Without
thinking, I asked, "Celia, why do I never go out?"
She
had been chopping meat with quick, decisive movements, and the rhythmic clack
of the knife hardly faltered when I spoke. When at last she paused, it was not
at me she looked but at the platter in my hands.
"Have
you finished? You have been long enough about it!"
"No,
not yet. I..."
"Then
stop chattering and do not waste my time!"
"I
want to know why I do not go out."
I
stood stubbornly still, the platter held in front of me like a shield. I had
never defied her before, and my heart was beating fast as she put down the
knife and turned to face me. In that moment I saw she had been half expecting
the question; there was no trace of surprise in her face, only a kind of wary
hostility.
"I
do not know what you mean." Her voice was toneless.
"You
must know. I am not dreaming it!" I was almost stammering, but I struggled
to speak steadily. "The only time I leave the house is to go to Mass—I
never thought of it before!"
"And
what makes you think of it now?" Celia's mouth was hard; she was watching
me as though I were an enemy.
In
answer I held out my hands, red and raw but without a trace of sunburning.
"My skin was as brown as yours when we first came here—I have not gone
freely into the sun since you wedded Antonio. Before we lived here, I ran
errands for our neighbors—fetched wine to old man Fracci..."
"That
old sot!"
"...
but here I do not know who our neighbors are, and if any in the Via Croce know
me, it is a wonder, for I never set eyes upon them. We have lived here for
months and..."
"Not
three months yet, be quiet! What should we do then? Hold a grand feast and
invite the rich merchants in the Via Croce to come and pay court to our
precious bastard sister?"
The
blood stung my cheeks with the humiliation I could never control. "No, I
did not mean that. But I never go outside for all that. I might as well be in a
nunnery."
"The
best place for you!" Celia spoke with sudden venom, and I was startled by
the spite on her face. "Rest assured that if one of the sisterhoods would
have taken you without a fat dowry, you would have been chanting hymns by now.
But we cannot squander good money on paying the nuns to take you, so here you stay
until you find your way to the other sort! And that will be soon enough, I
warrant."
"I
would not go to a brothel, if that is what you mean."
"So
you say, but blood will tell. Your mother was a whore, and God in heaven knows
who your fine father may be. We do our best, I and Antonio, to keep you out of
the bawdy house and get nothing but abuse for our pains. Well, go out if you
are so hot to go—go and stay out, and ply your trade in the stews, where you
belong! Never say I mewed you up against your will!"
I
hardly heard the last of what she said; I was trembling with anger.
"My
mother was not a whore."
"Oh,
I cry you mercy!" Celia put her hands on her ample hips, her light eyes
hard and bright. "Do I wrong her spotless memory? For sure, she was a
priceless piece of virtue, faithful and loving to her husband—that is why you
look so much like Antonio that strangers think he keeps a drab!" The
hatred in her eyes was terrifying. "Do you think I do not hear the
questions? 'Doesn't Mistress Guardi care... ?' 'Is it true, so soon after the
wedding... ?' I tell you, I have borne it long enough! You keep out of sight as
long as I bid you, my fine madam, and thank God that I give you a roof over
your head—I will not let the rich folk know that we lodge a by-blow in the
house!"
"I
will not stay here if you do not want me." My voice was a dry whisper.
"I will find a place...."
"You
do not leave this house!" Her hand caught my cheek in a stinging slap, and
the platter fell to the ground. "Lazy slut you may be, but I cannot spare
a pair of hands. You would go soon enough if I let you, and leave me and your
poor brother all unprovided...."
I
shook my head, half-blinded with tears, but she did not heed me.
"And
you would go straight to the brothel, I know you—you are itching for a man.
Fine talking that would be, Antonio Guardi's sister selling herself in a
whorehouse."
"Half-sister,"
I corrected bitterly, and she slapped me again.
"Get
out of my sight, and quickly! Pick that up." She pointed with her foot at
the fallen platter. "And clean it properly. I will not have you whining to
be let into the street like a bitch in heat— thank the saints I do not tell
Antonio, or he would flog your backside raw!"
Shaking
more with anger than with fright, I picked up the platter and fled. I did not
trust myself to speak, for my silence was not Christian meekness but a temper
so violent that if I opened my lips I might say something I would regret
eternally. I fled into the scullery, and after one look at my face the
chattering serving maids fell silent and went diligently to work. It was not
until I was safe in my bed at night that the tears came.
After
that I knew better than to complain for my liberty, and as the days wore on, I
ceased to remember the lack of it. There was too much else to be done: the
bleaching of linen to be laid up in the big presses, the plucking of fowls and
the curing of fish, and the endless sweeping and scrubbing. The other servants
in the place saw well enough the dislike Celia bore me and would not risk her
wrath by appearing friendly—there were days when no one spoke a word to me save
Antonio and Celia. Even the carriers, trying to banter with me when they came
with the Eagle's provisions, had her sharp rebuke for their pains.
Then,
so gradually that I did not notice it at first, the carriers came less often,
and the goods they brought up from the harbor grew poorer and more expensive.
When Antonio cursed, the men said simply that there were fewer ships in the
bay; they could not bring stuff that was not there. What did he expect? A hot
summer, unrest throughout the land, and Naples rumored to be preparing for
war...
Fidena's
citizens were at first no more concerned than that. The duke had so many
enemies that nearly every summer there was some warlike flurry that had to be
put down. In winter, with the rivers in spate holding off Romagna in the
northwest and Naples in the south and western mountains curbing the pope, who
had once ruled Cabria and still gaped to retain it, and the tides surging
against the Turkish pirates who haunted the eastern coast, Cabria's people felt
secure. Even now, when the rivers were fast shrinking to a sun-dried trickle
and Fidena made a fair mark for the king of Naples, the danger did not seem
real. The days went by and the rumors took shape, and still the city seemed not
to care whether they were true or false; of more concern was the fact that the
marches were burned brown and the wine harvest in grave danger. Fresh food
became more and more scarce, Antonio's scowl grew blacker as trade declined,
and still the invasion was only a subject for idle gossip.
