A Dancer in Darkness (21 page)

Bosola need not have been so worried.

When he learned what Ferdinand had been up to, the Cardinal was extremely angry, but then he smiled. Like doctors, who can keep six patients in six rooms, and treat them all without fumbling their prognosis, the Cardinal was most efficient when he had most plots in hand. Occasionally he
overlooked
something, and a patient died, but not often. He knew better than to compete with chance, but he believed in being there to snatch away its benefits for himself. Therefore he had merely to fit Ferdinand’s fooleries into his own plans. The adjustment required was not great.

Bosola presented quite a different problem. He was too much of a gentleman to be a reliable villain. The Duchess seemed to trust him. He might therefore change sides. He wrote him at once, telling him what to do with the jewels, but also he wrote to Sor Juana. She had had her lesson, if he was not mistaken. That should be enough to keep her loyal, since she was
ambitious
for her convent, and she should be able to find out if her brother had any secret schemes. That done, he proceeded to Ferdinand, and considered his day profitably spent. Soon Amalfi would be his. It never occurred to him to wonder why
he wanted it. It was merely a course of action he had embarked upon, that unwound now whether he was there to take
advantage
of it or not. He bore no malice towards his sister, and was a little sorry that her folly should have made her course so short. But after all, he would not be there to see what happened, and he had much to do.

At Amalfi the caravan was ready to set forth. The show it made was in every way a splendid one. The Duchess had made it purposely so, and her nobles always welcomed display.

The company was given the episcopal blessing from the steps of the Cathedral, after a solemn Mass, whose incense still clogged the interior. The sonorous organ peeled out into the square through the open bronze doors of the entrance. The crowds were respectful, and respectfully fell back, as the
company
took its way down to the shore.

Sackbut and trumpet wafted them off and cleared their way. The court poet dependably produced an ode. It was almost as though they were setting forth on a little crusade. In the harbour the ships lay waiting. They would go by sea to Naples, and then set forth across country towards Loreto.

As they pulled out from the harbour, and the sails caught the wind, the Duchess, with Cariola, stood on deck and watched the shore recede. Now Amalfi was less a town than the ghostly shell of one. It was as though she had never been there. It was meaningless.

She felt a lump in her throat. Now she was a Duchess
without
lands, without estates, without an army or a populace. She had not even a home. She was in flight, but must pretend to be leisurely. She was not going to Loreto: she was going to Antonio. She knew she must hold to that thought, and never think of the future at all. But she could not help but think of it. Who would give them sanctuary? Where could they possibly seek refuge? Peasants might run away, and remain hid. But rumour had made her famous. Where could they go?

As the ships stood out to sea, the promontory of Ravello came into view. She said nothing. She did not even stir. But she watched it. As they drew away from the shore, Ravello turned black against the morning sky, as though it had been sacked and burned. She had been happy there.

Knowledge of this pilgrimage had preceded them. They were received in Naples with respect. The Duchess had chosen her pretext well. If one was upon a pious errand, and could not go to Rome, one went to Loreto. Like a journey to Mecca, a journey there was sacrosanct. Merely setting out for Loreto made one untouchable and therefore safe, providing one went with a large and public company.

The baroque taste for showy marvels made the shrine
popular
. Nor was the Duchess less devout for taking the matter lightly. We can believe and disbelieve in the same miracle at the same time with equal fervour. After all, if we prove a miracle false, then it only becomes the more miraculous, and the story of Loreto was well known. It was, after all, the house of the Virgin Mary, spirited from Palestine by a tempest.

But first there was Naples to be dealt with.

Perhaps because she had been born there, the Duchess was not afraid of Naples. As soon as the ships drew in to the mole, she felt more secure than she had ever felt at Amalfi. It was as though she had escaped from a prison. Farther down the coast was Castel del Mare, her husband’s abandoned fief. But in Naples she felt self-assured. The day was halcyon, and in that light all colours sparkled. If only Antonio had been there, she would have been content, but even without him, her spirits rose.

For on a clear day, and there almost all days are clear, the Bay of Naples makes the heart soar. The heat haze seems to tremble with an invisible music. That dangerous magician, Virgil, has his medieval spell cast out like a fishing net, to drag the world in.

The purple bulk of Vesuvius casts its ostrich plume against the sky, and the world seems swathed in gorgeous silk. Care
slithers away like a scarf flowing off a table. If Naples is evil and grotesque, it is evil and grotesque in a singularly cheerful way.

The Duchess decided to disarm her brother the Cardinal. He had some interest in that nun, Sor Juana. Very well, the Duchess would receive her. The more religion they had the better. Let her brothers think she had had a change of heart.

When she discovered Sor Juana could not leave the convent, she shrugged her shoulders, and said that she would go to her. Why should she not? It might be amusing. She had never been to a convent before.

