"The
choice does not lie with me, lady." Sandro's tone was dry. "It is the
dukes who order the disposing of the court, and those legitimate"—there
was a sudden crack of bitterness at the word— "seem to favor that moldy
warren in Fidena. It has been the family stronghold since the Caesars; I care
less for it than they do."
I
felt as though a pit I had not suspected yawned suddenly in front of me. I
answered awkwardly, "That is because you feel that Diurno is your
home."
"True."
He grinned suddenly and pinched my cheek. "And what has been gained by war
can be lost again as easily."
Before
I could ask him what he meant, he was staring past me with his eyes screwed up
against the sun and then called aloud, "Holla, Madonna Niccolosa! We
thought you lost! Do not climb down all those steps. We will come up to you. We
were returning even now." He patted my hand as it lay on his arm.
"Come, lady, I will take you to see old Cosimo and the favor of a few of
my ancestors—on my father's side."
When
we reached her, Niccolosa was gazing at us in mingled concern and reproof.
"I daresay you took care to lose me, my lord."
His
eyes widened guilelessly. "Why should you think so? I need you when I tell
your lady tales of my illustrious forebears. I swear you know more of them than
any native Cabrian."
To
my dazed eyes the picture gallery seemed the size of a cathedral, and I would
have stood blinking in the midst of it for hours but that Sandro hauled me
irresistibly towards a statue on a plinth halfway down the room.
"That
is old Cosimo." He eyed the sculpture in a comradely fashion. "The
legate's savior. Look, you can see the name cut in the stone."
I
nodded obediently and turned when he bade me see the portraits of the della
Raffaelles since they became mighty in Cabria. "A fine crew," he
commented sarcastically.
Dukes,
duchesses, brothers, sisters, cousins, were all shown in picture one after the
other. I stared at them hungrily, seeking a resemblance in the dark faces and
heavy bodies that was not there, and Sandro watched my perplexity knowingly.
"You
will not find my brother in them, lady. He does not come of our father's
stock—he is his mother turned male. I am a clearer pattern of our blood than
he."
It
was true, I thought, looking at the pictured faces. Nearly all the della
Raffaelles were square and sturdy, with bold features that declined with age
into coarseness. They had dark hair, too, like Sandro—the only thing which
marked him out from the run of the family was his vivid blue eyes. I could see
his father in him as I gazed at a picture of Duke Carlo in his twenties; they
had the same compactness, the same bullheaded look, and—I realized with a sense
of shock—the same hard, acquisitive eyes. In Duke Carlo it was clearer, emphasized
by the greedy mouth and the look of petulance about him: but it was in Sandro's
rugged and cheerful face nonetheless.
"That
was painted when he was a young man." Sandro's voice, unconcerned and
unheeding, interrupted my thoughts. "There is another of him when he was
older—come and see."
Glad
to forget what had crossed my mind, I hurried after him towards a group of
portraits at the far end of the gallery—and halted, transfixed. Sandro followed
the direction of my stare.
"That
is the Duchess Vittoria, lady—my royal brother's mother, if it were not plain
enough."
Looking
indifferently out of the canvas was the likeness of a seated woman whose fair
beauty shone against her sable velvet gown like the moon on a frosty night. It
was uncanny. There was the haughty profile; the half-cruel, half-vulnerable
mouth; the heavy-lidded eyes night-dark in a fair, flawless face; all blurred
by some trick from a man's to a woman's. The shining silver-gilt hair was piled
high and crowned with diamonds; the slender, prideful grace made the Cabria
necklace, clasped about the white throat, a poor tribute to such perfection.
The Duchess Vittoria had been beautiful beyond imagining and had bequeathed her
beauty to her son. But she looked more like a statue than a living woman; there
was a chilling indifference in the painted eyes quite different from the
turbulent brilliance of Domenico's. I shivered and told myself that it was my
fancy, or else a fault of the painter's.
"My
father was unlucky in his first two wives," Sandro remarked.
