A Dancer in Darkness (22 page)

The countryside had changed. They were now in those ragged turbulent hills which stood between central Italy and the eastern coast. As they wound through dry
arroyos,
there was ample time for ambush here, and the region was poor. Brigands and
banditti
were everywhere. Ferdinand had used that disguise before. Or he might hire others to do the mischief. The rest of her company was wary here. They did not like it either. The pompous caravan tightened up, and seemed pathetic against the hills.

It was here Antonio was to meet her. There was no sign of him.

On the third week of the progress, they came out of a bastion of rocks, high up, and saw the Adriatic for the first time. The sunlight was mercilessly clear. So was the air. She drew rein and looked down.

The hills fell away on either side. Between the cliffs and the ocean stretched a level plain, dotted with quincunxes of trees. Here and there in the plain rose a massive butte. They could see peasants and labourers going about their business in the fields. Out to the Adriatic stood little ships, which scarcely seemed to move. Not a bird hovered in the sky. And in the far distance sparkled the white walls, turrets, and campanile of Ancona, turning the pale breasts of its cathedral domes up to the sky.

Loreto lay hidden in hills far to the right. She turned her horse in that direction, bitter to tears. Something, she knew, had gone wrong, and she had not the courage to go on. She ordered the caravan to halt, and went to rest in the tent soon pegged out for her.

She had to hide, for she was trembling. For a little while she wanted a respite from being so perpetually watched, and the one thing she must not betray publicly was anxiety. Even Cariola did not know the real purpose of this journey.

As she rested in her tent one of her guards came to announce that the company had fallen in with a troup of tumblers and strolling players. He thought that they might amuse her.

The Duchess smiled wanly. She was touched.

Cariola bustled into the tent. She was severely agitated, and stood behind the guard anxiously.

“Very well,” said the Duchess. “Show them in.”

“Oh Madam, don’t,” said Cariola.

The Duchess’s eyes widened. “Why on earth shouldn’t I?” Again she smiled at the soldier.

Cariola started to say something, and then thought better of it. Her face was pale and frightened. She left the tent.

The Duchess hesitated. “Send them to me,” she ordered. The soldier smiled, saluted, and went out. The Duchess leaned back in a cushioned field chair, and prepared to be dutifully amused.

It was a commedia del’ arte company. Rapid tumblers rushed into the tent, and there was even a dwarf, who played the viol. Then came Sganarelle, Bombard, and the others, all in grotesque masques and peaked caps. Despite herself the Duchess laughed. They were amusing. Their dialogue was very good. They had decided to mimic her company, as though they were themselves on a pilgrimage. Their vulgarity was soothing. She felt much better. She decided to send for the court. She could face her nobles again now.

Sganarelle pirouetted madly, stumbled, and fell against the rug on which her chair stood. He let fall his masque and laughed at her.

It was Antonio.

In Rome it was raining, with the quick, emphatic rain of ruptured summer. It turned the unfinished city into a sea of mud, in which cobblestones rocked down the rivulets of
unpaved
squares. The yellow poles of scaffolding stuck up like fractured bones. Water whipped capriciously round the
interiors
of unroofed naves, and poured over the waltzing statuary of a hundred false façades.

In those quick August cloud-bursts the heavens open like a sluice. The Forum was a swamp. Rain freshened the stench of incense, which hung in the city like the miasma of a plague. The Forum cats huddled in acrimonious groups of three or four, sleek as rats and utterly miserable, staring out of niches
and holes at the weather, their natural enemy. Even they were better off than the scuttling poor. The doors of the Pantheon stood open, quivering in a lashing gale. Rain poured down through the circular hole in its roof like a waterspout, and deluged the high altar with gusts of spray.

Huddled in a sodden cloak, Bosola on his horse picked his way towards the Cardinal’s palace. The street before it was a river in spate, and there was no one in sight anywhere.

Water coursed down his horse’s withers and his own legs. His shoes were pulp. His splendour was ruined, and he had not brought a change of clothes. He had every reason to be in a temper.

Nobody disturbed him. The courtyard was deserted. In the loggias the rain whipped against the inner walls. Bosola went directly to the Cardinal’s apartments.

The Cardinal was waiting for him with his usual patient, slightly defensive smile. It is a mistake to think that that which does not move us is therefore not moving, and he eyed Bosola narrowly. The man was not honest, but he was sentimental. Indeed, sentimental people are never honest. He wondered how much Bosola was keeping back from him. On the other hand the man was dripping wet, and his clothes were ruined. He would have to be soothed. The best way to soothe him was to ask him for advice.

“Does my brother know they have fled?” he asked.

“I do not think so.”

The Cardinal looked at the box in Bosola’s hands. It had four lion legs, and was of wood with silver mounts. When the box was placed on the table, the Cardinal raised the lid. He had never seen the Piccolomini jewels. He looked inside with curiosity.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“She has much money with her. The rest she gave to …” Bosola stopped suddenly, “her paramour.”

“You know his name, then. Have you known it long?” The Cardinal did not wait for an answer. He turned the box out on the desk, and looked at the little hoard, somewhat ruefully. “What a pity she should run such risk for so little.” He held up a sapphire. “How is she?”

He seemed genuinely concerned. Bosola did not quite know what to say. The Cardinal looked up at him. “We do not always do as we wish,” he said. “But what others do should play to our advantage.” He was sly now. “Do you understand me?”

“No.”

It was the first sign of rebellion Bosola had ever made. The Cardinal looked up thoughtfully. Then he sighed and put the sapphire down.

