Domenico
had moved so swiftly that I could barely follow the movement, catching up the fallen
soldier's pike and swinging the shaft to catch the second a glancing blow on
the head. As the man reeled back, another caught him, sending him crashing
backwards to the ground. He had no time for more than a startled grunt before
the pike head caught him full in the face, scattering his brains on the floor.
Amerighi's
shadow moved between me and the doorway, and when it had passed, I saw Domenico
standing on the steps, looking down at him. My breath caught in my throat.
His
face was flushed and working, his black eyes slitted and dangerous and his lips
curling slowly back from his teeth in an animal's snarl. I waited for the wrath
choking him to find a voice.
"You
shall not have her." His voice was harsh and breathless. "She is
mine."
Amerighi
shook his head. "Not now, my dear Cousin. I won her fairly, and I shall
take her. Keep back!"
Domenico
took a slow, prowling pace forward. "Do not touch her, for your
life."
The
chestnut head moved warily; Amerighi took a step backwards, and his hand met my
arm and slid deliberately to my breast when I tried to twist away. The thin
fingers were warm and dry.
"You
yourself admitted that I had won."
Domenico
did not seem to hear; he only watched the hand. Then his eyes lifted, a savage
sneer on his beautiful face. "Do you expect the devil to keep his
word?"
"Do
you think I will give her up now?"
"Yes,
by God!" With one impossibly fluid movement Domenico had thrown the clumsy
pike aside and was across the room, his hand gripping the hilt of Amerighi's
discarded rapier and shaking it free of the scabbard. As he turned, the blade
glinted, and there was an odd smile on his face.
"We
have fought on your terms—now we will fight on mine. Do you have another of
these... crude instruments... in your precious palace, Uncle Niccolo?"
Amerighi's
long face was gray, and the light dusting of freckles stood out against his
skin like seared burns. "Yes, on the wall out there. Between this doorway
and the one leading to the dining chamber."
The
bright head inclined proudly. "I will fetch it. Do not think to call the
rest of your guards— they are not as worthy of your victual as the men in your
army."
Amerighi's
hand quivered, and as it was withdrawn, I pulled myself up, trying to drag the
robe around me again. The flags were icy under my feet as I lowered them to the
floor, and then Domenico's voice called, "Now," and Amerighi's own
sword spun in a silvery arc towards him. The bony hand caught it deftly, and at
once the battle was joined.
There
was no pretense of courtliness in this duel. Domenico was quivering with
impatience as he threw the sword; the moment Amerighi grasped it, he seemed to
surge forward like an animal on its prey, and Amerighi's first upward swing —
like a spear at Domenico's breast—met a downward blow in a deafening ring of
blades.
The
furious attack drove Amerighi back from the doorway, his free hand groping
along the wall as he retreated from the steps that led out of his sister's
shrine. His face was losing its expression of wariness, and now he looked calm
and calculating, the fire in his eyes burned down to a steady gleam. Domenico's
face was that of a devil as he forced his opponent back across the shining
floor.
But
he was tiring. His first blind rage was dying as Amerighi managed to parry the
murderous strokes, and the frenzied look on his face altered to grim
concentration. His blade slowed from its hissing arcs, as though he realized
that he faced a swordsman against whose cunning fury would avail him nothing.
Now
the sword blades rested together, lightly crossed and almost imperceptibly
flickering. It was as though the two opponents were constantly testing each
other, the tiniest move instantly countered as the two men stood, watching each
other's faces. Their swords barely stirred. Watching them, I could feel my
heart pounding so hard that it hurt me, and I thought: I shall die if he is killed.
Once
Amerighi thrust, and the blades crossed higher, close to Domenico's cheekbone,
so that I bit my lip in an effort not to cry out. But the white arm bore down
the black, the swords steadied, and I was glad that I had held my peace.
Amerighi's movements were quick and deft—there was no ungainliness now about
his thin, tensed body—but Domenico moved with a supple strength almost insolent
in its beauty, arm and rapier and slim body in a single lithe curve of
destruction. It seemed somehow blasphemous that something so beautiful could be
so deadly.
They
were fighting in the gallery itself now, and Amerighi's retreat was taking him
through the yawning archway which led to the staircase and down to the great
hall: He sensed it, for his gaze was flickering around the gallery walls,
assessing, measuring. Then, suddenly, he moved, pressing himself flat against
the arch so that Domenico's momentum carried him on, exposing his back to his
opponent.
It
seemed impossible for Domenico to turn in time, but somehow the blade was
there, parrying a downward slash; a gasp caught in my throat and was stifled.
Amerighi attacked again, gripping the silken hanging as he fought, but now they
had turned so that it was Domenico who retreated first on to the wide landing.
There
was a flurry as Amerighi launched himself forward. The rapiers locked, and for
a moment the two straining figures were breast to breast. Amerighi was staring
up into Domenico's eyes almost hungrily. Then a shudder of something like
revulsion ran through the locked bodies, and Domenico jerked away sharply. At
once Amerighi's knee came flashing up in an ugly foul — Domenico stepped back,
stumbled, and was driven back against the baluster behind him.
The
breath was driven from his body in a sharp gasp as he slammed against the
railing; then his sword flashed over his head in a dizzying arc and the duke's
thin wrists were gripped and held.
Amerighi's
weight was forcing Domenico back over the railing, the white figure bent
impossibly under the black. The bright head shone above the well of space, the
empty floor yawning twilit far below; yet there was no fear in Domenico's face,
only a fierce corroding anger. Then, with a convulsive writhe like a cat
turning to fall on its feet, he managed to twist partially free. The strength
of his arms forced Amerighi back, and he straightened out of that tortuous
position like a bow when the string is released. He hefted his sword a little
as though it clung to his sweating fingers, and he was panting now. I stood in
the doorway, forgotten, my hands clenched uselessly at the breast of my gown,
fearing even to blink in case I should miss the fraction of a stroke. Though I
was the object of the duel in name, I was no more than an excuse—the wounds
which bred this fight would be healed by nothing less than this. It was not I
they fought for, but Isabella.
