"It
is a fruitful one that he must seek, my lords," Baldassare Lucello
interposed. "Cabria has no heir after him but the lord Bastard and the
archbishop, and may heaven help all of us if either of them succeeds! The
Bastard has his own followers— Giovanni Santi and those marauders he calls
gentlemen—and the archbishop hates us and will root us out if he comes to
power. Let us pray that the duke will get himself a son, and that quickly,
before the state totters!"
"And
falls into the lap of Rome? You are too gloomy, Baldassare." Riccardo
D'Esti's fixed smile never left his lips as he spoke. "You may as well
prophesy that Spain will swallow Cabria after Naples's victory over our
soldiers. This news of the duke's is good for all of us—it is only his drabs
who will repine."
I
had not much comfort then, and it was of little consolation that Piero no
longer came near to upbraid me. I found myself often seeking Bernardo da
Lucoli's company; his gentle, undemanding presence and quiet devotion were
soothing when I was tired of combating the pinpricks of the court and my own
overwhelming, hopeless love. It seemed an age since I had sat in the attic over
the Eagle sign and wished for some excitement to enter my dull life—now,
passing all my expectations, I had it, and I would have given it all for peace
of mind.
Domenico
spent much of his time in council or closeted with Ippolito over state affairs,
but at night he kept me close to him, even teaching me the court dances in the
banqueting hall after the feasting was done. I remember the slow, insidious
music of flutes and hautbois; the torchlight outlining the duke's silvered body
like wildfire; the gleam in the black depths of his eyes, and the way the room
faded like the setting of a dream, leaving the hard grip of his fingers and the
breathtaking grace of his steps as the only reality.
Once
Sandro came to solicit me to dance with him, too, and because I felt lost and
reckless I gave him my hand without a glance at Domenico. What if I were still,
incredibly, the duke's mistress— my days would be done soon enough, once he had
chosen his bride, and then there was nothing for me but a choice between
beggary and a convent in Genoa.
"My
brother did not intend any man but him to partner you, I'll swear," Sandro
observed with a wolfish grin on his dark face, "but it will not harm him
to give place for once! He has it all." For a moment the humor was gone
from his voice, and his eyes were as cold as chips of ice; then he saw my
expression and smiled again. "You need not fear for his anger, lady. His frowns
are directed at me and not at you. I shall find myself on an errand to the
border tomorrow."
"Surely
he would not send you there for so little!"
He
shrugged, wholly unconcerned. He had weighed the offense against the penalty
before he ever approached me, and he showed no sign of caring that he would be
sent into danger— not that I really believed the danger, for Sandro bore a
charmed life. The figure of the dance took him away from me, and as our hands
clasped again he said, "My brother is not sparing with his punishments,
lady. I shall be paying for my pleasure soon enough. Tell me"—I thought I
heard his voice sharpen as I turned under our upraised hands — "when does
he mean to strike at della Quercia? He has had proof of his treachery for five
days and more, and he was not wont to be so slow in his revenges."
"I
do not know, my lord." I felt a sense of shame as I spoke. "He—the
duke has said nothing to me. Perhaps he means to torture him with
waiting."
Sandro
nodded shrewdly. "Perhaps. You have come to know my brother better since
you came here. But for his own safety and the state's, you had best urge him to
rid us of this traitor."
"Where
did you learn that caution, my lord? That is none of yours!"
He
laughed outright at that, a sudden, ribald guffaw which rang discordantly over
the music. "True, lady! I have been hearkening overmuch to my
great-uncle's wisdom. But the old jackal is right for all that." He
sobered swiftly. "The court would be well rid of such a plotting knave.
You do not love the man—you could persuade..."
"No."
I shook my head instinctively. "I will not do more to bring the lord Piero
to ruin than I have already done. And I wish I had not done so much," I
added in a whisper.
