is
kept here but while she is sick; she knows nothing of how or why she came
here."
"Tomasso
Galleotti's work." The man sounded amused. "He gave her too generous
a dose of his sleeping draught—and he paid for it with his neck. As soon as the
duke heard that his prize was like to die, he had Tomasso hauled out and
hanged."
"Does
he care so much?" Father Vincenzo asked sharply.
"Enough
to have done with state affairs already! He has dismissed the council and
ordered revels for this very night. As for the duchess, it is a brave man who
mentions her—they were alone together for half an hour, and now she is banished
and gone."
"For
what offense?"
"Who
can tell?" I could hear the man's shrug in his tone. "She is gone,
and there an end. Now all His Grace's mind is bent upon this business, and I am
sent to fetch your prisoner."
My
heart was pounding violently. It seemed impossible that I could have been a
prisoner all this while and had not known it—but it made sense of so much that
had been meaningless before. The silence, the solitude, the single priest to
nurse me: now I noticed the bars that bound the heavy door and recognized the
dark room for what it was. I remembered the grim tales I had heard of the
dungeons beneath the Palazzo della Raffaelle, where Duke Carlo lodged the
prisoners who never saw the light of day.
My
thoughts were circling, panic-stricken, when the priest spoke again. "I
will bring her to you."
"I
am much beholden to you." There was infinite irony in the smooth words.
"Pray make haste, or truly I think the duke will come himself if you do
not."
As
the sandaled footsteps approached the door, I was out of bed, staring wildly
around me, seeking for an escape that I knew was not there. Father Vincenzo's
voice came sharply from the doorway behind me.
"Daughter,
what is the matter?"
I
said unsteadily, "I heard you talking. You lied to me." "What
did you hear?" He came towards me and caught my hands in his.
"That
the duke sends for me. I have done nothing—why does he keep me in prison for
nothing?"
I
was almost stammering, and the Jesuit gripped my restless hands and held them
still. "Softly, lady. You are no worse now than you were before you
learned all this—you need not fear for your life. The duke would not set me to
cure you of your fever only to have you killed. Consider calmly, and you will
see that it is so."
"But
why should he take me prisoner? And why did you not tell me?"
"I
feared to raise this very storm by speaking. It would have gained you nothing
and perhaps hindered your recovery—you would not have learned the truth yet if
I could have prevented it."
I
said through chattering teeth, "I have the right to know what is intended
towards me."
"Yes."
There was compassion in the priest's eyes. "But knowing the duke's intent
would not have altered it. Come, daughter, have courage, and I will take you to
His Grace's envoy."
He
gently draped the dingy bedcover around my shoulders, and I lifted my head in a
sudden spurt of pride as I went with him to the door. My legs were unsteady,
and I remember feeling annoyed by my slow progress, but at last I reached the
massive door, and Father Vincenzo pushed it open.
The
room beyond the door was wide and bare, seeming so bright for a moment my eyes
were dazzled; then I saw a man standing against the opposite wall, as
incongruous as a shining moth in a tomb. A small, spare, shapeless man in black
brocaded with silver, his hair and beard bleached to the color of sun-whitened
barley, his thin face a mask of paint. He stood deliberately posed, one hand on
his hip, the other stroking his beard; then he bowed with an ironic air that
made an insult of the courtesy.
"Lady,
good afternoon!"
The
sudden affected lightness stirred my memory: this was the man who had
complained in the courtyard of the Eagle the night I was taken.
I
said, "Is it afternoon, sir? The hours are so alike I cannot tell one from
another."
He
straightened swiftly, smiling,
kept here but while she is sick; she knows nothing of how or why she came
here."
"Tomasso
Galleotti's work." The man sounded amused. "He gave her too generous
a dose of his sleeping draught—and he paid for it with his neck. As soon as the
duke heard that his prize was like to die, he had Tomasso hauled out and
hanged."
"Does
he care so much?" Father Vincenzo asked sharply.
"Enough
to have done with state affairs already! He has dismissed the council and
ordered revels for this very night. As for the duchess, it is a brave man who
mentions her—they were alone together for half an hour, and now she is banished
and gone."
"For
what offense?"
"Who
can tell?" I could hear the man's shrug in his tone. "She is gone,
and there an end. Now all His Grace's mind is bent upon this business, and I am
sent to fetch your prisoner."
My
heart was pounding violently. It seemed impossible that I could have been a
prisoner all this while and had not known it—but it made sense of so much that
had been meaningless before. The silence, the solitude, the single priest to
nurse me: now I noticed the bars that bound the heavy door and recognized the
dark room for what it was. I remembered the grim tales I had heard of the
dungeons beneath the Palazzo della Raffaelle, where Duke Carlo lodged the
prisoners who never saw the light of day.
My
thoughts were circling, panic-stricken, when the priest spoke again. "I
will bring her to you."
"I
am much beholden to you." There was infinite irony in the smooth words.
"Pray make haste, or truly I think the duke will come himself if you do
not."
As
the sandaled footsteps approached the door, I was out of bed, staring wildly
around me, seeking for an escape that I knew was not there. Father Vincenzo's
voice came sharply from the doorway behind me.
"Daughter,
what is the matter?"
I
said unsteadily, "I heard you talking. You lied to me." "What
did you hear?" He came towards me and caught my hands in his.
"That
the duke sends for me. I have done nothing—why does he keep me in prison for
nothing?"
I
was almost stammering, and the Jesuit gripped my restless hands and held them
still. "Softly, lady. You are no worse now than you were before you
learned all this—you need not fear for your life. The duke would not set me to
cure you of your fever only to have you killed. Consider calmly, and you will
see that it is so."
"But
why should he take me prisoner? And why did you not tell me?"
"I
feared to raise this very storm by speaking. It would have gained you nothing
and perhaps hindered your recovery—you would not have learned the truth yet if
I could have prevented it."
I
said through chattering teeth, "I have the right to know what is intended
towards me."
"Yes."
There was compassion in the priest's eyes. "But knowing the duke's intent
would not have altered it. Come, daughter, have courage, and I will take you to
His Grace's envoy."
He
gently draped the dingy bedcover around my shoulders, and I lifted my head in a
sudden spurt of pride as I went with him to the door. My legs were unsteady,
and I remember feeling annoyed by my slow progress, but at last I reached the
massive door, and Father Vincenzo pushed it open.
The
room beyond the door was wide and bare, seeming so bright for a moment my eyes
were dazzled; then I saw a man standing against the opposite wall, as
incongruous as a shining moth in a tomb. A small, spare, shapeless man in black
brocaded with silver, his hair and beard bleached to the color of sun-whitened
barley, his thin face a mask of paint. He stood deliberately posed, one hand on
his hip, the other stroking his beard; then he bowed with an ironic air that
made an insult of the courtesy.
"Lady,
good afternoon!"
The
sudden affected lightness stirred my memory: this was the man who had
complained in the courtyard of the Eagle the night I was taken.
I
said, "Is it afternoon, sir? The hours are so alike I cannot tell one from
another."
He
straightened swiftly, smiling,
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