"No,
Your Grace. He was alone when I met with him."
The
skitter of hooves broke the silence; one of the riders had, uncontrollably,
edged his horse away from the duke's side. Domenico was sitting perfectly
still, staring ahead of him with eyes that looked blind, and there was a look
on his face which made me feel physically sick. I had never realized how much
he had loved Ippolito. I dared not go to him; I could only wait for the
movement that would summon me to his side. But nothing happened. He sat as
still as stone, and I read no relenting in his face, no welcome. The dark gaze
piercing me was full of loathing, as though he were gazing into hell.
Santi
said, "Horsemen on the road behind."
I
wheeled my horse sharply, feeling terror suddenly chill in the dusty air. The
hoofbeats were soft and distant but growing louder every moment; I could see
the same thought in every man's face, that the Spanish soldiers were following
us. Then the riders burst out of the nearby olive wood, and as they cantered up
the road towards us, I recognized their leader with a jerk of my heart.
"Well,
Brother." Sandro sounded insanely cheerful. "You had led me a fine
dance!"
A
few of the duke's followers had relaxed as they recognized him, but then they
saw, as I had, the standard which snapped and stirred behind him and bore the
Spanish eagle.
"You
fooled me by making northwards," Sandro asserted blithely. "I made
sure you would go west, and I have a hundred men broiling in the sun on the
plain to stop you. Then when they sent word that you had not come, I remembered
the old coast road. You always go roundabout!" The twinkle in his eyes was
almost affectionate.
"Why
do you seek to stay us?"
Sandro's
smile broadened. "To kill you, of course, kind Brother! I cannot rule
Cabria in peace while you are living, and besides, the old beldam I am yoked
with will not be satisfied with your dukedom. She wants your handsome head as a
plaything to heal the sting of what you said to her once upon a time."
"So
you are Gratiana's errand boy?" Domenico's voice was infinitely soft, the
merest breath, and the eyes that gazed at Sandro were utterly black and quite
blank.
His
half brother's smile faded. "Say her partner, rather."
"As
you will. The name does not matter."
"Very
true, Brother. We have been plotting for this exigent ever since you banished
our beloved stepmother—she thought if she could not rule Cabria beside you, she
would rule it beside me. When you are dead, we will hold the state for Spain:
Viceroy or duke, the name there does not matter either."
I
remembered, without warning, the day I had shown him Piero's cipher and asked
whether it could have come from Spain. He had said, "No, not from
Spain" so swiftly that I had not thought to question how he had known; but
he must have been treating with the Spanish then and had known at once that it
did not come from any of King Philip's emissaries.
Domenico's
voice stopped my thought. "You are content, then, to be her stud?"
"I
shall thrive, never fear!" Sandro chuckled blandly. "Ever since her
eye fell on me, I have held her purse strings; at a push I can get the crown
the same way. I shall be her ruling consort before the year is out."
"But
you have not killed me." There was insistence in the murmur now. For an
instant Sandro hesitated, and I thought he shivered—then he gave his old
devil-may-care grin.
"Well,
that is soon remedied. To be plain with you, Brother, I had as soon spend few
words on the matter. I bear you no grudge save that you were born in wedlock—if
your making had been fumbled up like mine, I should be duke at this minute. I
only claim the right of the eldest son to succeed his father."
"The
eldest legitimate son."
Sandro's
jaw muscles clenched, and then he laughed. "I will give you leave to rail,
since you have lost! I hoped you would fret and stamp, but you take all
pleasure from this business with your slow tongue. I wish your pretty whore
were here; I know ways to use her that would soon end that patience of
yours."
Domenico
said nothing, only swayed a little in the saddle. I saw Santi shift
restlessly—he was staring hard at Sandro, and I wondered in that moment whether
he had led Domenico here on purpose. But Sandro glanced across at him at the
same time and beamed mockingly.
"Holla,
Giovanni, you mountain of treachery! What do you mean by sliding thus into my
brother's service? You will be safer at my back than his—will you change
masters again now, before
I
kill him?"