Sandro
remained unabashed. "Stay a little longer at court, lady, and your tender
conscience will cease to prick you. In a week or two—a month—a man's life will
be nothing to you if it stands in the way of your affairs. Why should you be so
squeamish? The man is as good as dead."
The
words shocked me so much that I almost stumbled. So to him—and to anyone else
who knew of that damning scrap of paper—Piero was hardly more than a walking
wraith; they were only waiting to know when he would die. No wonder the man was
close-tongued these days, and cautious. He must be feeling the chill of a
phantasm's existence.
The
music ended, and Sandro led me back to the chair by Domenico's side. I curtsied
to him automatically as he released my hand, my thoughts so full of Piero and
his treachery that at first I did not notice Domenico's expression.
"So
my brother Sandro grows attentive, too?" His voice jerked me back to the
present, and I saw a troubling glitter in the dark eyes following his half
brother's stumpy figure. "Soon you will have a kennel of these... lapdogs
vying for your favors."
I
made a movement of protest, and he turned his head, a terrifying hardness about
the smile on his lips.
"Oh,
I have eyes. Della Quercia, Bernardo da Lucoli, and my brother... you had best
be virgin-close with them, or I may grow angry."
He
spoke lightly; his eyelids drooped, and the subject was dismissed. But a
senseless joy was licking through me like a flame. My days as his mistress
might be numbered, it seemed, but God help any man who sought to anticipate my
dismissal.
Sandro's
sudden expedition to the border to brave the clutches of the King of Naples was
a nine hours' wonder that barely stirred the eddies of rumor concerning the
Duke's marriage. To the court, what was promised was ever more important than
what was past, and their tongues relished the speculations like bees around a
honeypot. When the duke sent out a dozen messengers on some mysterious errand,
rumor had it that they were ambassadors sent to negotiate his marriage; and
after that I began to notice again the despising tone in some voices, the
contempt in their eyes that had been veiled while they thought me secure in the
duke's bed.
What
surprised me was the change in Maddalena. I thought she would find pleasure in
taunting me with the prospect of my fall; but her roughness and spite began to
abate, and I supposed, when I saw her whispering with the archbishop and gazing
at me, that she had decided I would most likely go to Genoa and not trouble her
much longer.
The
next night, I was sitting in my chamber, waiting for Bernardo to fetch me to
the duke. Niccolosa had gone to lock up the Cabria diamonds in safety, and I
was thinking that soon I must give up those ill-fated jewels in my turn, I
could bear the loss of the Duke of Cabria's favor, I was thinking, but how was
I to live without Domenico?
A
firefly glimmer moved in the mirror before me, and I met the reflection of
Maddalena's green eyes as she came up behind me.
"I
wanted to speak with you." Her voice was low and urgent. "Quickly,
before that old hag comes back."
"Why,
what is the matter?" There was a fierce purpose in her face that startled
me;
"I
want you to ask Domenico to prefer me as a lady-in-waiting to his new wife. He
will listen to you, and once he is wedded there will be no security for women
who are not friends with his bride."
"But
he has not chosen her yet."
"Have
you not heard?" Her smile was scornful. "It is all over the court
that he is to wed the Duke of Savoy's bastard daughter. She is rich, they say,
and fair enough for Domenico to overlook the accident of her birth. The
archbishop has done all he can to oppose the match, but now he has given
way."
I
stared at her blindly, wondering which of those dimly remembered portraits had
been of Savoy's daughter. The names and the faces had all run together in one
hurtful blur. I said in a voice that did not sound like my own, "I had not
heard. You would be welcome if I could do it, but I dare not beg an office for
myself, let alone for you."
"You
have no need of an office!" Her eyes narrowed like a cat's. "It would
be nothing to you..."
"When
the duke is married, I shall be cast lower than you!" I turned to face
her, trying not to let the tears spill down my cheeks. "You at least are
nobly born, but I have no foothold here but the duke's favor. When he weds, I
shall have nothing." I heard the pain in my own voice almost detachedly,
but Maddalena had taken the words literally.
