The Silver Devil (15 page)

"Do
not wrong your intelligencers, good uncle." Domenico spoke over my head,
very softly. "They took some pains to let you know of it. I have my
whisperers, too."

The
thin hand, so close to me as I knelt, clenched and relaxed again. "You do
not have your wits!" I was taken aback by the venom in the archbishop's
tone. "Have you not heard what they are saying?"

"Little
that is true, I swear. My lord, you are forgetful of your manners and your
dignity to leave her so long unsaluted."

"I
do not think"—the old man's voice was icy—"that God's blessing can be
on such a woman as this, my dear Domenico."

"No?
But His mercy is said to be infinite."

"Do
not presume to instruct me. I know the scriptures well enough."

Domenico's
cruel mouth curved in a seraphic smile. "And the verse which speaks of
casting the first stone?"

The
archbishop's lips tightened. Raw red patches stained his hollow cheeks, and his
nostrils flared as he extended his hand to me: as soon as I had kissed his ring
and taken his scanted blessing, he snatched it back in an angry swish of
scarlet. Domenico's fingers caught mine with quick possessiveness as I rose to
my feet.

"Uncle,
I present the lady Felicia; she has no other name. She is our guest at
court."

The
hard eyes narrowed, giving the old man the look of a scarred alley cat
preparing for battle. "No name? How is that?"

Domenico
ignored the calculation in the deliberately mild question. "It is too long
a tale to tell you now. When you are better acquainted with her, you will know
how little it signifies."

"It
might signify greatly if any part of what I hear is true." The archbishop
stiffened, and when he spoke again every vestige of urbanity had fled from his
voice. "Domenico, are not those the Cabria diamonds?"

"Yes."
The duke's face was full of malign amusement. "I thought you would know
them again."

"And
you have recovered them from your stepmother to give them to..."

"To
my guest, good uncle. They become her well enough, do they not?"

The
archbishop was breathing heavily. "You are behaving like a madman,
Domenico. You are not yet proclaimed, and yet you deck your light-o'-loves in
jewels the Raffaelle women have worn since Cabria was ruled from Rome!"

Domenico
had not moved; he was standing with bent head, indifferently contemplating the
tip of one shining shoe. Then as the hasty speech ended, he looked up. The
archbishop flinched.

"I
have not given them lightly, uncle, and you need not fear the commons'
censure—they will consent soon enough when they hear my reasons."

"So
you had reasons?"

"If
I should need more reasons than my will—you probe less subtly than you did,
Uncle."

"I
greatly fear you may be turned lunatic!"

A
laugh, high and jeering, was his answer. "There is none to arraign me for
it if I am! I am duke in all but the coronation—I have the name, the homage,
and there is no one to dispute my title. The commons will not see Cabria given
back to the pope because I lay dull stones on her bright skin."

He
was using me, I thought, as an excuse to gird at the old man. His glee was the
mischief of a naughty child insulting its elders, and he was reveling in the
archbishop's suppressed wrath. I whispered, "Your Grace..." and he
checked, the jeering lines smoothed from about his mouth as he looked down at
me. "What, must I be more civil? Stop my mouth, then."

His
kiss was brief and hungry, and his eyes were dancing as he raised his head.
"You see, Uncle, I can be ruled."

The
archbishop did not appear to be listening; he was gazing through me.
"These rumors I have heard, Domenico..."

"What
is it your spies have told you?" The duke's breath fanned my hair.

"Something
I could not find it in my heart to believe when I heard it. I thought you
incapable of such rashness, but now I am less sure. They say you think of
choosing..."

"Not
here, good Uncle." There was a threat in the very softness of Domenico's
voice. "You will learn soon enough what I intend, if you do not plague my
ears with poisoned tattling."

The
archbishop cast him a strange look but said nothing; he only turned and
whispered to a nearby servant.

Domenico
smiled. "No, Uncle, your spies will not find it out either."

"Now
it is you who are too hasty." The skeletal hands spread placatingly.
"I sent the man on a message, nothing more. I shall not plague you, as you
term it, to know your mind—what I know now will suffice me."

Domenico
nodded idly, but his eyes narrowed with suspicion, and there was a moody thrust
to his lower lip as he turned away. "Come, let us go in to supper."

"Ego
te absolvo." Father Vincenzo made the sign of the Cross over me, and I
rose from my knees, feeling comforted. My conscience would not let me take Communion
while I was in a state of sin, but the young priest had heard my confession and
given me penance for the good of my immortal soul. It brought me more solace
than the ceremonious mass held in the palace chapel—the court worshiped with
great pomp but to little purpose, the atmosphere in the chapel mingling
derision with some superstitious fear, as though the nobles believed they were
propitiating some immortal revenger.

I
kissed the thin, olive-skinned hand. "You are too lenient with your
penances, Father."

"God
does not seek to punish you for the sins you are forced to commit, as long as
you repent them in your heart."

"And
as long as I sin no more. But until the duke wearies of me, I have little
choice."

The
priest lifted the stole from his neck and folded it reverently. "That is
your salvation, daughter. Now, listen to my advice, for we have little time;
you may be sought for at any moment. Will you believe that what I tell you is
intended for your good?"

"Yes,
Father."

He
hesitated. "Even after the ill service I have done you?"

"You
have done me much good since," I said simply.

"Then
listen." The priest's eyes were almost fanatically steady. "While you
keep at court you must learn the ways of it. There are many who will try to
oust you from the duke's favor, so you must be circumspect—Ippolito
de'Falconieri is an honest man; him you can trust, but no other. If any others
of the duke's retinue seek an alliance with you, be wary, for they will try to
undermine you."