Santi
shook his head. "No, my lord."
"So
be it." Sandro shrugged. "Well, my lord Duke, how will you take your
death? Hanging like a felon, or would you prefer the sword for your royalty's
sake? My men can let you out of the world any way you choose."
"Can
you not kill me yourself?"
For
a moment Sandro stared at him, and then slowly a broad, delighted grin spread
across his face. "God's blood, I have been hoping you would say that! Will
you fight with me, then?"
"Willingly."
The dark eyes were veiled. "To the death."
Sandro
seemed not to hear the odd, almost hungry note in Domenico's voice; he was
breathing quickly, and there was an eager glint in his eyes. "I shall
enjoy seeing you lie low at the finish, my damned, legitimate brother."
As
he spoke, his hand went to the pommel of his sword, and I realized with a shock
that Domenico was as good as unarmed. His slim-bladed dagger would be useless against
Sandro's fighting sword, and he was making no attempt to use it, sitting so
still that he seemed to be waiting to be killed.
Then
he moved, too swiftly for my eyes to follow; swerving, wrenching his horse back
on its haunches and then spurring forward, hard, straight into the bunched
spearmen. His right hand flashed out, dragging the spear from the hand of the
nearest Spaniard, and he had turned again, hefting it critically, almost before
Sandro had wheeled his own mount.
Sandro
said pleasantly, "You always fought foul," and the bright head bowed
as though at a compliment; in the same movement Domenico swayed, smoothly
avoiding the dagger that flashed towards his throat from Sandro's hand.
"You
were a fine tutor, Brother Bastard."
Sandro
had not waited to see if his weapon found its mark. As it left his hand, he had
turned to his standard-bearer, snatching the pennoned spear from his grasp, and
as soldiers and courtiers scattered, the della Raffaelle brothers were left
confronting each other in the middle of the dusty road.
Sandro's
eyes flickered around him and back to his half brother's face. "This is a
poor place for a tilt."
Domenico's
face was expressionless. "It will serve."
"The
distance is too short."
"Then
ride off a little."
Sandro
chuckled. "I would as soon turn my back on a coiled adder! I thank Your
Grace, I will make shift as we are."
"Come,
then," Domenico said breathlessly. "Finish it."
There
was a silence broken only by the sound of a pawing horse, then a sudden surge
of movement, the clink of metal, the creaking of leather, the drumming of
hooves, and the crash of impact drowning it all. I closed my eyes
involuntarily, and when I opened them, the eagle standard was in the dust under
the hooves of Domenico's horse. Sandro's spear had snapped in two.
Now
there was no laughter in the Bastard's face. Domenico turned his mount at the
edge of the open space and lowered his spear again. I heard the clatter as
Sandro threw away the useless butt of his weapon, and one of the Spaniards
tossed him another. When the dreadful rending crash came again, some of the men
cried out, but I stayed desperately silent, biting my lips in an effort not to
scream.
Both
men were still in the saddle, their spears unscathed, and were wheeling again
for another assault. By now dust was mantling them and their horses, turning
blacks and golds to the same grayish brown and dimming Domenico's bright hair;
only their eyes gleamed hard with murder, as merciless as the glinting points
of their spears. I wondered how they could keep their seats through the jar as
they came together; shock shivered their spears and through their arms to their
shoulders and must have hurt them cruelly.
I
saw Sandro's jaw tighten as if for the final effort, and he spurred his horse
with sudden fury. It seemed as though he would ride his brother down if he
could not unseat him and trample him into the dust by brute force. Then,
somehow—I could not see how—everything was changed. Sandro's onslaught was
driving him on to the point of Domenico's spear, the blade sliding smoothly
between the armor plate and twisting viciously downwards into the flesh and
sinew of the thickset body. The thrust lifted Sandro out of the saddle like a
bale of hay; then with a dull crash, like a thing already dead, he landed on
his back on the ground. The spear shaft still protruded from his body, and his
brown hands closed round it almost greedily, fondling it as though it were his
own flesh.
