The Flesh and the Devil (22 page)

         
‗I thought the betrothal ceremony was to be dispensed
with because there was so much haste. What has happened, then? I did not
think….‘

         
Her words died and she began to shiver, felling as cold as
thought she had caught a chill. Above her head Tristán rapped out a question
that she did not hear, and the dwarf‘s head turned towards him.

         
‗In the middle of the night. Eugenio is like a man
possessed.‘ Pedrino crossed himself. ‗A coach arrived from Madrid – his
uncleship is mightily put about, he did not want any visitation from there for
once, it seems.‘

         
‗Who is it?‘ Tristán‗s eyes were cold with
calculation, like inhuman emeralds in his set face. ‗Did you hear what
Eugenio called him?‘.

         
The dwarf grimaced. ‗Your Grace, with every third
word. Some courtier of the King‘s , by his looks – he walks as though he fears
to meet a bad smell at every step, and wears the Golden Fleece.‘

         
There was a curios, prickling pause, and then Tristán
looked down at Juana and said in an odd, curt voice, ‗There is no help
for it, you must go. Eugenio will not be fobbed off with any delay.‘

         
The stunned look in her eyes was succeeded by bright anger
as she glanced up at him with a flash of her old hostility. ‗Your tactics
come to swift fruition, senor. I hope you were well rewarded for the pains you
took in bringing this about, for you must not look for any other payment from
me. I promise you, I mean to be greedy of my fortune.‘

         
She saw the scarred mouth tighten inexplicably before she
turned to the dwarf.

         
‗Sirrah Pedrino, your must show me the way to the
Gallery of the Penitents, for I do not know it.‘

         
The dwarf glanced from one to the other, the swept a
flourishing bow that would have been the envy of any courtier. ‗Give me
your pardon, senorita, I lack the breath to hurry so far.‘ A look of mischief
lightened the quaint, moustachioed face. ‗If you want a nimble escort, my
friend the pellirojo will answer better – his legs are longer than mine.‘ He
indicated the top of his own head, roughly level with Tristán‘s belt, and
giggled.

         
We will both escort you,‘ Tristán interposed as Juana‘s
lips parted in denial.

         
‗Pedrino should keep the credit of finding you.‘

         
The dwarf snorted. ‗Fine talk! How am I to keep up
with you, mountain? I have hurried too far already.‘

         
‗Like this‘

         
The mercenary bent deftly and scooped up the little man,
setting him on his shoulder as securely and easily as he might have lifted a
child to see some sight over the heads of a crowd. As he straightened his
fleeting smile had faded and his harsh-boned face had grown taut as he added ‗To
your betrothal, then, madam.‘

         
In all her imaginings, Juana thought later, from childhood
fantasy to her most inchoate nightmares, she had never come near the insane,
bewildering haste of her betrothal ceremony. The words were muttered by a
priest who seemed ill-at-ease and never raised his eyes from his book, and the
faces that surrounded her were those of strangers, distorted and jeering. Any
protest she might have made was swept away on the tide of de Castaneda‘s
feverish urgency as he bustled and goaded, glancing constantly over his
shoulder as though he went in fear of discovery. Juana assumed helplessly that
the whole ceremony was a show staged for the visitor from Madrid; she and
Bartolomé, she thought, were being shown like puppets for some exalted
stranger‘s approval. She barely noticed the presence of the Duque himself, he
was simply one more figure in the pageant in which she had been caught up.

         
The urgency was so infectious that she found herself
uttering responses she had vowed to withhold, assenting automatically even
while she wondered at her won compliance. It was as though she watched at
herself, her will numbed in a nightmare paralysis and unable to help that other
Juana, the one who said yes while her brain cried out no. It was the weight of
the betrothal ring on her hand that roused her at last from her daze, and she
realized that she was staring at Bartolomé‘s grinning face across their clasped
hand.

         
‗Mine now‘. He was chuckling, and his bony grip hurt
her fingers.

         
De Castaneda came bustling forward, shooing away the priest
as if he were an errant hen, with a grin of almost savage satisfaction on his
meaty face.

         
‗So, the business is done!‘. He beamed at them both,
and she noticed vaguely how the sweat shone on him, as though he had made some
supreme effort. ‗And now-now you can be presented to our new – come
guest, His Grace de Medina de las Torres. He hurried here from Madrid to
prevent your wedding, but I fear he has come too late, mmn? It would be against
the Church to deny marriage to a couple who have already plighted their troth.‘

         
Only the cruel pressure of strong fingers rescued Juana
from her engulfing faintness, and when she opened her eyes again it was to see
Felipe Tristán in Bartolomé‘s place, holding her hand in a grip that threatened
to crush it. He was greedy of her anguish, she thought, sickened, closing in to
observe each alteration in her with almost scientific detachment, assessing her
pain with unmoved eyes. It was her determination to cheat him that saved her
from the shame of tears, and her head lifted with a proud little movement.

