A
vicious blow silenced him, and Domenico stared down at him, his fair face flushed
and twisted with hate. "Impudent beggar! You would support these traitors,
then, and sugar this gall with your tongue.... What is that but more
treachery?"
Ippolito
interposed quickly. "Your Grace, he meant no harm! Every fool who does not
choose his words well is not a traitor."
Domenico
checked, his breath coming short and fast. I watched with a sick dread as
Ippolito struggled to calm him; something had touched off one of those strange
fits of animal fury, so different from his usual icy anger, and he was most
uncontrollable now when he needed to be most calm. He was shaking with rage,
his face dangerously flushed, and real alarm sharpened the quartet's painted
faces as they watched him. Only Sandro gazed without a change in his
expression.
"Your
Grace... my lord..." Ippolito was beyond caring what he said. Then,
suddenly, Domenico swayed. His curses were choked on his tongue, and his
fingers gripped the edge of the table until the knuckles shone white. Then he
half turned and simply dropped, slumping unconscious against Ippolito's
shoulder.
The
moments dragged. I found myself praying ceaselessly, "Please, God, do not
let him be dead," and I saw the same fear stamped on Ippolito's suddenly
aged face before Domenico stirred. He straightened, gazing down at his
secretary with eyes that looked sightless; then a child's shaken voice said,
"This folly moved me," and he turned back to the map-strewn table as
though nothing had happened.
For
hours the discussion raged back and forth, touching on allies, treaties, routes
of supply. I remembered that once, long ago, I had felt tired and longed for
the time when we should have reached Fidena. Now the idea seemed ridiculous—
there was no time to be tired. The coaches had long ago ceased to rumble
through the gateway below us, and the palace was sunk in uneasy quiet. I could
guess how long we had been there only by the runnels of wax which clogged the
bases of the candles.
Sandro
suddenly yawned cavernously and grinned around at the assembled lords.
"Well,
invasion or no invasion, I am for my bed. I have watched these past two nights,
and I shall take it most unkindly if the Spanish come to wake me before
morning."
The
strained faces relaxed, and even the quartet yawned and shuffled their feet
like natural men. Only Domenico took no notice. He still sat, slung along the
edge of the table, studying one of the maps spread out before him with his
bright head bent and harsh, rigid lines about his mouth that had been there
ever since his outburst against Andrea. It was the same fit that had caught him
the day Piero died—the ungovernable rage and the sudden collapse, the queer
withdrawn quietness afterwards. It was like a sickness, a fever of the mind, a
taint which had been bred into him. Perhaps that was what Sandro meant when he
said that his brother was mad....
Ippolito
was chivying the rest towards the door, but still Domenico did not look up.
Slowly I moved forward out of the shadow. I was chilled to the bone, and I had
been gripping the stone sill so tightly that I had to peel my hand away.
Domenico looked up sharply. For an unrecognizing moment he stared at me as
though I were a ghost, and then the terror faded from his face and his eyelids
drooped.
"Felicia—have
you been here all this while?"
I
nodded. "You did not bid me go."
"Now
I do." He rose from the edge of the table and came towards me, his face
now as still and unrevealing as a mask. "That damned whore Gratiana is
making mischief, did you hear? She claims my dukedom of me."
"Yes,
I heard."
His
Fingers drummed feverishly on the table. "I shall crush her somehow. Our
troops are disposed, and we should do well enough when the Spaniards come.
There should be lookouts stationed to give us warning," he added over my
shoulder to Sandro, "so that they cannot surprise us."
Riccardo
D'Esti bowed and smirked. "They cannot hope to elude Your Grace's
vigilance!"
"And
now that we are secure, there are revels toward."
"Revels!"
He
nodded, his eyes hard and unfathomable. "There have been feasts and shows
prepared against our homecoming—it were a shame to lose them."
His
recklessness appalled me. "Your Grace, is it wise to seek pleasure at such
a time? Your brother says that the people are already living leanly in
expectation of a long siege, and if you were too prodigal, they might resent
it."
As
I spoke, I knew I had gone too far; his eyes narrowed, and his voice was bored
and cold. "Should we care for the pleasure of a few rawboned
vassals?"
Guido
Vassari stepped forward. "By your leave, madam, this course is wiser than
waiting in apprehension. These celebrations were ordered long before we had the
news of this invasion, and everything is provided; all we will do is set them
forward. Where is the harm in that?"
"But
the means for one such feast would provide four days' plain victual," I
protested.
"Will
you be a general, too?"
The
threat in Domenico's voice made me shiver, and I was silent. For a moment
longer the dangerous silence lasted, and then he turned to the waiting nobles.
"My lords, we will hold the feast tonight as we planned. We will not let
our pleasure wait on the King of Naples's whim."
I
followed them without speaking, to the head of the stairs, and the moment they
were out of the duke's presence, a din of chatter and hurrying broke out.
Baldassare Lucello, behind me, thrust me forward unceremoniously with a murmur,
"Madam, we may not linger," and I thought suddenly, I have heard that
on every side ever since I came here. The whole court is in a perpetual
hurry—and for what?
"Madam,
the duke!"
The
thought flickered and was lost, and I quickened my pace. The duke must not be
kept waiting.
The
darkness seemed to breathe, pressing down on me like a hot, thick blanket. Here
and there were gleams of light from the last embers of the torches, and the
blackness was peopled by innumerable small sounds, sighs of lassitude,
stertorous breathing, the rustle of garments and the kiss of flesh, quieting
into a silence of exhaustion; the court's lust had spent itself in one hectic
surge, and soon would come the bitter aftermath. I sat staring into space,
seeing in the darkness pictures of the gluttony and debauchery to which fear of
tomorrow had spurred the Cabrian nobles. The mask of the Seven Deadly Sins
played before our faces, sung and chanted, with the servants of each Sin's train
engulfing the whole hall in a miasma of vivid color: the spilling dishes, the
flowing wine, the sighs and screams of the court as the torches were doused one
by one.