Bosola did not like the idea. He had the feeling that they should not meet. Nor did he wish his sister to see him in that entourage. But there was nothing he could do. The Cardinal’s web was drawn too tight. They were all in it now.

To the Duchess, however, it was merely amusing. She was interested now in everything.

The Duchess had no idea that she was going to visit the guardian of her own child. She had come to patronize and to be gracious. She could not know that to Sor Juana she was not a gracious lady, but an inconvenience. She picked up her skirts and moved sedately up the convent stairs, with Bosola at her heels, Cariola behind, and other members of the court trailing behind her round the landing.

The Duchess was neither literary nor pious. Therefore the usual preparations made to receive visitors did not impress her as they had been intended to do.

Since she had no ceremony of her own, Sor Juana made use of her monastic circumstances. It suited her very well to have the world come to her, and she made the most of it. Such state may have been ridiculous, but scholars and great nobles are not noted for their sense of humour.

The Duchess had come only to see the age’s leading
curiosity
, as in Venice people might visit the zoo and the convent on the same afternoon, pausing to marvel first at the
rhinoceros
, and then to gossip with the nuns. She was prepared to be condescending.

The landing was deserted, except for a bevy of nuns
hovering
about some empty chairs set companionably to the cloister
windows. The Abbess came forward to receive the Duchess, bending commendably low. They were seated and served light refreshments.

Only after a dignified pause did Sor Juana see fit to put in her appearance. She hated to bow to anyone, and through the years had contrived to solve the problem in her own way. She would bustle forward busily, attended by her servant girls, as though just interrupted, drop a quick curtsy, and be seated as the girls fussed about her chair. Then, bright-eyed and amiable, she would turn to sparkle at the company. She swept in now.

The Duchess was startled by this procedure. She was
accustomed
to the manners of the Court Poet, who worked diligently in order that poetry should salute rank, as was only proper. It had never occurred to her that poetry had its own pomps. Besides, there were bits of steel in this woman that she did not care for. Sor Juana looked too prosperous. She should have been more afraid of the world.

She had expected a pretty and precocious nun, not a business woman whose hard eyes believed in nothing but herself, and whose skin was that of a court beauty beginning to lose her looks. By that time even Sor Juana realized how much her character had changed her face.

“But she must be formidable,” the Duchess said. “She is a little nobody.” She sat back, waiting to be dazzled.

But Sor Juana had decided not to dazzle. She was badly rattled. The presence of Bosola in that audience threw her off. She had not expected him. She did not want to see him smirk at her. And she felt cautious. If the Duchess did not know her son was here, why otherwise had she come?

The complications her mind invented were not pleasant. She would have quailed if the Duchess had been older or less bland, or had more power. Sor Juana had not lived at the viceregal court for nothing. She had early learned that pomp is meaningless without a standing army.

They discussed the theatre, the Cardinal, and the plans for a convent. On the subject of the convent the Duchess was vague. She said the matter was up to her brother, the Cardinal. In this she lost both Sor Juana’s attention and her respect. She
had been vigilant. She thought the Duchess had come to bargain. Now she relaxed, seeing she had not.

Watching his sister, Bosola hated her. For her attitude
towards
the Duchess diminished him. Sor Juana recited one of her keepsake sonnets, written for the occasion. The Duchess accepted a copy of it. Nobody listened to it. The company rose to leave. Bosola contrived to stay behind. A look in his sister’s eye had convinced him that he should. He loitered in Sor Juana’s cell, waiting for her to come to him.

Now she had the Cardinal’s favour, he was quick to note, her manner was brusque. She was no saint. She was as bad as he was. She did the devil’s work for nothing.

She came into the room rapidly, with a flurry of skirts, and dismissed her two maids. She wasted no words, but when she saw him dressed so properly, her lips tightened.

“What is happening?” she demanded.

“We are making a pilgrimage to Loreto.” He bowed mockingly. “Perhaps we have turned devout.”

That merely made her impatient. She was very certain of herself. “Rumour has the matter differently. What has happened there?”

Bosola shrugged. “Your convent will be quite safe.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Her tone was sharp. Again that great weariness came over him which was always his reaction to her presence. A little gentleness would have done her no harm. She did wrong to show her hand so soon and so obviously.

“How strange”, he said at last, “that we should both toady to the same man.” He was not angry with her. Only tired of her. Therefore he could choose the words best suited to hurt her with efficiency.

“I toady to no one,” she said. But there was a guilty
expression
in her eyes that showed him that in some way she had realized what the Cardinal could do to her, if he chose. “She is fleeing, isn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Finally she came out with it. “She does not know the boy is here.”

Bosola hesitated, but she did not give him the time to lie.
She seemed much relieved. The boy clearly meant much to her, the Duchess nothing. Perhaps no one any longer meant
anything
to her. Like him she hurtled through life impelled by the impetus of an ambition she had long since left behind.

He turned to leave.

“I am not afraid of you,” she said. “You are only a great man now on the losing side. Enjoy it while you can.”