"He
has given you more than ever he gave me!" There was a flash of the old,
sullen jealousy in her face. "Besides, when he marries, he is sure to give
you a dowry, and, if it does not tempt a nobleman to marriage, it will induce
one to take you under his protection."
I
said bewilderedly, "Why should he give me a dowry, more than
another?" and saw Maddalena's wide mouth curve in a cynical smile.
"You
cannot be as mealy-mouthed as that! There is no need to play the innocent—the
whole court knows."
I
felt suddenly weary. "I do not doubt it. What do they know now?"
"Why,
of your parentage, of course. It has been common knowledge since Domenico's
envoys came back—they could not keep such news to themselves. When they found
that you were truly Duke Carlo's daughter...."
"No!"
I said. "No, I am not."
"It
is proved." Her scornful tone dismissed my interjection. "Domenico's
agents discovered more than he foresaw when he sent them to find out your
father. Did he not tell you he was seeking him?"
"He
once said he might." A voice in my brain was repeating monotonously, This
cannot be happening. None of this is real. "But I never knew that he had
discovered anything."
Understanding
flooded her face, and she laughed. "That man is a devil! I thought he had
used his tongue to coax you into continuing to share his bed, but not to tell
you—that outgoes everything!"
"Please."
I put my hand on her arm. "Please tell me plainly what you are saying. I
cannot—I cannot make myself understand you."
She
gave an impatient little sigh and began to speak slowly and clearly as though I
were a halfwit. "Domenico has discovered that you are his father's child.
You are his half sister." Her tone changed as she saw my expression.
"Well, is it so surprising? Duke Carlo was not faithful to any of his
wives, it is well known—he had dozens of other bastards besides Sandro, and all
of them were small and dark like you. They say it is clear from how swiftly you
settled here, and how fond you seem to be of Sandro...."
I
did not hear the rest of what she said. I just sat still, not daring to move or
speak in case something should happen to prove that this was reality. As long
as I knew it was a nightmare, I thought, I could bear it.
I
had been sleeping with my half brother. The love which had seemed so glorious,
so total, was a tie of blood after all! My ignorance had betrayed me into
incest, and what I had accounted a venial sin was one of the blackest that man
or woman could commit, as much as if I had mated with Antonio. My brother.
"Why
did he not tell me?" I said at last.
Maddalena
shrugged. "Because he knew you would take it so, I would guess. These days
no one cares for consanguinity—any kin now, next to full brother and sister, is
winked at by priests. But the common people,"—the dismissiveness in her
tone was more insulting than contempt— "still hold it sinful to mate with
kindred. If he had told you, you would have refused him."
I
stammered, "Why should I believe you? It may not be true...."
"It
is true enough. If you doubt me, ask him. Ask Domenico." She caught my
hands and pulled them away from my face, kneeling beside me with her eyes hard
and bright as pale emeralds. "He will kill me if he finds out that I have
told you: you must swear not to tell him what I have said. I know I hated you
when you first came here, but that is past—I have Sandro now, and I can hold
him as long as I choose. I swear to you, I thought you knew all this—it is nothing,
I tell you! The court thinks it sport, no more!"
I
gave a little cry of despair, and Maddalena rose to her feet with a great
rustle as Niccolosa entered; through my tears I saw her come flapping towards
me like an agitated crow. "Now, my lady. Madonna Maddalena!" Her
voice hardened. "What have you been saying to my young lady?"
"Nothing."
Maddalena's deep voice was as indifferent as ever. "Nothing it is not good
for her to know."
"Seeking
to make mischief, no doubt. What is it, my lady?"
I
shook my head, unable to answer, and her lips thinned. "You must not heed
any stories of His Grace's new wife. Some even say it will be you, and I do not
doubt"—she glared at Maddalena— "there are jealous ears enough to
give even that tale credence."