Then
suddenly, at the height of summer, the talk ceased. The citizens clustered in
apprehension on street corners and under inn signs; the Neapolitan forces had
surged northward in one dreadful sweep, pillaging and burning. News came that
they had taken the town of Arriccio, only a few days' march distant, and at
last the danger was more than an unlikely rumor.
Almost
overnight, Fidena became a city in terror—soldiers and condottieri crowded its
streets, tradesmen neglected their work, and farmers abandoned their crops for
the safety of its grim walls. It had been a fortress for close on three hundred
years, this city, a Raffaelle stronghold long before there were dukes in
Cabria. It was unthinkable that it should fall while the della Raffaelle
themselves were at the palazzo. I heard it time out of mind in those
fear-filled days—from passersby in the street, from the topers who stayed
talking in the innyard and never thought to look up. From that high, narrow
room above the gateway, with coaches and horsemen rattling by under my very
feet, I heard all the bustling sounds of the world thrown into confusion.
As
for Celia, not even for the prospect of war would she relax her vigilance over
me; when she saw how people were beginning to throng the inn, she took greater
pains than ever to keep me out of sight. Now my tasks were in the scullery or
in the stillroom, or if all else failed, she would shut me in my room to do the
sewing I hated. For me, every hour of those days of uncertainty was crowded,
and in a way I was grateful, for it left me little time to think. It was only
at night as I tossed restlessly in the stuffy little attic room, listening to
the creak of the Eagle sign as it swung to and fro outside my window, that my
thoughts could run free, piecing together the meaningless scraps of
conversation I heard and fighting the wall of despair which threatened to
imprison me more surely than all Celia's stratagems.
It
was on one such night that I first heard Beniamino's voice.
There
was talk that the duke had called for troops to send against the invader, and
certainly the streets were spilling over with soldiers, brawling, rioting,
filling the taverns by night, but by day harsh guardians of the duke's peace
who had orders to disperse any crowd and could hang any man they chose. Antonio
fawned to them, welcoming their custom; but it was out of fear, for always the
old dread of the duke's men hushed men's voices and quickened their steps when
the black-clad riders passed.
Beniamino
was a captain in the duke's army and came every night to the Eagle. I never
knew his right name—only that he was Beniamino, because that was what they
shouted to bring him in again. All I ever really knew about him was the sound
of his voice.
It
was an odd voice—husky, grating, with a slight lisping accent—and at first I
could not understand what he was saying. I strained my ears to the slurring,
wine-soaked drawl rising out of the night, and at last I stole out of bed and
across to the shuttered window to hear him better.
No
one who has not heard it will believe how often drinking companions will choose
an innyard to talk secrets. In their care not to be overheard in the taproom,
they will stagger out into the night air and talk of state and politics in
voices that anyone might hear. Beniamino's words came to me clearly as I knelt
in the dark with my cheek pressed against the rough wooden shutter.
He
was talking fluently of what he would do if he had command of the Cabrian army,
and his companion was trying to hush him, as though such free speech made him
nervous. Small wonder, for among the plans of greater and more glorious battles
to come jostled scraps of information about the wars now in hand.
"Old
Carlo wants us to think we're fighting Naples," Beniamino said and
giggled. "As if s not common knowledge that Naples is King Philip's
footboy and will stab at his bidding!"
"Quiet!
'Snot safe to talk of it." His companion sounded uneasy.
"I
know—the duke will have my tongue. And my eyes, and everything else too,
belike, he is so tender of the duchess's reputation. Well, he would have a hot
wife after those two cold cows he wedded first, and see where his lust has
brought him!"
"Peace,
for God's sake! We will both hang!"
"As
well hang as have to die in such a cause, I say." There was a tinge of
recklessness in Beniamino's tone. "What, be killed in resolving old
Carlo's household strifes—because Madam Gratiana seeks in other men's beds what
the old lecher can no longer give her himself?"
There
was a scuffle, as though the other man jerked away.
"
'M going—going in. I will—will not hear you."
"What's
there to fear? I speak what you know already— Duke Carlo took a Spanish bride
with the face of a parrot and the habits of a goat to comfort his royal bed.
And when he found out what tricks she was playing him, as half Cabria knew long
since—"
"Speak
softer! The guards..."
"—he
scolded her so roundly, and in public too, that she set her kinsman Philip's
lapdog of Naples to get her revenge with this war."
"You
are raving. What revenge could sh'have by setting Naples at our throats?"
Beniamino
giggled again. "Oh, Luigi! Luigi, you know as well as I! Gratiana wants
her widowhood and treasure to pay for her foining—she could never come by it
else. It takes a plain wench to cool old Carlo; he's hot enough for any woman
who is but young and fresh."
With
a noise like a grunt of fear Luigi pulled himself from Beniamino's grasp, and I
heard his unsteady footsteps pattering back towards the taproom. Beniamino
chuckled and then, with a sigh, followed him slowly and carefully.
I
stayed still in the dark, my own disquiet forgotten. In my inmost heart I had
always believed the teachings of the Church, that war was the instrument of
God; the deaths that followed in its train were part of His will, and to fear
any battle was a sign of a want of faith. That a war could be rooted in men's
own actions and fought for selfish and petty ends not worth a drop of any
soldier's blood seemed to me then like a glimpse into an undreamed-of abyss.