"But
why should they? I am no more than a passing fancy of the duke's."

"You
have held him for four days now! He is wont to look for a new woman after an
hour. Some, like the lady Maddalena Feroldi, he has returned to more than once,
but she is as hot-backed as he, and it was half her seeking. You are a wonder
in the court. Have you not seen it?"

I
shook my head. I knew that I was treated with an exaggerated courtesy which
bordered on insult when Domenico was near; but when he was absent, I read my
true worth in the disdain of the women and the insulting familiarity of the
men. That it might spring from envy had not crossed my mind.

"His
Grace the archbishop already looks askance at your power—he wants the duke
wedded and the succession secure, and while you hold sway the duke cannot be
persuaded."

"I
have no power."

"It
is greater than you dream of." The priest's earnestness almost convinced
me. "Only remember my warnings, daughter."

I
shivered. "I do not need them. Hatred is in the air I breathe. But thank
you for telling me about the lord Ippolito."

"He
will help you if you ask him and will tell you what you need to know of the
life here. Benedicite, my daughter."

I
caught his sleeve as he turned away. "Father, I—I have a question to ask
you. About the archbishop."

He
looked startled. "What is it?"

"It
was something the lord Ippolito said, and then he told me he dared not speak of
it. We were talking of the archbishop, and he said that once he died, the pope
would excommunicate us all. What did he mean?"

There
was an intent look on the young priest's face. "You have heard of this
before?"

"All
my life. My mother spoke of it when I was a child, but she died before I was
old enough to understand what she meant, and so I have never understood
it."

"It
was a thing every Cabrian was told by proclamation many years ago, when the
edict was passed. Do the commons not teach the story to their children?"

"I
know as much as I have told you."

"It
must be proclaimed again." The Jesuit spoke with unexpected force. "I
will speak to the duke; the people forget what is not before their eyes. This
is not a tale to tell in haste, but the time we have must serve." He
hesitated a moment, choosing his words. "You know that the whole state of
Cabria was once ruled by the pope?"

I
nodded. "It is why he is always seeking to invade us, to win it
back."

"You
know that much truth, at least. Listen, daughter. Fifty years ago the Papal
States stretched from Rome to the sea. The lands were so vast that the popes
allowed servants to rule in their name, and one such ruled here, in Cabria. The
pope then was content that it should be so, but when he died and his successor
was elected, it was found that the legate had been lining his own purse by
coining money from the Papal Mint at Fidena and pledging the pope's credit to
the richest of the local nobles, Duke Riccardo della Raffaelle. He was Duke
Domenico's grandfather." I nodded mutely.

"The
legate was executed by the new pope and a successor appointed, but by then the
Papacy was so deeply in debt to the Raffaelles that when Pope Pius came to
repay them, he had to reduce his household servants to do so. Then when the
legate's successor died, Duke Riccardo demanded the election of his younger
brother, who was a bishop, to take his place. Pius refused."

"What
did the duke do then?"

"What
one would expect of a Raffaelle." The priest gave a slight smile. "He
rebelled and took power by force, proclaimed his brother and himself joint
rulers, and seized the mint for his own use. The pope was then old and dying
and could not stop him, and his successor—another Pius— had troubles enough
abroad and was willing to elect a della Raffaelle to the archbishopric in
return for peace and the cancellation of the debt. By the time he learned that
Duke Riccardo was ruling Cabria and would not accept papal authority, it was
too late."

"But
what has this to do with..."

"Wait,
and I will tell you. The story is not much longer. Pope Pius threatened
Riccardo and all his subjects with excommunication if they did not return to
Rome; but the duke's answer was that if he did that, he must excommunicate the
archbishop, whom he himself had elected. So the pope did nothing. After ten
years Duke Riccardo died and his son Carlo succeeded him; now Duke Domenico
holds the state in defiance of Rome. The popes after Pius have been too busy—or
perhaps too compassionate—to excommunicate a dukedom of so many souls."

"Why
did they not?" I asked blankly.

"I
have told you. They would have to excommunicate Rome's own archbishop."

"Then
our archbishop—the duke's uncle—"

"His
great-uncle, daughter," the priest corrected calmly, "is Duke
Riccardo's brother, Francesco della Raffaelle. The pope is waiting for him to
die, as he and his predecessors have waited for forty years."

I
moved to cross myself, superstitiously. "He must be so old!"

"Not
so very old. He was not twenty when he was made bishop—money is a great power
in the Holy Church. But you see" — Father Vincenzo straightened his
shoulders — "why such pains are taken to preserve his life. The pope's
mercy hangs upon it indeed and grows more precarious day by day."

"I
see." At last I fully understood the haunted look on the archbishop's
face, the harshness that sat on him like the stamp of physical pain.

"...
The common people must be told over again. It is eight and thirty years since
Cabria was proclaimed independent, and those who heard the true facts then have
forgotten them. At court the archbishop himself makes us a memento mori, but we
should have known that the people would forget. Perhaps they would hate him
less if they knew the truth."

I
stared at him blindly, only half hearing the words. "If the archbishop and
the duke were to ask the pope's mercy, could they not be saved even now?"

"Perhaps.
But for a della Raffaelle to give up such power willingly!—"

I
said no more, but my heart ached for Domenico, growing to manhood under the
shadow of damnation and daring fate with such arrogance.

"They
are a proud family, and all Cabria must pay for their pride." There was a
tired look on the priest's face. "Come, daughter, or you will be sought
for. I will be here three days hence, at the same hour, if you have need of
me."