At
first I did not see the shadow on the stairs, for the combatants blocked my
view, and I had to look again before I was sure; even when I recognized the
discreet bearing and plump, polite moonface of Filippo Marcionni, I did not
stop to wonder what he was doing there. It was only when I saw the gleam of
something bright in his hand that I realized what he meant to do.
Amerighi
had not seen him. There was still time. Then, as Marcionni raised the dagger, I
screamed, "Domenico!"
For
one eternal moment they all stood frozen, and Domenico's face wore a look of
wild shock, as though one of the statues had spoken. Then, before he could turn
his head more than a little, Marcionni took a pace forward and his quick ears
caught the footfall.
In
a movement so dazzlingly swift that I could not at first see what he had done,
he disengaged and stabbed behind him, not bothering to turn but simply driving
the rapier backwards in one murderous blow. It was the weight on his blade, not
the scream, which made him check. He jerked the sword free impatiently,
bringing it up to counter Amerighi's stroke and, as he did so, bent to grip the
dying valet's body by the belt. Then, without pause—almost without effort—he
straightened, lifting the body with him, and tipped it over the banisters to
fall to the floor below with a smack like a carcass on a butcher's slab. It was
only as he turned to stare at Amerighi with fury blazing afresh in his face
that I saw the scarlet stain spreading on his right shoulder. The valet's blade
must have found a mark.
I
clutched at the hangings in agony, my nails tearing the priceless stuff. But
Domenico paid as much heed to the wound as he might have done to an insect's
sting; it only served to infuriate him.
Fire-eyed,
white-lipped, he drove at Amerighi with such ferocity that the older man
retreated across the landing and down the stairs. Step by hard-fought step they
went down, the clash of blades echoing vastly up and down the shallow, curving
staircase. I left the wall against which I was pressing myself and darted to
the banisters to look after them.
They
had reached the floor, and Amerighi was flagging seriously now. His guileful
but too-cautious fencing was no match for Domenico's half-insane recklessness
and the speed and savagery that anger had lent his arm. Amerighi's face was
ashen, and his mouth hung open as he strove for breath, the calm slipping from
his strokes.
He
was backing more swiftly, and now he was not calculating where his retreat was
taking him. Domenico's whipping blade was driving him up against one of the
great pillars supporting the carved ceiling: It sang in his ears, sapping his
courage, trapping him against the column to be spitted like a chicken. I could
see the thin black shape spread-eagled, free hand clutching the stone, the
motion of the right arm growing wilder and wilder; and then Domenico's blade
wrenched the sword from his hand, and the dark head turned to watch it as it
fell.
Domenico's
arm drew back to make an end, and I waited, my pulses racing as though I were
fevered, for him to strike.
He
stood still for what seemed like a century, and there was no sound in the
whole, vast hall. One thrust would have ended Amerighi's life, yet Domenico did
not move. He was staring fixedly at the duke; I could not read his half-averted
face, but the tension in the line of his back made my scalp prickle. Then
slowly, as though great weights were dragging at it, his sword arm fell to his
side.
Without
being aware of moving, I found myself running down the stairs towards him. I
could not believe that he would show this mercy to an enemy—something had
happened that I could not see....
He
did not turn as I came up beside him. He was still gazing at Amerighi, and
there was a curious look on his face; shock and nausea mingled with something
like superstitious terror. Then I followed his fixed stare and saw why.
Amerighi's
face was wiped clean of the frenzy of desperation; he stood calm and quiet,
straightening his disheveled clothing with compulsive neatness, paying no
attention to either of us. He might have been alone, his fingers at work on a
torn cuff, his unfocused gaze turned inward upon someone or something no one
else could see.
Domenico
whispered, "Cousin?" harshly, and the blank eyes lifted to his face
without a trace of recognition. Then, half-aimlessly, Amerighi took a few
wandering steps forward, looking around him as though he did not know where he
was.
Obeying
an impulse I scarcely understood, I put out my hand to touch his arm as he came
level with me. He stopped then, and his eyes went uncomprehendingly to my hand
as it rested on his dark sleeve; and then he took it between his cold ones and
examined it as intently as a child might do. Frightened, but oddly moved, I
stood motionless.
He
touched the ring on my finger and turned it curiously; then, slowly, on his
blank face a radiant smile grew.
"You
have it still." His voice was very gentle, and joy throbbed in it.
"Dear Sister, I knew you would not give my ring away in truth. You lied
when you wrote that you had given it to your paramour, did you not?"
"I
said in a dry whisper, "Yes, Niccolo," and his hands tightened on mine.
I could feel Domenico's eyes on me, but I could not bring myself to disillusion
Amerighi; in his mind I was his sister, miraculously back from the dead, and it
was impossible to shrink from such joyous tenderness. He might be mad, but I
felt no fear—to him it was as though one of the events of this night had never
been.
He
looked from the pearl ring to my face with a child's anxiety.
"You
are here to stay now, Isabella? The fat Cabrian will not come to fetch you
back?"
I
shook my head. "Duke Carlo is dead. He died more than two months
ago."
"I
remember." He nodded gravely. "I had a message from della Quercia—you
were right not to trust him, sister; I bought him for less than nothing—and I
thought you would come to me then, as soon as you were free. But I forgot,"
he corrected himself, watching my face, "you were dead too, and you could
not come. It was for that, was it not, and not because you loved the Cabrian's
son too well to leave him?"
"Yes,
it was for that."