"Am
I to have a jailer now?" Nervousness betrayed me into speaking more
sharply than I meant.
"I
cannot say, lady. I obey orders, that's all." I caught the faint tang of a
Fidena accent on his tongue and for a moment felt almost homesick for the city
and its common people. To quell the feeling, I drew myself up and said coldly,
"Very well, sir," and when he had remounted, I rode stiffly after him
in the wake of the disappearing riders.
The
hounds were spreading aimlessly over the ground in search of a scent when we
came up with them. It seemed strange that the duke should leave a flying quarry
to follow a cold scent, but this was my first hunt and I knew nothing of how it
should be conducted. Certainly Domenico did not seem concerned.
I
heard him laugh as I rode towards him, and Piero said something and laughed,
too. But it was not infectious gaiety. Ippolito's face was troubled as he watched
them, and even the quartet had left off their chatter and sat their horses in
silence, watching without a flicker of expression on their painted faces.
Riccardo's fixed smile held no trace of mirth.
Domenico
bent lithely to adjust his stirrup just as I approached. For an instant of time
it turned him towards me and away from Piero; and it was as though he had
greeted me. Then he straightened and turned his shoulder and took no further
notice of me. I saw the courtier's face light with almost indecent triumph, and
a slow smile curved his weak mouth.
I
could hardly bear to see how flattery had swelled the man. All his caution had
been swallowed up in conceit, and his voice, high and overexcited, was the only
one uplifted in the whole party. He talked of anything and everything—court
gossip, court fashions, the latest political rumors—while far behind us the
sounds of the hunt died away. I felt sick. Domenico's cruelty did not stop at
keeping Piero ignorant of his doom; first he was letting him make a fool of
himself.
We
had reached a wide clearing in the woods, and by now the distant hunt was out
of earshot. A tree had fallen across the track, its roots torn out of the earth
by some recent gale. The duke reined in.
"An
omen," he said sardonically. "Fate is determined that this boar shall
live—the dogs cannot get his scent. We will dismount for a little and let him
go." As he swung fluidly out of the saddle, I saw his hand clench tight on
the pommel; he was nervous, taut with expectancy. The others dismounted in twos
and threes, letting their horses wander among the trees—by now the silence was
oppressive, even chaining Piero's tongue. Something was happening, and as I
looked around the clearing, I began to guess what it was. My heart began to
pound, slow, sickening thumps of apprehension. The courtiers made a ring— loose
and seemingly accidental, but a ring. In the center stood Piero, dumb with
unease at last, and Domenico.
I
slid from my horse in desperate haste, thinking that somehow I must warn Piero,
even as part of my brain said that they would not harm him without a trial;
even after my flight the duke had clung to the form of law. Then I saw
Domenico's face.
He
had been standing with his head bent, letting the reins run through his hand.
He was not riding his favourite gray today but a black, younger and more
nervous, which moved like a shadow over the ground. As it felt the grip on its
reins slacken, it twitched its head free impatiently and trotted away through
the waiting circle. Domenico's head lifted, and he watched it go.
His
face was as white as ashes under the bright hair; there was a small, wolfish
smile on his lips, and his dark eyes were wells of greed. He looked like a god
waiting for his sacrifice. Softly then, like a rustle of wind through the
leaves, came a breath of "Piero" so gentle I wondered if I had
imagined it.
"My
most dear lord!" Piero's voice cracked with nervousness. Domenico drew
something from his belt and turned, holding it out with a breathtakingly
graceful movement.
"You
lost this writing the other day. Take it."
The
sloe eyes fell to the tiny roll of paper in the duke's fingers, and Piero
paled. Slowly, like a man in a nightmare, he looked around the ring of
impassive faces; then at last he looked up into Domenico's eyes. The
outstretched hand never wavered.
"My
lord, you mistake." His trill of laughter was almost convincing. "I
lost no writing, if that is what it is—it looks more like an infant's
scrawl."
