The
court woke Wearily and late next day to the celebrations that were to last
another three days. Dignitaries from the length and breadth of the state were
flocking to Diurno, and the ambassadors from half Italy had come to confirm the
goodwill of their masters to the new-seated Duke of Cabria. Pompous Venetians,
quick-tongued Florentines, and cautious Tuscans all begged audience with the
duke; the palace resounded strange accents and was crowded with strange
fashions, like a port whose harbor is full of ships. Only the archbishop looked
black and talked of who had come and who had not, and of the portent of waning
friendships. I searched the foreign faces for a Savoyard embassy but was forced
to conclude at last that the duke must have meant to send only his daughter to
Cabria.
Domenico
received them all in the council chamber, crowned and enthroned in the carved
chair Sandro had shown me, with me seated like a mute at his side. I could not
guess whether it was a punishment or only his whim that I should sit so,
playing the bride for the ambassadors; but I sat beside him for hour after
hour, a useless puppet, while they talked of treaties and partitions and
ratifications and thought me to be the next Duchess of Cabria. Now and again I
caught a gleam of derision in Domenico's eyes, as though he relished the absurdity
of it all, but I could not be sure whether it was I or the ambassadors that he
mocked.
Meanwhile,
the court buzzed with my new advancement. Some even believed it was for my own
sake, forgetting that I was nothing but a substitute, and there were sycophants
who would hang on my every word and petitioners to plead causes at every turn
of the stairs. Only I knew, by Domenico's quick, ungentle passion and by the
perilousness of his temper, how fragile my power really was. My escape might
have been pardoned; it had not been forgiven.
I
saw little of Sandro during those few days, for he had told his brother that he
was no better a counselor now than he had ever been and had disappeared into
the hunting field. Jealousy might have pricked him, but that was to be expected
in an elder brother who misses an inheritance, infuriatingly, only through his
bastardy. The archbishop treated me with smiles and silvery courtesy which I
did not understand at first; then I realized that his spite against me went
deeper and worked in subtler ways than open enmity.
Somehow,
he had discovered Piero's desire for me and worked upon that like the
politician he was. He knew as well as I that at the first hint of my
unfaithfulness the duke would have done with me—so he paid Piero, and others
too, to court me, in the hope that their attentions might work some mischief.
But
if Domenico saw what was happening, he paid no heed—or perhaps he no longer
cared how many men laid siege to me. His mind seemed full of state affairs, and
it was only at night, when I was smuggled to his bed, that he heeded me beyond
any of the gaggle of courtiers who crowded about him.
At
last the ambassadors began to take their leave, and the court's mood altered to
a cruder, more sensual gaiety. Ceremonious revels were laid aside, and little
order was kept in the sports and feasting. For once Domenico seemed content
that strict observance of his presence should not be kept, and once the
interminable councils of state were done, he lent his countenance to any pastime,
watching the revelers with a faintly cynical smile disfiguring his soft mouth.
Ippolito
de'Falconieri was teaching me the rules of chess—he had appointed himself my
unofficial guardian since we came to Diurno—when the duke came and stood beside
me, watching the play over my shoulder. I tensed at once, forgetting all the
rules of play in my awareness of the lounging, silver-clad figure so close
behind me. I moved a piece at random, and Ippolito hesitated; then he shifted a
piece in his turn, and Domenico laughed.
"You
are too chivalrous, Ippolito. You should have taken the rook she has left
unguarded."
"I
am playing a deeper game than that, Your Grace."
Domenico's
fingers closed in a cruel little caress on my shoulder. "True. If one
strikes too soon, there is no pleasure in playing, but if one seems to let a
fault pass unobserved, one can reap the benefit later—look." He reached
past me and negligently moved a pawn. "Your knight has been in peril for
some time; this other rook can take him. Beware your queen, now."
Ippolito
watched the capture of the mounted knight philosophically. "Well, I have
another knight, and I think my bishop"—he moved it forward—"will
guard the queen well enough."
The
white hand checked, then moved smoothly, and the duke said softly, "No.
See what happens when the king comes into play."
Ippolito
groaned, and I laughed, then stared at the board. In three moves Domenico had
altered the whole complexion of the game; from a pathetically undefended
position, spread anyhow across the board, the black pieces were now threatening
the white, breaking up their ranks and invading their territories.
"You
see," Domenico remarked lazily, "choosing the moment to strike can
look like mercy."
I
sat very still, my pulses thundering as his fingertips stroked my heck.
Ippolito looked up sharply, his dark face suddenly drawn and anxious.
"I
think," Domenico spoke absently, his fingertip tracing a line of fire
across my shoulder, "that Piero della Quercia must learn to bear himself
more humbly soon. It is time, when he crowns his treachery with folly and woos
my mistress before my face."
"Your
Grace, I thought you had forgiven that business long ago!"
There
was a small silence. "Forgive? I?"
I
started to put away the chess pieces. There was nothing more to say. I saw
Ippolito's unhappy face and wished uselessly that I had never seen Piero's
cipher. And what would my punishment be for running away? Was it poison or
exile he had in mind for me?
His
fingers caught my chin and tilted my head back. "Struck dumb? We have been
hedged about with ceremony too long, but tomorrow we shall be free of these
preaching timeservers, and I am going to take you hunting."
Unease
filled me as I saw the queer brilliance of his eyes; he was up to some devilry,
but my protests died on my lips. There was nothing I could do but be ready when
he bade me to ride with the Royal Hunt of Cabria.
The
courtyard was filled to overflowing with men and animals; to stand on the
Titans' staircase and look down was like looking into a black and white
inferno. The morning sun was so bright that it bleached the color from
everything and cast deep shadows like pools of pitch, and the sky seemed to
flare like a white-hot shield. The horses were restive, whinnying and stamping
excitedly, and everywhere underfoot there seemed to be dogs—the confusion of
their cries rang and redoubled around the palace walls, and the noise was
earsplitting.