"Frosty-spirited both of them, and as proud as the devil. But the first at
least was a fit piece to gaze upon. Look at the other."
I
thought for a moment that the second portrait was a parody of the first.
Another woman sat in the identical pose, wearing an identical gown, ablaze with
the Cabria diamonds. But there was no cold flame of beauty in this second
woman. She must have been years younger than the Duchess Vittoria, but she
looked stiff and sour and desperately unhappy.
Without
the cruel severity of the black and the cumbrous jewelry she would have looked
like a schoolgirl, with a schoolgirl's miserable angularity. She was thin and
haggard, with a long face and a long nose and downward-slanting eyes, bright
hazel, that gazed out of the picture with something like defiance. Her soft
brown hair might have suited her if it had been dressed to soften the harsh
planes of her face, but it was dragged back and dressed high in hurtful
imitation of the earlier portrait, emphasizing the defenselessness of her thin
shoulders. Then I saw the pearl ring faithfully painted on one of the tightly
clenched hands and knew who it was before Sandro said the name.
"That
was the Duchess Isabella — my father's second wife. God help them both."
I
stared wistfully, even a little jealously, at the face of the woman who haunted
Domenico's sleep. Had he loved her in spite of what he said, that he should
remember her so long?
Sandro
continued casually, "We can thank her for your guardian, here—Madonna
Niccolosa came with her to Diurno when she was married and has served my father
and my brother ever since."
He
did not give me time to answer but turned to direct my attention to the
standing portrait of the man whose image I still recalled from the day of the
procession. Duke Carlo grown old: a gross man whom the painter had had to
flatter, cloaking him in splendid clothes like a shell of majesty. I was
looking at it when hands touched my shoulders lightly, and I swayed.
Domenico's
voice said softly, "What, are you communing with my ancestors?"
I
forced my languorous eyes to open. "Yes, Your Grace. Your brother has
borne with me all this while and showed me much of the palace I would not have
dared explore alone."
"Tush,"
Domenico still spoke gently, but his hands slid down to my waist and gripped
hard, "you need beg no man's pardon save mine. As for my brother, I had
rather he should bear with you than you with him."
"That
is your lady's thought too, brother." Sandro fingered his ear
reminiscently. Domenico smiled, lifted my hand—the hand that wore Isabella's
ring—and kissed it, lightly and possessively. The touch of his lips seemed to
burn my palm.
To
fill the tiny silence I said, "My lord, who is that lady?" and both
brothers glanced up, then away again quickly.
Sandro
said, "That is our gracious stepmother, lady. The Duchess Gratiana."
"Oh,
she was..." I broke off.
"And
is! She is not dead, the more the pity. Sometimes there are posts from Naples
still, bringing me love letters from her."
I
gazed up at the portrait now with unfeigned interest, wondering that he could
speak so lightly. Domenico was saying, "I wondered whence you had so many
messengers," but his hold had slackened, and I disengaged myself to go and
stand before the picture.
The
Duchess Gratiana was ugly, uglier by far than poor plain Isabella; yet there
was something about her that attracted men, which the painter had understood
and expressed in details of his sitter's pose and expression. She was leaning a
little forward, as though to display her bosom; her lips, at once fleshy and
slightly sunken, were painted a vivid scarlet; her nose was a great beak; and,
remembering the drunken Beniamino's harsh description, I could imagine the
smell that would linger in the folds of that rich dress.
She
was dressed in cerise and gold—her olive-skinned hands covered with rings every
color of the rainbow, the Cabria necklace about her throat—and with it a great
ruby brooch, and gold combs in her thick, dark hair. The gown was cut far too
low for so old a woman, and her shoulders and breasts were powdered, like her
face, far whiter than those dark and wrinkled hands.
I
turned to find both brothers watching me curiously and spoke with an effort.
"The painter did not flatter her unduly."
"Oh,
but he did." Sandro's eyes lifted maliciously to the painted woman's.
