The
insinuation in his soft voice made my hands clench, but I answered woodenly,
"Yes, Your Grace."
Behind
me Andrea gave a little snicker of outrage, and Domenico heard. He did not
trouble to look around but only checked for an instant, listening, and there
was no sound but the hoofbeats on the road and the jingle of harness. Then he
spoke again, almost idly.
"Your
name? I have forgotten."
"Marcello,
Your Grace."
"Marcello!"
His eyes narrowed. "Why that?"
"I
was named for my patron's son," I told him, and his eyes flickered to
Santi and then came back to my face.
"You
have our patronage now," he said deliberately.
From
then on I rode as fast by his side as if I had been chained there—I might have
been a dog he had whistled to him. Now it was for others to tend the horses and
scavenge or hunt for food; I must stay beside the duke, talk to him when he
pleased or be silent when he would, but never—if I cared for his anger or the
sudden flash of panic in his eyes—be out of his sight. If my mount lagged, he
would take its leading rein; if it chafed, his hand would come out and steady
it, or his voice would give me quick instructions to curb it. He watched me
almost constantly as we rode, as though he thought I might vanish, and I was
desperately afraid that he would miss the way. I did not breathe freely again
until we had left the haunted plain of Trasimene and begun to climb the road
veering northward.
I
thought at first that it would take us back into the mountains again, but it
skirted them and followed a long, long curving hillside down into a green
valley. I realized then what Domenico was about: He meant to go north, out of
reach of Rome, north away from the Spanish garrisons in Naples. I had learned
so much of the country in my long hours with Father Vincenzo, and I knew that
only to the north was there a gap in the encircling mountains.
The
valley looked peaceful, oblivious to the little band of fugitives venturing into
it, and I wondered for a moment whether I had dreamed the war from which we
fled. Then some farm workers with a cart came plodding up the road towards us,
and I knew that danger was the reality and not this mirage of peace. The men
eyed us warily and went by in silence, but every face around me was stamped
with the same grim fear that they had only to tell someone of what they had
seen.
All
but Domenico's. He was staring through them with a frowning preoccupation that
made it clear he did not see them; his thoughts were far away. We had reined in
to the side of the road to allow the cart to go past, and when it had gone by,
it was a moment before the strange, absent harshness smoothed from his face.
Then he shifted his weight in the saddle and turned his head so quickly that
his eyes met mine before I could look away.
As
though by accident his booted leg brushed mine as we moved on again, and I
pulled the mare's head around too sharply, veering away from him. I thought I
heard a faint sound as though he were laughing under his breath, but even
without looking around, I could feel his eyes on me and knew the expression
that would be in them; speculative and searching, with a gleam of mockery in
their depths as my discomfort grew.
He
was coolly assessing how I came to pass as a boy, noting the raggedly cropped
hair which was jammed untidily under my cap, my blistered fingers as ringless
and dirty as on the day he had first seen me. I could feel his gaze penetrating
the shadows across my face, scanning the features too weak, the neck too
fragile for a boy's.
I
stirred uneasily. His eyes were seeking the curves of my breasts beneath the
concealing doublet and following the line of hip and flank and thigh. I felt as
though my clothes were peeling back from my body like husks from grains of
wheat; it was as though he stripped from me not only my usurped clothing but my
faith in my disguise, for when he looked at me like that, I was hideously,
palpably feminine.
"Boy."
The teasing monosyllable made me start. "You are too far off; come
nearer."
Silently
I guided the mare a little towards him. There was a derisive half-smile on his
lips as he watched me, and then he said, "Nearer," again.
The
mare sidled nervously, and the next moment the leading rein was in Domenico's
hand, shortened until we were riding knee to knee. I said, to break the silence
that pulsed between us, "Your Grace, where are we going?"
In
the shadow of his black hat, his brows twitched together. "Does it
matter?"
Not
as long as I am with you, I answered inwardly, but aloud I said, "We
cannot run for ever."
"Nor
will we. Four or five days—and nights—longer, and we shall reach our
destination."
"What
is it?" Cheeks burning, I was too anxious for circumspection.
The
look on his face made my heart sink, but he only said as though the words were
dragged out of him, "We are going to my friend to get his aid."
"Your
friend!" I repeated numbly. It was the last thing I had expected him to
say.
"Yes.
Did you think I had none?" There was a glitter of irony in the dark eyes.
"I
do not know. I thought when you did not go to Diurno that you had not thought
of... of..."
"Revenge?"
he inquired softly. "I have thought of nothing else since I lost—what I
lost."
So
it was Ippolito's death after all that had made his eyes so bleak.
"Then
why are we not going to Diurno?"
"I
will not parade my shame before that old fox, my great-uncle." He spoke
harshly, watching my face. "I shall borrow men and redeem it all before he
knows for certain how much is lost."
Not
Ippolito, then, but his city and the name of duke were the losses that had
flayed his pride. The pain in his eyes was the festering of wounded vanity, no
more, yet my heart still ached for him. I blurted, "Then it must
be..." and stopped, my own pain engulfing me like a tidal wave and leaving
me speechless.
"It
must be...?" he prompted remorselessly.
"It
must be the Duke of Savoy's help you are seeking."
There
was a moment of silence, and then he began to laugh, a high, derisive laughter
which made heads turn and men rein further away from him. The beautiful face
was twisted in bitter mirth, and the sound hurt my ears.
"Sweet
innocent!" It came on a gasp at last, and I flinched from the mockery in
his tone. "Savoy is a coward." His voice still quivered. "He
would not put himself in jeopardy for so slight an alliance." He choked,
then continued. "He is old and white-livered, and will wait to see who is
the victor in this contest before he pledges his loyalty."