Sandro
was already up, mounted and fretting impatiently and cursing grooms and dogs
alike with impartial good humor. I knew he was fond of hunting, and clearly he
even relished its noisy prelude. A little behind me, Domenico was whispering
with the one man at court to whom he did not have to bend his head—Giovanni
Santi, Sandro's master of horse. I had never spoken to him, but I instinctively
mistrusted him, for he was the picture of a black villain. Scarcely shorter
than Domenico— there had once been a man who was taller, and Domenico had had
both his legs broken to shorten him—he was twice as huge, massively built and heavy.
He
moved lightly for so big a man and dressed with incongruous care, though
without any of the extravagancies of the quartet. But it was his face I
disliked: broad and meaty, with the flattened nose and fat red mouth of a
pugilist, deep-set eyes under scowling black brows, a shock of tightly waving
hair, and a heavy mustache. I judged the man ripe for any sort of mischief,
great or small — Domenico, too, it seemed, for they were agreeing together well
enough, and the duke's black eyes were sparkling with wickedness.
As
I looked around at them, Santi bowed and hurried down the steps to help one of
the kennelmen, and my eyes followed him with a sort of reluctant fascination.
Then I noticed that the dog he had gone to tend was not one of the heavy-eared,
belling hounds who were now beginning to muster: It was a different breed
altogether, more like a wolf than a dog. I touched Ippolito's arm.
"What
kind of dog is that?"
He
stared. "I do not know; I have not seen 'em before. The duke has hired
them from some fellow Santi knows—there is a boar loose in the woods, and those
dogs are trained to fight boars. Small wonder, they look to me like
killers."
"I
almost pity the boar." The dog was snarling and straining at its collar;
there were three of them, I now noticed, mingling with the pack.
Piero
came almost jauntily down the steps, and Domenico flicked his fingers in
summons. Piero obeyed it at once and was prevented from bowing by the arm that
came across his shoulders.
"You
have been too distant of late, Piero." The duke's wooing voice came
clearly through the surrounding uproar. "I would have us friends again.
What is it that offends you?"
"Why,
nothing, Your Grace!" Piero sounded a little hysterical. "Rather,
Your Grace has been too busy until lately to take note of me. My loyalty has
not changed."
The
two fair heads were close together, the true silver and the imitation. Domenico
answered softly, "It may be I have merited that reproof, but let us forget
times gone and enjoy the present."
"My
dear lord, I would not have you forget all the times that have gone."
Piero had slipped unconsciously back to Domenico's old title, and he had
relaxed in the circle of the duke's arm. "Some of them were indeed
happy."
"True."
Domenico looked down at him, a little catlike smile on his lips. "One day
we must live over those times together by recounting them to each other."
"My
lord..." Piero broke off and rubbed his cheek against the duke's shoulder
in a little gesture of affection.
I
saw Domenico go still, but it was only for an instant, and Piero did not
notice. There was no outward change in his expression, but somehow I knew that
he was weary of his cat-and-mouse game. He disengaged himself and gave Piero a
dazzling smile.
"My
best Piero! Come and ride with me, and we shall start the best quarry of the
day."
There
was the usual flurry of mounting, and Ippolito came to lift me into the saddle
before hurrying across to his own mount. As I gathered up the reins, I felt
Domenico's gaze rest briefly on my face; then he had turned to Piero and was
calling something, leaving me to trail unescorted in his wake. I knew from that
tiny, compelling glance that I was to follow and say nothing, but the pain of
seeing him turn his back on me was no less sharp.
The
effort of keeping my seat and my place occupied me amply for a while; my riding
served me by now on the bare, sloping fields around Fidena, but I had never
ridden in the steep, thickly wooded hills near Diurno. There was no time to
dwell on plots and subterfuges when an unseen rabbit hole might make my horse
stumble and send me rolling to the ground, or when the boughs of trees were
suddenly swooping obstacles that I must duck and dodge. I spent the first half
hour pressed close to my horse's neck as flying twigs, bent back and released
by the passage of other riders, came whipping over my head.
When
they killed the first stag, I closed my eyes and turned away from the knives
and the running blood. Setting after the second with the stink of slaughter
still in my nostrils, I saw Sandro, his face set in a satyr's grin of
excitement, leading the wave of riders. Already the first horses were plunging
back into the trees, following the zigzag flight of the panting deer.
I
was beginning to tire. My horse sensed it, and now he became rebellious; he
began to dance and fidget, and before I could stop him, he was trying to rub me
off against a tree. Only the shock of annoyance, and a sort of stubborn pride,
kept me in the saddle. In reality I wanted nothing better than to drop
peacefully onto the tawny earth and let the hunt go on without me.
A
hand grasped my horse's bridle and pulled the animal to a standstill so
suddenly that for a moment I did not realize what had happened. Then I looked
down and gasped. Santi had dismounted from his gigantic piebald and was holding
it with one hamlike hand while he gripped my horse with the other and cursed it
roundly. The gelding, to my astonishment, stopped wheeling and stood quiet;
when it was docile, the big man grunted approvingly and then looked up at me.
"You are on the wrong path, lady. You must follow the duke."
I
opened my mouth to retort that the duke was up with the huntsmen; then I
followed the jerk of Santi's woolly head and realized that he was not. About a
dozen or so had broken away from the main party and were going off to the left
at a slow canter. I could see Domenico's fair hair gleaming against the leaves
and gazed after him wonderingly.
"Where
are they going?"
Santi's
teeth flashed briefly. "It's my guess the duke is after rougher game than
stags. He has taken the boar hounds with him, and he told me before we rode out
that I was to see you kept up with him."