The Silver Devil (38 page)

Footsteps
came running across the flagstones, and Ippolito crashed to his knees beside
me. He fell so suddenly and so close that I could not see his face; his voice
sounded quite unlike his own, breathless and strained.

"Are
all the rest gone?"

I
found my voice. "Yes, my lord."

"Then
we must go, too. Though how I shall fare when the duke knows I have not done
his errand, I dare not think—these Spanish arrows are swansdown feathers to the
weight of his displeasure. But come." His voice was steadying as he spoke.
"We must do something to salve your terrors, Sir Coward. Up with
you!"

Scrambling
to his feet, he lifted me to mine: then I felt the grip of his hands tighten in
astonishment, and he shook me so urgently that my head was jolted back as he
stared at me in disbelief.

"Lady!"
He sounded utterly amazed. "What are you doing here, and in those
clothes?"

"I
could not stay in my chamber while there was danger." I could not say
more, but he seemed to understand, because there was a look of compassion in
his face.

"And
you have found more danger than you bargained for," he finished gently.
"Courage, then, for it will soon be over, and after the first step the
worst is past."

For
an instant I heard in his words the echo of another voice — Piero's — wooing me
to the duke's bed with the very same words. The memory was so sharp that I
flinched momentarily, then forced it out of my thoughts as Ippolito closed my
hands around the rope.

"Go
on." He was smiling still as I hesitated, but he meant what he said.
"The duke will be halfway to Diurno if we do not make haste."

There
was no time to demur that the duke might not want me; if Ippolito said I was to
go, there was no tarrying. I scrambled over the parapet, hearing his soothing
instructions in my ears.

"All
you have to do is to keep a firm grip on the rope and find what footholds you
can on the way down. Only remember not to let yourself slide, or you will burn
the skin off your hands—and keep close to the side of the tower."

I
was over the edge now, my feet dangling in the air, and the strain on my arms
was unbearable. I glanced down to find a foothold, and at once I was
transfixed. The ground seemed to spiral up to meet me, and it was only by luck
that my hands retained their grip.

"Madam,
you must not look down!" Ippolito's voice came sharply, and I wrenched my
eyes away from the spinning void and craned upwards. His face was suspended
above me in an arc of smoke-filled sky; he was kneeling atop the parapet and
leaning down to call. As I peered up, my feet found crevices in the crumbling
wall almost instinctively, and the trouble in his face cleared. "Well
done! Now go on!"

I
took a deep breath to call my thanks, but the hiss of arrows drowned my voice.
When it died, Ippolito still knelt there, perhaps leaning a little lower than
he had done but not troubling to avoid the flying shafts; it took a moment to
realize that he was slowly sagging forward and moments more to connect it with
the feathered shaft protruding from his forehead. One hand moved slightly,
ineffectually, as though to touch it; then, with nightmare slowness, his body
teetered and fell. At first it doubled together and toppled, like a sack of
flour, but as it fell out into space it spread-eagled, turning and sailing
through the air into infinity, into oblivion.

It
was pain, simple physical pain, which shocked me back to my senses. Every
muscle in my arms was screaming in protest, and with an involuntary whimper I
began to lower myself down the rope, my feet finding cracks in the masonry. I
dared not look down: And now I dared not look up, in case I saw the empty
battlement which would confirm what I had seen to be reality. Instead I stared
straight ahead with numb concentration, seeing the scars of the other climbers'
feet, marks where the sun-dried lichen crusting the wall had been trodden to
powder, long scrapes where a boot had skidded or a crumbling foothold had given
way. I was not aware of anything but the next step, and the next — the giddy
seconds when the rope swung away from the wall and I clung to it like an ape—the
realization that at last there was ground, solid ground under my feet.

My
legs almost gave way as I let go the rope, and I tottered drunkenly, staring
unbelievingly at the frowning face of the tower. It seemed impossible that I
should have climbed so far. I could still hear the din of battle within the
city, men howling and the crackle of fire, but now it seemed to come from a
world long past. The rope was sticking to the palms of my hands, and I pulled
free, roughly.