I
remembered arms and bodies twining together, masked faces pressing close; the
woman a few feet away who fell sprawling on the silver table, laughing at the
sweating efforts of the man who lay upon her; Guido Vassari holding fast to one
of the young pages and calling for his fellows' help when the boy tried to
break free. But now the shouting and the raucous laughter had died away and
were replaced by gasps and moans and deep sighs of pleasure.
Near
me something moved, and I stifled a cry; then Domenico moved into the light, as
softly as a nightwalking cat. I could not see his expression, only the strange
gleam of his dark eyes. It must have been near morning, for the air was thick
and stale, and it seemed like hours since we had come down to supper.
I
was fighting my awareness of him as he came towards me, but against my will my
hands clenched. When all the rest had begun mauling each other in a lust born
of dread, he alone had sat still, watching as though for his private amusement.
I had tensed, expecting and yet dreading his touch, but all he had done was to
grip my wrist to stop me being drawn into the melee with the rest.
But
now he had risen and was standing above me, toweringly tall, a blacker shape
than the blackness. I felt dizzy as I felt the warmth of his hands on my naked
shoulders; a smooth fingertip caressed my throat lightly, and as a shiver of
excitement ran through me, I heard, faint and far off, the clanging of a bell.
Domenico
had not heard it, but he sensed my stiffening and raised his head to listen;
then he too heard it, and his grip was suddenly cruelly tight.
The
sound came from beyond the antechamber, beyond the palace walls, borne faint
and clear through the echoing corridors. Domenico released me and turned to the
doorway into the antechamber, swinging the door wide so that the gray dawn
flooded in. In that moment I realized what that clamoring bell must mean and
forced myself to my feet.
I
was stiff, and I staggered as I moved and clutched his arm, but he did not heed
me — he was looking around him at the wreckage of last night's revels. Bodies
lay on the floor, obscenely sprawled or still clasped, deaf to the bell's
warning, too foundered in wine or lechery to rise. Littered across the hall
were trampled garments, overturned furniture and puddles of spilled wine. The
stench was choking, the reek of guttered torches, the sourness of wine, greasy
food, and stale vomit.
Domenico
swore softly and savagely, then threw up a hand to shield his eyes as a
man-at-arms came clattering into the hall carrying a torch alight with gouts of
orange flame. The shadows swung and reeled, and I shielded my own burning eyes,
trying to see clearly.
"Your
Grace." It was the captain of the royal guard. "The Spanish
army!"
"What
of it?"
"It...
it... they are coming, Your Grace. Marching under the banners of Naples. They
are approaching through the forest to the southwest—they must have marched by
night so that our sentinels could not see them crossing the western
foothills."
"God's
death!" Domenico's voice held the crack of a whip. "They carried
lights with them, did they not? Are all our soldiers blind?"
"Your
Grace, some of them were drunk—they said that a nobleman sent out barrels of
wine so that they might join in the carouse last night. No man could have
expected the Spanish so soon...." His words died away, for the duke was no
longer listening.
"Send
all our forces to the southern wall to scatter these invaders. They shall learn
what it is to brave Cabria thus."
"But
Your Grace, that would leave the rest of the walls unmanned. If there were a
second force…"
"There
is none!" Domenico lowered his hand from his eyes, and it was clenched
hard. "You said the Spaniards were coming from the southwest; get you
gone, then, if you are not a coward, and drive them back as you are bid!"
The
man went white, but he only said in a strained voice, "Yes, Your Grace,"
and turned on his heel.
By
now other bells were ringing, nearer and louder, and I heard the great boom of
the bell of San Domenico pealing out over the city. The courtiers were stirring
and groaning, opening thickened eyes and moving stiff and surfeited bodies; I
thought momentarily of the bloated shifting of queen ants when an anthill is
broken open. Then I started forward instinctively as the duke called,
"Ippolito!" and scanned the hall for his secretary. He glanced down
at me as I moved, and his eyes narrowed.
"Go
to your chamber; call your women and keep them about you. I shall send for you
when it is safe."
"But,
Your Grace..."
"There
is no time to dispute." There was an ugly curve to his soft mouth.
"Obey me, or I shall have you arraigned for treason. Go!"
He
turned away, leaving me thunderstruck. I could barely comprehend what was
happening; I could only think stupidly that he had ordered me away. Ippolito
had answered the summons, and they were conferring together—the words came to
me dimly as I stood half-dazed.
"We
will stand on the battlements above the palace gate and see all that passes on
the south wall from there. There is no time to reach the city wall
itself—"
"Your
Grace must arm. You are too fair a target clad as you are."
"Good
Ippolito! I had forgotten it. Hurry, then!" He glanced back as he reached
the door, his eyes narrowed and angry. "Felicia, go!"
There
was nothing I could do but obey, and with what dignity I could muster I walked
through the men and women beginning to gather themselves together, and out of
the great hall, feeling sick with dread. I thought, if he goes to the
battlements now and is killed, I shall never see him again.
The
clatter of running feet sounded as a soldier came racing towards me. One noble
less drunken than the rest rose staggering to his feet and caught the man's arm
as he passed. "What's toward? What now?"
The
soldier shied away, trying to free himself. "I have to tell the duke....
There is another troop of men on the opposite bank of the river gorge. Two
hundred and fifty bowmen are there already, aiming at the northern battlements,
and the duke has ordered every man to the south walls!"
The
nobleman released him and swayed back against the wall. "God curse
him," he said thickly. "This heat of his will kill us all."