He looked at her. Her face was cold as metal. So was her voice. So he knew that in some way he had shamed her, and that therefore she was now his implacable enemy. He had always wanted to pull her down. But he did not flatter himself that he had done so. The Cardinal had done so. He wondered how.

He could know nothing of that nun walled up down in the darkness below her. Yet he had the curious feeling that he was seeing her for the last time. He lingered. He did not want to be sent away like a stranger. There must be warmth in her somewhere. For some reason he felt sorry for her, even when she made him angry. He saluted her mockingly and strode down the stairs.

Next day the caravan set out from the Rome gate. Bosola would accompany it until it was time for him to turn off for Rome.

It was one of those crisp mornings when the world is full of music, and the air seems to tinkle against the trees. Flutes sound in all the gorges, and organs rumble like the wagons of the law. Birds chorused out of the grey cliffs and yellow hills of central Italy, and for a while they followed the coast of that magic Roman sea.

Since they made the leisurely public progress of those days, the company did not go more than fifteen miles a day. As they approached each hamlet or small town little boys and beggars ran out to meet them. The spectacle was a noble one. The landscape would be empty. Then, over the nearest rise, the first outriders would appear, peaceable and imperturbable, in the Piccolomini livery, with standards resting in a stirrup strap,
and very vain of their sinuous legs. Plumes on their bonnets ruffled in the breeze.

By choice the Duchess rode next, side-saddle on a palfrey, surrounded by a small bodyguard, with Cariola respectfully half a length behind her, and others riding up to talk to her from time to time. Behind her, for a quarter of a mile, stretched out the heavy wagons and carriages which carried supplies, offerings, and household goods, both her own and those of the nobles who had come with her.

Progress was so slow that it was possible to go hawking in the hills, and still rejoin the company at its destination. Bells jangled. The horses snorted. The carts lumbered uncertainly up and down the rutted roads.

To the Duchess it was a new experience. She looked around her with delight. She had never travelled before, and she had a mind to take delight in new scenes, that special eagerness to see what is round the next bend which makes the traveller. She had sat in Castel del Mare and Amalfi all her life. Now she saw the world could be an endless series of next bends, with something round every one of them. And somewhere, far across these hills and valleys, was still another sea, the musky Adriatic, salt with shrimp, and a town called Ancona, which would make her free.

She began to make a favourite of Bosola, and found him more pleasing than she had found him before. During that five days she forgot her suspicions and began to depend upon him. Nor was she entirely misguided, for Bosola had changed. Had that trip been endless, he would in truth have been dependable.

For Bosola had relaxed. For five days he might do as he pleased, and enjoy favour. It was something he had never done before, to ride well dressed and respected at the head of a caravan, and have the confidence of a Duchess. She preferred him over her own nobles. That made the nobles both angry and uncomfortable.

Only he knew that the situation was not permanent.
Therefore
he took pleasure in it for what it was. He liked the
spectacle
of these gentlemen forcing themselves to toady to him for nothing.

Those five days were the happiest of his life. Only when he looked at Cariola, and remembered how easily she had betrayed Antonio to no purpose, did he become more solemn, and remember that this pageant was only a game. On the other hand, he saw no reason why he should not enjoy Cariola, too. When they paused at houses along the way, he did so. If she sensed something was wrong between them, that was her own affair. But she was subdued. She watched and said nothing. Only in bed did he feel how hysterical she was underneath. She lay in his arms like a rabbit straining to bolt.

The Duchess, he thought, was better at this game. She seemed thoroughly unconcerned.

Indeed, for a few days she was. Like him, but in a different way, she snatched at the pretended ease of a time between and managed to believe it real. It was a little like having a
honeymoon
alone.

When they reached the cross-roads for Rome, and Bosola turned off down it, on the sleekest horse he had ever owned in his life, she looked after him with a sense of dis-ease that soon turned to panic. She did not quite know why, except that the cares she had managed to suppress now flooded back on her. She missed his ironic tone.

She looked up into the sky and saw blackened hawks slowly circling over the only tree on the hill above her. As she rode along she kept glancing aside, until Bosola had disappeared.

He had diverted her. Now he was gone, she was alone with her retinue, and if she flinched even once she knew it would turn upon her mercilessly. She longed to urge the company on, but did not dare to do so. That would be too obvious. But rather than seeming closer, Ancona seemed impossibly far away.

The landscape now was not fresh, but dusty and dry. It was a landscape of rumour. It seemed to her that she moved like a dot across the face of one of those gold and azure political maps whose heraldic designs splashed the walls of the council rooms of palaces. There was nowhere for her to go but on, and therefore she had somehow to get there.

She had not forgotten Ferdinand. By now Ferdinand must know that she had fled. When she saw two sentries talking at
dusk, or interrupted the gossip of courtiers, she thought that it was on his errands that they looked at her.