         
She might have been saved, she thought as she moved forward
with one hand in Tristán's, the other in the Duque's. this stranger from Madrid
for some strange reason would have rescued her from this marriage: it did not
matter why, she thought, so long as he had been willing. But now the chance was
lost. the ties of betrothal were as strong as those of marriage, and she was
bound irrevocably, by laws of Church and State, to Bartolomé de Benavents y
Rioja.

         
CHAPTER 6

         
There was a changed atmosphere about the castillo‘s
inhabitants at supper that night. Ostensibly it was because they attended the
Duque de Valenzuela's betrothal feast, but it was the arrival in such haste of
the elderly, quiet-spoken man from Madrid which gave the court its air of
alertness and which lent the feast an air of self-conscious conviviality.
Eugenio de Castaneda was gloating behind his assumed obsequiousness while Doria
Luisa seemed mom lifeless than ever, her thread of a voice hardly audible, her
eyes roaming nervously. Juana herself was the only one who did not care about
Torres's presence, she thought as she surveyed the hall from the bride's place
of honour between the two Duques — she, and perhaps Bartolomé. She because she
was still too sick and weak with disappointment to care what else befell, and
he because he remembered so few faces from hour to hour that one more strange
one meant little to him.

         
She sat rigidly upright in the place of honour so that no
one watching her would guess that she still felt faint and ill, and was longing
to go to bed. On her left Torres was engaged in cautious conversation with de
Castaneda, and - on her right Bartolomé was guzzling his food, almost climbing
on to the table in his efforts to secure all the choicest dishes at once. It
had quickly become clear why he did not feed in public every day — few people
would have been able to stomach the sight often, and Juana could only wonder at
the impassive behaviour of the servants, who seemed to notice nothing strange
in their obedience to an idiot. As for the nobles who dignified his court with
their attendance — why did they stay?

         
'Most are too lazy to do aught else, senorita,' a voice,
said, and she realized that she must have spoken aloud.

         
She turned to see Riccardo Martinetti's pale, world-weary young
face close beside her, and he was smiling. 'Or else they arc too poor to pay
for their own victuals. They prefer to pay the tribute of manners to one who
will maintain them, which is easier service than working for their bread.'

         
She smiled very faintly. You are severe, signor.'

         
'I include myself in their number, senorita. Why should any
man toil who can live upon another's cost, only for the forfeit of a little
pride? We courtiers take the wise man's course.'

         
'You rate profit above honour, then?' she enquired tartly.

         
His grey eyes glowed in an unexpected smile. 'In the main,
like most men, but I. . .‘

         
He broke off, and turning her head to follow his gaze Juana
saw that Bartolomé's attention was fixed upon them. He was scowling, one
greasesmeared hand flapping petulantly, and at the gesture Martinetti bowed and
retreated from the shadow of Juana's chair. The frown cleared, and Bartolomé

         
leaned forward.

         
'Mine now.' He was still chewing as he spoke. 'My Juana.'

         
Her lips moved, but she could find no words; in that moment
the full horror of her betrayal dawned on her abruptly. Why had she not chosen
public dishonour, general censure, before submitting to pledge the rest of her
life to such a creature? As she stared into the vacant blue eyes with their
gloating light, she knew suddenly that she could not endure it. That whatever
shame came to her she would confess all, here and now, to Torres, and let de
Castarieda make shift as he would for some more malleable puppet.

         
‗Ah, young blood!' De Castaneda's voice sounded as
she took breath to speak. He was gazing from her to Bartolomé, and something in
his face told her that he had guessed her thought. His elbow dug Torres's side
in a parody of sentimental approval. 'See how loving he is to her already, mmn?
It would have been cruel, would it not, Your Grace, to keep them asunder?
Nephew —' his voice grew minatory - 'now that the feast is ended you must lead
your betrothed in a dance far us. Show our noble guest how well you two accord
together.‘

         
Bartolomé shook his head violently, 'N-no! There are still
some kickshaws.'

         
His hand scrabbled, searching, in one of the almost empty
silver bowls. 'If she will dance, let her d-do it by herself. I had rather
watch.'

         
'She mutt he partnered. Come, it is your privilege.'

         
'I will not, I will not! She will laugh - they all laugh
except Felipe, w-when