Hapsburg yoke, Pope Pius will be your only bulwark—but as long
as Cabria is safe, the two halves of the Spanish force are severed."

Amerighi
nodded slowly. "Well, I will consider. I am honored by these confidences,
Cousin, and but for one trifle..." He broke off as he saw me, frozen
half-out of his chair, gripping its arms convulsively. Astonishment momentarily
drove every vestige of expression from his face.

"I
bid you good evening, lady."

I
walked forward, horribly aware of the way the gleaming gown clung and rippled.
I said shyly, "Good evening, Your Grace," and wished insanely that
Domenico would speak.

When
I looked at him, he had straightened out of his lounging pose, all pretense of
relaxation stripped from him. I thought he breathed more quickly, but his face
was still; only his narrowed eyes, blazing black, betrayed the wild animal
under the artificial calm. I met his gaze for a fleeting instant and shivered
as though he had touched me.

Amerighi
gave an odd little laugh, his gaze flickering from me to Domenico and back
again. A flush stained his hollow cheeks, and there was a glint of
overexcitement in his eyes, but when he spoke, there was only the slightest
tremor in his voice.

"I
thought to have asked your pardon for those garments I sent you, lady, but I
cannot find it in my heart to be sorry. They become you better than the woman
for whom they were made."

"Why,
who is that?"

"The
Blessed Virgin, lady." Amerighi laughed again as he saw my expression.
"It is true, I assure you. There are no women here to supply your needs
save a fat old grandam or two — I have no wife, as doubtless you have
heard." The mobile mouth twisted. "And if you had scorned those things,
I had been lost. But I lately commissioned a painting of the Annunciation from
Lombardetto, and he left behind the robes in which he portrayed the Virgin
Mary. They are for a lay figure and not a living woman." He glanced
significantly at the hem of the gown. "But I hope they may serve for this
one occasion."

Domenico
said deliberately, "It must be a fair picture," and Amerighi seemed
to start at the sound of his voice.

"I
thought so until now. Shall we go in to supper?"

"And
your answer?" It was very soft.

Amerighi
shook his head, an almost malicious brilliance in his eyes. "Not before we
have eaten, Cousin, I beg you! I will give you my decision soon, but for now,
armies and territories are bad sauces to good food, and I will not discuss it
further."

It
was lightly said, and he turned away as he spoke, affecting not to see
Domenico's involuntary stiffening, but I felt a spasm of dread as I saw the way
the muscles ridged about his mouth. The Duke of Cabria would have punished that
presumption with the full weight of his capricious fury, but Domenico della
Raffaelle, landless exile, must stay silent and humble his fabulous pride to a
compelled meekness.

I
took Amerighi's proffered arm and went with him through another, lower arch,
into one of the chambers off the long gallery. By now the sun was almost gone,
and candles cast a soft glow over the loaded table, their tiny flames reflected
innumerably in the bright gold of plates and goblets. From above, within the
carved and shuttered minstrels' gallery, the music of lutes fell softly down.

It
seemed uncanny that we should sit there, leisurely eating and drinking and
pretending that nothing lay behind our presence there. It might have been a
long-awaited state visit from Cabria to Ferrenza—there was no word of armies,
of usurping duchesses, of exile or death. I watched Domenico, seeing the
impatience behind his lazy unconcern, and wondered whether his great-uncle's
rebukes would have galled him more than this eggshell pretense.

I
had expected that talk would flow stiltedly between us, but the Duke of
Ferrenza seemed determined to leave no awkward silence, and after a little
Domenico curbed his temper enough to answer him civilly.

Amerighi
spoke of his collection of art treasures, describing each piece as though it
were to him a living thing, his controlled face growing animated as he warmed
to his theme. He talked of paintings, jewelry, statues, all beautiful things
for use and ornament that he had gathered around him. Watching the acquisitive
cock of his smooth chestnut head and the sharpness of his profile, I was
reminded again of a bird: Sandra had said, once, that the della Raffaelles were
a family of magpies. Did the Duke of Ferrenza, too, like to steal bright
things?