"But
he must support you if you are to wed his daughter."
He
shook his head, and a glimmer stayed in his eyes. "He would deny his
pretty bastard to keep out of this broil. He may do so in any case."
I
longed to ask whether he would still marry the daughter, but I managed to fold
my lips and stay silent. He watched me a moment longer, then said deliberately,
"I think I should take her without his countenance. I could not do less
for a wench who spends so long in the mountains for my sake."
I
gripped the mare's reins fiercely. It was a deliberate torment; Savoy's
daughter had traveled to Diurno from her father with servants and goods to go
with her, while I... I stopped the thought hastily, for it was folly, and he
must not know how much his casual words had hurt me.
"Your
Grace must do your pleasure," I said, like a sycophant, and turned
thankfully as Santi came up beside us. I sensed a sudden wariness in Domenico,
like a cat with lifting fur and lashing tail.
"We
are to thank you for preserving Marcello, good Santi." His voice was as
cold as ice.
Santi
looked uncomfortable. "It was nothing, Your Grace.... Lord Andrea's heat
must have blinded him. The boy has been safe enough." He added as though
he could contain himself no longer, "Your Grace, there's little hunting to
be had in this valley—it's all tilled lands and vineyards. And our food is
gone, and no means to get more. We must do something soon, unless you fancy
death's-heads for servants."
I
smiled involuntarily, but Domenico stiffened. "We shall be out of the
valley by nightfall."
"Nightfall
is no good for hunting, Your Grace."
The
hoofbeats were loud in the silence. Then Domenico said sharply, "We have
money enough, have we not?"
"Yes,
Your Grace." Santi looked apprehensive; he guessed what was coming.
"Then
we shall buy our bread like the common herd." Domenico's lips twisted
scornfully. "And pray that it does not choke us."
Santi
cast me a pleading glance, and I said quickly, "Your Grace, you must
not."
"Must
not?" His voice was uneven.
"Should
not. If you were seen or recognized..." My voice died away as I saw his expression,
and I made a little gesture of despair to Santi. There was nothing for it but
to follow, to offer Cabrian gold to the pope's own people and try to be gone
before Pius learned of it. Santi shrugged faintly, then fell behind to tell his
companions what had been decided. There were exclamations and even a smothered
oath, but Domenico did not seem to hear. He was staring at me now as though he
were trying to read my innermost thoughts.
He
said at last, very softly, "Would you care if I were taken?"
"Indeed,
yes, Your Grace." My voice quivered between laughter and tears, and I
thought he stiffened in triumph.
"Why?"
It was achingly gentle.
"Because
no man else knows where we are bound," I retorted.
As
ill luck would have it, the next place we came to was a fair-sized market town,
but nothing would turn Domenico from his purpose. The horses, made restive by
the unaccustomed bustle in the streets, had to be coaxed through the press of
people and the rumbling traffic of carts and horses; I patted my mare's neck
and whispered soothingly to her, but inwardly I was as fearful as she. Every
face seemed dark with suspicion, every sound an alarm. I dismounted at
Domenico's bidding and held his horse's head, and he flicked my chin casually,
as he might have done to any pretty page. The caress seemed to linger on my
skin as he walked away into the crowd, and I watched him go, feeling sick with
dread.
Every
moment seemed an eternity until he returned. The reins were twisted tightly
around my fingers, stopping my blood, but I did not notice. I started at every
sudden motion in the crowd, and I could see my own fear mirrored in
Baldassare's face, taut and gray with strain. I had decided, calmly, that when
Domenico was dead, I should kill myself and trust in God's mercy, when he
returned. Santi, beside him, carried a basket of loaves, and Domenico was in
wild spirits.
"God's
death, we are rare chapmen! That knave would have charged us two gold pieces
for that moldy bread and said they were not right money. But when I made him
know their value, he sang another tune."
I
put a restraining hand on his arm. "They are coins of a different state,
remember. To him they are not right money."
"He
will go a long time before he is paid for his bread in gold again."
And
a long time, I thought wryly, before he ceases to talk of it. Even now my fear
had not wholly left me, for despite the travel dirt upon him and the broad hat
hiding his bright hair, passersby turned to stare at Domenico's great height
and arrogant grace. And listening to the chatter around me, I realized that the
people spoke with a different accent, one with a vague familiarity which teased
my brain. But what was important was that we Cabrians were foreigners,
outsiders who would be remembered for our speech.
"What
are you thinking?" Domenico's voice was full of sudden, angry curiosity,
like that of a child who sees it has lost its mother's attention. His hand
covered mine as he took the horse's reins, and from a distance I heard the
outraged snort of two of the townswomen at the stranger's familiarity with his
page.
"We
had better move on," Santi said abruptly.
It
was only as we remounted that I saw what he had seen over the heads of the
crowd. A group of liveried men at arms, with all the airs I remembered from the
Eagle of men off duty, had entered the street and were strolling towards us.
"Where
the devil do they come from?" one of the courtiers demanded.
"I
do not know," Baldassare returned quietly, "but at least they are not
Spanish. Perhaps some local lordling keeps his own soldiers."
We
had to ride through them to reach the end of the street, and my mare's ears
were twitching nervously as she picked her way through the knot of cheerful
men, as though she sensed my dread. They looked up as we passed, and to my eyes
their faces changed, suspicion replacing good humor. Their startled looks as
they avoided the mincing hooves seemed unnaturally marked, and I knew they
turned to watch us as we rode away. It took all my strength of will not to set
spurs to my horse in shameful, betraying panic.