No
one was waiting in the thicket as I scrambled down from the flagway to the
cover that Santi had pointed out; all the rest must have gone on. I ran panting
from the foot of the wall, starting at every shadow, forcing my buckling legs
to obey me as I raced uphill and in among the trees, expecting a Spanish ambush
at every turn. Coming so suddenly out of the sun's glare, I was almost struck
blind, and then as my eyes accustomed themselves to the blue-dappled shadows I
saw two horses tethered there—mine and Ippolito's.

A
lump rose in my throat, but I choked it down; time enough to mourn later. I
stared at the horses, trying to assess them as though I were calmly choosing a
mount in the duke's stable.

There
was little choice, I realized, for I could never mount the tall chestnut
gelding unaided. But with luck and the helpful bole of a tree, t might manage
to mount the piebald mare. I would have to ride astride, for no boy ever sat a
horse sidesaddle.

It
took some coaxing to calm the mare enough for her to let me mount her; she was
nervous, sensing the violence in the air and upset by her cavalier treatment,
and when I gathered up the reins, she laid back her ears and began to sweat. I
talked nonsense to her, trying to distract her attention from the fading sounds
of battle, and when the sound of my voice had lulled her into uneasy stillness,
I hauled myself into the saddle.

The
sudden weight made her shy so violently that I almost lost my balance; I clung
feverishly with thigh and knee and hand, bouncing in my unaccustomed seat. Then
she was off and bolting, and I was riding without stirrups, winding my hands in
her mane as I sought to stay on her back. She plunged out of the thicket like a
mad thing, tearing through the undergrowth like a thing possessed; I had no
hope of controlling her, no idea even of where she was taking me. The ground
ahead seemed to zigzag crazily as we veered away from the frowning walls—if we
had finished by crashing into the river I would not have been at all surprised.

I
was riding flattened to the horse's back, half-smothered by her flying mane,
and that must have been what saved me from the bowmen across the gorge. The
mare must have looked riderless as she labored up the slope to level ground.
Then, as she gained the crest, her stride leveled into a headlong gallop. The earth
blurred under her hooves, and the smoke-filled air became a wind which filled
my eyes and lungs and left me gasping.

I
loosened one hand and managed to grab the flying rein, certain with every
moment that I should slip off and be crushed by the flying hooves, and pulled
with all my strength. The mare's pace checked as her head swung around, then
steadied again as she wrenched at the bit; she was terrified beyond all
control, driven by fear of the turmoil of war behind her.

My
arm felt as though it were being wrenched from its socket, all the muscles I
had strained in the climb now screaming protest as the mare's head jerked and
jerked again, but I knew that if I let the rein slip I was lost. If I could
turn her back again, I thought dazedly, back off the level ground to the slope
below the lip of the gorge, the rough ground would slow her down. Between my
thighs her muscles were bunched and tense, and she was resisting my attempts at
control with every nerve.

Still
tugging desperately at the rein, I saw the ground dip and fall away ahead. The
mare was turning at last, but now she was headed straight for the
precipice—there was no barrier but a couple of old upright timbers stuck
meaninglessly on the verge. The animal did not hesitate. She veered and, with
one final defiant toss of her head, went thundering down on the brink.

I
felt the lift and surge of her muscles as though she were leaping and wondered
why she did not try to check her momentum; then I heard her hooves striking
timber and the drumming as she galloped on. Wiser than I even in her panic, she
had looked and seen the old bridge that spanned the gorge, the one that Sandro
had shown me what seemed like years ago. A collection of rotten planks, he had
called it, for those who do not mind risking their lives—and now it had saved
mine. I could hear the creak of its timbers even through the drumming of
hooves; small wonder that the Spanish had not even tried to cross by it.