"Do
not belittle your penmanship." Domenico's eyes were almost shut. "It
is written clearly enough for those who can read it."
"This
is a jest, my lord!" Piero took the paper and scanned it, his cheeks
burning as if with fever. "Why, it contains no words, no mark but
scribbled lines! Who can write without words?"
"Any
man who learns your cipher, I would guess." "Why, I know nothing of
ciphers! You wrong me, my lord." Piero began to laugh again, high and
shakily. "These suspicions are unworthy of your greatness. I am no spy,
nor would I ever betray one I have held dear for so long."
Domenico's
arm fell slowly to his side, and when he spoke again his voice was infinitely
gentle. " 'Fore God, Piero, tell me no more lies! This folly is your
revenge for my neglect—a thing to gall me with, if I cared for such petty
treacheries. Do not deny it further, or I may grow angry."
Piero
looked for a moment at the still, fair face. "My lord..."
"Piero..."It
was a vicious parody.
The
whole clearing seemed frozen in a breathless silence. I saw the last defenses
drop from Piero as he drew himself up with an odd sort of dignity and shrugged.
The surrounding men were like so many ghosts, and the only living beings were
these two men, accuser and accused, who stood beside the fallen tree.
"It
is a finer plot than you can guess, my lord." Piero's expression was
almost pitying. "You do not know the half— but let it go. I served only a
tithe of its great estate, and it was ripe before I joined it. Long ripe."
"You
lie. You broke this plot yourself to Ferrenza — if you had had his answer you
would have had rebukes, not payment. Did you seek to wind him in with you to
help Rome? Or have you been intriguing with Gratiana? Answer me!"
Piero
shook his head. He was standing as he had stood so often in the court, one hand
on his hip, his fingers stroking his pointed beard.
"You
were always too proud, Domenico. You cannot see further than your avowed
enemies when you search for treason. Though Gratiana hates you, sure enough,
for what you did to her— casting her out because she poisoned your father in
the hope of pleasing you. And wedding you, and ruling Cabria with you. Oh, I
heard that." He smiled mockingly as Domenico's hand clenched. "I was
outside with my ear to the crack of the door. I know you were dreaming of the
gray-eyed witch you planned to steal for your bed, but you should not have
spurned your mother duchess so harshly. She has borne you a grudge ever
since."
Domenico
stood dreadfully still. It was a magnetic stillness, like a panther poised for
battle, and he did not answer a word.
"I
thought till then that you knew she lusted after you—you have such a knack for
knowing these things, my dear. But if an affronted virgin knew the language of
the stews, she would have spoken as you did then. Was it the contrast?" He
glanced across at me, the old gibing lechery in his eyes again. "Sure, the
Duchess Gratiana looked like a moldy parrot and stank like vermin—but what you
said to her was not kind or filial."
"She
killed my father, Piero."
I
shivered. From the menacing quiet had come a small, clear voice, and it was the
voice of a lost child. I wanted to run to Domenico, to protect him from the
tongue of the man he meant to kill, but I could not make my limbs move.
"Dear
my lord." The title was a sneer. "I know how much you loved your
father! You and I have drunk to his death through many a carouse, and you made
a wax mannequin when you were fifteen—paid wizards and alchemists, and I know
not who else, to charm him into his grave. The cocks that bled for it would
have stocked a farm."
"His
Grace was but a boy then, Piero." Ippolito's voice sounded, and it was as
though one of the trees had spoken. "He cannot have thought such tricks
would do any real harm."
"Can
he not? Well, never mind, for after all they did nothing but raise the market
price of poultry."
"Stop
quibbling." Ippolito sounded sickened.
"My
dear man, I am quibbling for my life! Every word I utter is one more breath to
me. I promise you, I shall try to talk till doomsday. I owe my rise to my
tongue, do I not, Domenico?"
The
Duke's eyes were like slits. Not a muscle moved.
"It
was I who wooed you from your tears when del Castagno died, do you remember?