"She was never so clean as that since she came from the womb, and he has
made believe all her hair was her own; but he was a fair artist and could not
hide all he saw." He turned his back on the picture and said in a different
voice, "Well, Brother, have you and the old fox done your
conference?"
Domenico
shrugged. "He was trying once again to dissuade me from wedding Savoy's
daughter. He still does not favor her, it seems."
"But
you do."
The
bright head nodded. "She has beauty enough to overcome her bastardy, and
her dowry contents me. If Savoy had a legitimate daughter, I would yield to my
uncle; but he has not, so I shall wed his pretty bastard."
Sandro
was watching me calculatingly as I strove to keep my face impassive, and then
after a moment he grinned and looked at Domenico.
"God's
life, you go roundabout! Do you still mean to honor her in your
coronation?"
Before
Domenico could reply, I said quickly, "Your Grace, if your bride is to
bear a part in the ceremony it is not fitting that I should be there. I ask
your leave to be absent."
"I
deny it." His expression was unreadable. "Savoy's daughter cannot
come in time, and you are to stand proxy for her—to take the bride's part in
the solemnities tomorrow." I stared at him, thinking that he had gone mad,
that he could not know what he was saying, but his voice continued levelly.
"The ceremony is ordered, the wench's gown bespoke, and the people are
half-lunatic with expectation—they do not know you, and, if you are dressed finely
enough and in royal state, they will take you for what you pretend to be."
Sandro
chuckled. "You will show her to them as your bride, Brother?"
"She
will serve the turn." Domenico gave him one swift, enigmatic look and then
his gaze came back to me. "I will not. It is not fit."
"You
have so much sense, at least!" The voice from the doorway made me jump,
and I looked around to see the archbishop standing there, his gaunt face tight
with rage. Then as he moved forward, his silks swept the marble floor with a
hiss like an angry snake.
For
a moment there was silence in the long gallery, followed by the rustle of
Niccolosa's skirts as she hurried to the door. I would have followed her, but
Domenico's hand detained me.
"More
arguments, Uncle?" His voice sounded bored.
"Would
you prefer it if I stood aside and let you risk all your father and grandfather
gained for the sake of a masquerade?" The archbishop's lips were tightly
compressed. "I cannot prevent you from marrying this... Savoyard bastard
of yours now that you have won the council to your will, but neither threats
nor bribery can win them to this! It is enough that you have sacrificed an
alliance with a daughter of the Sforzas or of the Medicis, but you are
preparing to insult their very ambassadors by parading this woman before them
as your betrothed wife!"
"I
never knew an ambassador yet who was chosen for his brains," Sandro
interpolated. "You might change a Turk for the Savoyard and none of them
would notice. Be patient, my lord; it will be excellent foolery!"
"It
is no subject for fooling. Cabria's safety hangs on it."
Sandro
raised his eyebrows. "Come, my lord, there are proxy weddings enough—this
is not even a betrothal. Why make such a business of it?"
"You
know that no substitute in such a ceremony is ever kept secret from the
witnesses. Do not insult my intelligence, Alessandro."
Sandro
shrugged. "Well, my lord!"
"Domenico,"
the archbishop's voice changed, "go to your crowning tomorrow as if this
marriage had not been thought of. The people will discount all the rumors of
your bride—I can have it talked of in the streets that she has not come here
after all. When she arrives in truth you can welcome her with pomp enough to
show off the match you have chosen." There was contempt in his tone.
"I
have told you it contents me well enough." The duke's eyes narrowed
dangerously.
"I
will not argue with you. You know my mind—I think you would have done better to
choose elsewhere. But this playacting is playing with fire. It is more than a
fair show to please the people and you know it." The archbishop checked as
Domenico stirred restlessly, then continued. "We might mend this... choice
of yours by reporting her wealth and beauty and hiding the fact that she has
neither rank nor power. But what if Milan, Tuscany, Venice, and Genoa learn
that you have shown them a false bride?"