Niccolosa
put a soothing hand over my wrist. "The duchess Gratiana," she said
quietly. "They are taking her back to Spain."
The
black-clad guards closed in inexorably upon the old woman in gaudy purple and
pushed her roughly towards the palace doors. A few fragments of vicious Spanish
drifted back as the doors closed behind her and then she was gone. The whole
scene had taken less than a minute, but I was left feeling sick.
The
hand on my wrist tightened. "Hurry, my lady "
Hurry.
My
last chance to change my mind. The last chance to turn my back on a glory of
happiness that would always hold a drop of poison, for I knew that love would
not turn the silver devil into an angel. He would remain what he was—subtle yet
childish, unfeeling yet passionate, lost irretrievably to everything but his
own desires. But he loved me—and I loved him, now and forever.
Niccolosa
had gone on ahead, and I quickened my pace to catch up with her.
"Where
are we going?" I asked breathlessly.
"To
the chapel. I was bidden to bring you there."
"The
chapel!" I was too astonished even to begin to reason it out. "But
why?"
"His
Grace ordered it, my lady, and you know he is niggardly with his reasons."
I
knew. I knew, too, that whatever Niccolosa might have guessed, she would keep
to herself. I could only follow and strive for patience.
"Torches
were blazing in the passage that led to the chapel, and in that moment I
realized that that was one of the reasons the palace had seemed somehow
strange—in most of the rooms the torches had been doused and men carried lamps
to light the way. But here the familiar flames licked arrogantly, casting
dancing shadows on the ribbed stone walls, and I was stabbed by the poignancy
of homecoming.
Niccolosa
turned the handle of the chapel door and stood back for me to enter. There were
only four people in the pool of candlelight before the altar: Baldassare, the
mercenary captain Valdares, Father Vincenzo — and Domenico.
My
first thought was that he was Duke of Cabria again, barbered and trimmed, tall
and shining and consciously beautiful in black cloth stitched with silver. He
was standing erect, with no sign of any hurt upon him except for one ugly red
seam across the knuckles of his sword hand, and there was an incandescent
triumph in his black eyes. As I met his gaze, I ran to him and carried his wounded
hand to my lips; he smiled and turned his fingers to cup my cheek.
"Well,
Felicia?"
There
was a note of teasing in his voice that did not match the sudden hunger between
his lashes. I said simply: "I was afraid for you."
He
made a slight, negating gesture. "It was as I thought— they did not expect
an attack. They had not even re victualed the city. We had only to reach
Gratiana and order her to call off her Spanish dogs." His tone made light
of the whole day's fighting, but I glimpsed a shadow of cynicism on Valdares's
sallow face and wondered where the truth lay.
"You
are not hurt?" I demanded.
"No.
The soldiers say I bear a charmed life—doubtless I am doomed to suffer a worse
fate than death in battle." His mouth twisted wryly, then his fingertips
trailed fire down my throat and rested on my thundering pulse. "I am glad
to see you're restored to womanhood—I doubt the good Father would give consent
for me to wed a boy."
I
gaped at him. "Wed you? But..."
His
face hardened suddenly, white and set. "You have changed your mind?"
"No,
but here—now—Domenico, why?"
"I
have had word that the archbishop has left Diurno—no doubt he grew weary of
kicking his heels there. He is due to reach Fidena tomorrow or the next
day." The sensual mouth was tight. "If we are wed before he comes, he
will not be able to touch you, but if we wait upon his blessing, the old fox
will find ways to hamper our proceedings. I have seen him at such work too
often to doubt it! But if you are my wife, he dares not harm you."
A
thrill ran through me at the words. His wife—I had never truly believed it
would happen. But he misread my silence, and impatience edged his tone as he
spoke again.
"If
you long for pomp and ceremony, I will have my uncle marry us again in the
capital, with half Italy to stare at us! Now we must make haste and the bare
words must suffice. The priest here is willing to marry us."
I
glanced at Father Vincenzo, whose gentle face wore a serene smile.
"As
willing as you are to be wed," he said quietly, and I smiled back at him.
"Thank you, Father."
So
there, in an empty chapel in the midst of a city torn by the wars of princes, I
married the Duke of Cabria. A mercenary captain gave my hand to him, and a
courtier and a waiting-woman were the only witnesses. It did not matter: It
could have been the most magnificent state marriage that ever took place, and I
would have not have needed any of it. All I saw were the candle flames
reflected brilliantly in Domenico's dark eyes, as I felt the clasp of his hand
and the firm touch of his white fingers as he thrust the signet ring on my
hand. I heard him make his responses after the priest; but my own voice I could
not hear—I seemed stricken with the dumbness one has in dreams, yet I must have
spoken, for the ceremony went on unchecked.
At
last Father Vincenzo said, "I hope you have not forgotten how to sign your
name," and I laughed, shaking off the dream as I took the proffered pen.
"I
hope so, too. It would go ill with me if the world learned I had to make my
mark!"
As
I wrote, I could feel Domenico's eyes on me.
"You
must teach me how to write my new name now, Father," I remarked
light-headedly, and Domenico's hand covered mine as I spoke. He pulled me
around to face him and held me so, pressing my imprisoned fingers against the
breast of his embroidered doublet.
"I
shall teach you," he promised softly, "all the duties that belong to
the Duchess of Cabria."
The
archbishop was hardly reconciled to what had been done, but at last, after
Domenico had threatened to kidnap a cardinal to do the work, he relented and
agreed to conduct the state ceremony. It was as the duke had promised, in the
Cathedral of San Domenico, two months later. Half Italy came to stare, and the
Duke of Savoy, whom I had never seen before, obediently treated me as his
daughter. The drought had ended the previous week, and a torrent of rain seemed
to scour the streets of Fidena of all the filth and fever left behind by the
burning summer. Already the citizens were squaring their shoulders and
beginning to rebuild, and the worst of the city's battle scars were hidden.
The
court rested in Fidena for the rest of that year, and it was there that I
waited through the winter and burgeoning spring for the child that now lies
heavily in my womb, fighting to be born in this dark, stuffy chamber. It is the
duchess's chamber, and tradition demands that the babe must be born here, as
Domenico was, and his father before him. But it is too hot, and I cannot
breathe for the press of people who watch for fear I shall substitute a
changeling for the duke's child....
I
can feel the baby turning, and the pains are coming faster. There is no time
now for thought or memory. All that matters is the child. I must give Domenico
his son. If that woman would only stop screaming, I could concentrate.... It is
coming....
Such
a small creature to cause so much pain. The sun has gone now, but they are
holding up the baby in the light of the torches so that I can see him, lusty
and screaming, with black hair like mine. They are firing guns from the
battlements in rejoicing, and the echoes are coming back from the bay. I have
told them to fetch His Grace the duke to see his son and so that he shall know
that I am safe and will not die; he threatened to hang the doctor if he let me
die, poor man.
Arms
around me, lifting me up from the pillows, and a fair head buried in my neck.
In a minute or two, when I have comforted him, I shall make him look up and see
our baby.