And I who found out who betrayed him to your father. When I told you it was
that creeping mute he kept as a body servant, you clung to me and vowed to be my
friend forever. I even helped you to kill the little rat, the night you mounted
my sister in Satan's name, and the demons came and frightened him to death. Not
your first murder, I know— but your first in the court."
"Piero,
for the love of God!" It seemed to burst from Ippolito.
"As
you say, dear Ippolito. God loves those who speak the truth, and I should like
to unburden my soul. My lord dares not let me speak when I go to the block—do
you, Domenico?—so I shall speak it all now. It is a tale worth the listening
to, but you may be tired of standing before I have done. Shall we sit down? No?
Let it be, then."
He
paused for a moment, watching Domenico with bright, malicious eyes.
"I
have never known whether I loved you more than I hated you," he said almost
conversationally. "God and the devil will have to winnow it out between
them. But I fancy the devil will win; God may dislike my making you His rival
and tip the scales so that I shall bum. And yet you never loved me, nor
anyone." Again he glanced fleetingly at me, "save perhaps Domenico
della Raffaelle. It is damnable." A spasm of sudden fury twisted his face.
"I have longed to see you in thrall to one who did not love you, to watch
you crawl for love as I have done and get cold answers still. And now I shall
not see it!"
His
gaze dropped to his quivering hands and he watched them, waiting quite
deliberately until they were steady. Then he said in an altered tone,
"Will you not speak to me, my dear? Will you not even curse me? You think
I have only done you a little harm, and you are curbing your temper— but one
day soon you will learn just what harm I have done you and damn my soul to hell
a thousand ways. Do not stand there like a stone!" His voice had an edge
of hysteria. "I will only use you then to whet my tongue."
"You
flatter yourself," Domenico retorted harshly. "I will not spend my
breath on your paltry treasons."
For
an instant Piero's face contracted as if in pain. Then he said, "Do not
say I did not warn you, then! You will find it more than paltry, I think—though
paltry enough revenge for thirteen years' thralldom! "
Ippolito
gave a muffled exclamation. "Thralldom! But..."
"Never
tell me I chose it." Piero turned on him like a cornered jackal. "I
did not choose a life spent dogging his heels and panting for his notice! I had
no choice. He bewitched me." His voice rose. "Sure as those spells
you say he did not believe in! He made himself my food, then stinted me. I
tried to rule him, and so I did for a little; then he grew older and too proud
to bear with me."
"Should
the son of a duke be ruled by his lackey?"
The
contempt in Domenico's voice brought Piero up short, and I saw him blink as
though he had been struck.
"Once
it was not duke's son and lackey," he answered venomously. "Once it
was two lads— Domenico and Piero— and it was Piero who lorded it with you! You
do not choose to remember—"
"I
remember well enough." Domenico's voice was dangerously even.
"Forbear to talk of it."
"If
you remember, then judge my jealousy. Measure for measure with the love I gave
you."
"You
loved the son of the Duke of Cabria." The raw fury in Domenico's eyes made
Piero step back, but his voice was still stifled. "It was my power you
made your court to; you thought to haul yourself higher on my coattails and
rule the state from behind my throne. Do not tell me tales of your undying
love." His voice festered suddenly. "I have seen you sweat after my
very mistress!"
I
felt sick with shame. Ippolito had slipped away, his face as gray as death, and
the two lovers, or enemies, were confronting one another like gladiators. I
swayed, clinging tightly to the bole of a nearby tree to keep myself upright.
Somewhere a dog snarled, disturbed by the bitter voices.
Piero
laughed on a sour note of self-mockery. "Why not? She is fair enough. I
meant to be patient, though—I would have waited until you wearied to take her
to bed."
"No
more words, Piero." The duke's voice shook as he spoke, and the courtier's
face filled with delighted malevolence.
"Why,
my dear! Of whom are you jealous? Your black-haired drab or me?"