Domenico
had released the spear and reined hard, one of his horse's hooves leaving a
print on the edge of Sandro's cloak. In the silence the noise of the dying
man's rattling breath sounded like the roar of a wounded bull.
The
rugged face was caked with dust, set in a grin of agony like a satyr's mask.
Sandro's breathing heaved and tore, but he would not die; still the men watched
and waited, and still Domenico's expressionless eyes watched his suffering. A
strange bubbling sound came from his throat, and he stirred, dragging himself
over; his contorted body hunched over the spear like a gross baby, his hands
clutching the shaft, and he was laughing. Laughing helplessly at the last
bitter jest of his life, he said in a harsh difficult voice, "I wonder—who
Gratiana will find-to pleasure her now?" and then the laughter caught in
his throat with a noise like a pig snorting, and blood welled from his mouth
and he died.
It
was uncannily quiet without the sound of Sandro's breathing. Domenico stared
down at his half brother's spitted body, his gloved hands clenched hard on the
reins; the look on his face was one of bleak indifference.
I
hardly heard the leaderless Spaniards retreating. They must have been
dumbfounded by the speed with which events had turned against them—I had
forgotten all about them until the sounds of their precipitate flight made me
wrench my eyes from Domenico's face. I looked up to see them galloping back
into the grove of olive trees and knew that they were going to report their
loss to the Duchess Gratiana. Santi made a move as though to follow them, but
after a glance at the duke he forbore and let them go.
Baldassare
Lucello dismounted and went to Domenico. For a moment the hooded eyes still
dwelt on the flies settling on the body in the dust; then they lifted, level
and incurious, to the living face of the courtier.
"Your
Grace." The man sounded shaken. "What is your will we should do with
this... ?"
"Nothing."
The reply was curt.
"But
Your Grace, we should surely bury him! The flies..."
"Let
them finish what they have begun."
"But
Your Grace, he is your brother—"
"Let
be." Domenico's voice made me shiver despite the hot sun.
"This..." The word was choked. "All this is his contriving, and
that whore duchess's. If I could, I would stay until the flies had made an
abhorrence of him, but since I cannot, he shall lie unburied in his turn, at
least."
He
was thinking of Ippolito, I realized; Ippolito, who lay smashed and broken at
the foot of the river gorge some miles behind us, the prey of kites and
crows—and of these growing swarms of buzzing flies. Baldassare started to protest,
but Domenico's soft mouth twisted in a grimace of purely animal savagery.
"I
said let be! We will not spend time on bestowing carrion!"
He
turned his horse as he spoke, turning his back on the olive grove which hid the
Spanish soldiers, and spurred it to a trot away from Fidena, leaving us to
follow as best we might, without a backward look. My whole being clamored to go
after him, to comfort that savage grief, but I did not dare. If I had ridden
forward—if I had been in his arms—I could not have reached him; his mind was
with the dead, and he did not want me. It was a worse punishment than I could
have imagined for the folly that had made me come after him and for the
cowardice that had delayed Ippolito— perhaps even caused his death.
Between
them, Baldassare and Giovanni Santi were dragging Sandro's body to the side of
the road and remounting hurriedly; the flies buzzed and wheeled, then settled
again. But I was staring at Domenico's proud back, watching him ride away as
indifferently as if he had never known me. With a sudden sense of weariness, I
kicked my now tired horse into motion and set off after him, unwanted and
unregarded as I was, because there was nothing else I could do.
The
thoughts that occupied me for the rest of that day's ride were so confused and
bitter that I cannot well recount them. My brain was reeling with the shock of
all that had happened— the city's fall, Ippolito's death, Sandro's murder—but
one memory I shrank from, uncontrollably: the final loss of Domenico. Even now
I could hardly believe it, but watching the rigid line of his back, the
shuttered stillness of his averted face, I knew it must be true. He had not so
much as glanced around at me since I gave him my news; the chill of that had
killed his lust, and he had no other feeling left for me.