We
had reached the northern side. As the mare climbed the slope towards the pathway,
my feet found the stirrups at last. She ascended the rise, and then as she took
off again, I caught the rhythm of her stride at last and sat down on her back.

Now
I could risk turning to get my bearings. When I looked behind, I was amazed by
how far we had come. The embattled city was now only a distant threat, the
bowmen on this side of the gorge clustering opposite its walls like ants on a
trail of honey. Far behind now was the siege, and ahead were the path over the
crest of the gorge and the road that traced the cliffs running beside the sea.

I
thought despairingly: Domenico will have turned westwards to Diurno, and if I
cannot turn this animal, I shall never come up with him. But it seemed nothing
could stop the mare. -The long wait in the thicket, tethered so close to the
fighting, had unnerved her so that now she would gallop until she was
exhausted.

I
do not know how far we had traveled when I felt her tiring at last, but we had
covered the ground at desperate speed. She chafed again as she felt restraint
on the bit and resisted, but only for a little, and then her headlong pace
began to slow. In a moment she would be cantering, and then if I could manage
to turn her...

I
heard the sound of horsemen ahead.

I
hauled on the reins, trying with all my strength to turn the horse, but my
sudden panic had communicated itself to her, and she threw up her head and
galloped straight forward. Against my will I was catching up with the riders
ahead— whether friend or foe I could not tell, but there was little chance of
friends. I could see them now, riding hard, and the dust from their horses'
hooves was choking me. One of them must have heard me approaching, because
there was a shout and those behind reined in sharply, turning to confront me.

One
of the horses whinnied, and my mare, unbelievably, slowed. Now she would answer
the bit, and I pulled her up, staring with unbelieving eyes at the riders. Two
of them had ridden back to meet me, and I found myself gazing incredulously at
two of the Cabrian lords. They had taken the northward road, and my horse's
panic-stricken flight had brought me up with them. I gave a little sob of
relief.

"Where
is the lord Ippolito?" The question came sharply from the taller man. I
drew a deep breath.

"He
is dead, sir."

Both
men turned pale. "Dead! But he cannot be! How did it happen?"

"He
was hit as he helped me down from the battlements. An arrow pierced his skull
and he fell."

The
taller man said, "God absolve him," and crossed himself.

His
companion followed suit more perfunctorily before asking, "Who will tell
the duke of this news?"

His
companion twisted to stare at him. "What do you mean, messire?"

The
other man shrugged, and I suddenly recognized Andrea Regnovi, muffled up in a
soldier's heavy black cloak and clumsy beaver, hiding his embroidered doublet
and breeches. "Why, sir,
I
would not be the one to tell His Grace
such news. The death of his own secretary will loose a storm over all our head,
and he that brings the tidings...." He made a brief, graphic gesture.

"The
boy can tell him, then. We can spare one more brat to appease him."

Andrea
looked reproachful. "What are you saying? There are few of the sweet lads
enough and little chance of other solace on this journey. If we must spend a
boy on this errand, can he not be ugly?"

I
shivered, hating him for taking Ippolito's death so lightly; in another moment
I would have spoken out impulsively and betrayed myself, but ahead the other
horsemen had reined in, and Domenico's voice came back peremptorily.

"Who
is that slave? What has happened?"

"He
brings news, Your Grace," the tall man called out, "news of my lord
secretary."

"Ippolito!
What of him?"

The
riders surged and scattered, and I saw Domenico, proudly erect in the saddle,
in the midst of them. He reined in when he saw me, and a dreadful silence fell.
I said huskily, "He has been killed, Your Grace. A Spanish arrow struck
him, and his body fell into the gorge."

Even
from that distance I saw Domenico change color. He was as white as ashes, and
for a moment no one spoke. With part of my mind I noticed the faces of the
others—genuinely shocked, as though they had been fonder of Ippolito than they
knew—but I cared only for the queer note in Domenico's voice as he asked,
"Was no one else with him?"