“You will sell these and take her the money. To Ancona, if she wishes that. It was Ancona, wasn’t it? They are only trumpery things.” He paused. “It is Antonio di Bologna, of course?”

Bosola did not answer.

Again the Cardinal sighed. “I see,” he said. He smiled. “A man called Niccolò Ferrante once came to me. He was a fugitive from the galleys. I gave him preferment. Now I find he is wanted in Pavia. I have only to send him there.”

“I am not Niccolò Ferrante.”

“A dozen men will say you were. You said you were. They would behead you if I turned you over to them. And why should I not? You are nothing to me.”

“It was Antonio de Bologna.”

“Of course it was. I suppose they will meet at Ancona. The idea is romantic, but not paid for.” Suddenly he stood up, rustled round the table, and glared down at Bosola.

“I am sending you to my brother.” He was not angry. He was merely contemptuous. And it was the contempt that Bosola would always obey. They both knew that.

“You will do as he says. I suppose you think you have risen. Perhaps you could have once. But power is not the same thing as a new suit of clothes.” The Cardinal began to pace up and down the room. “Yes, you will do as you are told. Do you think we cannot do what we please with you? You, and your sister, too.” The Cardinal glared at him. “She at least is clever enough to get what she wants. But on our terms. You have not even the brains for that.”

He tried to look amused. But his forehead was sweating. He sat down again and glanced up at Bosola with oddly candid
eyes. “My brother cannot be stopped. Treat her gently if you can. She is very young.”

The room grew quiet. The Cardinal shoved the jewel box forward towards Bosola. “Do as he says. But tell me nothing until it is done. Now get out.”

Bosola got out. He had seen more than he had wanted to see. It was as though they had been talking at the end of a dark alley, and someone had held up a lantern to both of them.

He did not mind what happened now. He was caught. He sought out Ferdinand. He would throw himself away,
contemptuously
; and it would be a pleasure to be whipped. If we can make ourselves grovel, then what others make us do so does not hurt nearly so much. It was useless to be Bosola. He had become Ferrante now.

That news travels fast does not disturb us. What takes us aback is that it arrives so suddenly. One moment it is not there. The next it is.

The Duchess’s party was encamped upon a hillside, half-way between Ancona and Loreto. It was morning and something had disturbed the birds. The air was thick with doves, who wove low webs across the air, and called and cooed their trouble as they flew. Only a hawk sometimes could make them dart that way. Or it may only have been their play. Who could tell?

The Duchess woke drowsily, roused by a flurried murmur round her tent. It was the doves. She glanced around the tent, expecting walls. The light was pearly grey, and therefore
disturbing
. She turned to Antonio for comfort, expecting to find him asleep. He was not asleep. He was lying passively on his side, watching her. She looked at him so seriously that he smiled, but she could see that he was serious too.

“It’s early,” he said.

“Yes.” Something disturbed her. She did not quite know what it was. Something about their night had not been quite as things used to be.

She did not want to get up. She wanted to snuggle away
from the world with him, at the bottom of the bed, as though that were protection enough. For a while then they lay in each other’s arms.

There was no real security in it. The inside of the tent was hung with frail white curtains, several layers deep, and looping about the bed as they cascaded from the ceiling. These now moved restlessly, and now fled abruptly up into the air, tugging at their rings, in invisible gusts of wind. The Duchess watched them. Outside the tent the birds sounded agitated too. Then, as the curtains were whipped in a particularly violent flurry, there came the tinkle of bells and the creaking of harness.

It was not easy to dress rapidly in those days. Cariola was nowhere about. The Duchess sent Antonio out to see what was happening. Shoving himself hastily into his clothes, he strode out of the tent, closing the flap behind him.

She was alone. She could not help lying there to listen. The sounds were louder now. They were anxious, worried,
surreptitious
sounds. Antonio was a long time in coming back. When he at last did so she could tell from his face that something was seriously wrong. He did not undress again, but stood above her, looking down at her.

“Some mischief is up,” he said. “They are standing about, whispering to each other. You had better call Cariola and get dressed.”

“What is it?”

“The Lord of Montferrato has turned back for Amalfi. I am afraid the others are going to follow.”

“But they would not dare.”

“They are frightened. Therefore they would dare anything. I’ll find Cariola.”

“Can I stop them?”

He hesitated, and shook his head slowly. Then he turned and went for Cariola.

When she at last came she looked awed and frightened.

“Is it true?” asked the Duchess.

“Yes,” said Cariola. “Oh what does it mean?” Her face showed that she knew what it meant.

“You may go, too, if you wish,” said the Duchess.

“But where would I go?” The answer was anguished and
trapped. The Duchess straightened to look at her. “Poor Cariola,” she said. “Then come with us.”

“Where will you go?”

The Duchess started to explain, but something held her back. “Never mind,” she said. Cariola’s fingers were trembling more than her own. At last, dressed, she was ready to see for herself. At the flap of the tent she paused. Then, while Cariola thrust the flap aside, she stepped out through it, and blinked in the hard cruel light.

The encampment was on the crest of the hill. There had been perhaps thirty tents. Now there were at most fifteen. Below her she could catch glimpses of Montferrato’s caravan weaving uncertainly down the bumpy road, surrounded by his company. They had no pinions flying. Clearly they were in furtive flight. The biggest coward, perhaps, went first.

She had only to look around to see what was happening. The servants were packing up. The nobles were nowhere to be seen. As she stood there, the rising wind toying with her skirt, she saw one of her precious following come out of one of the tents. He was in travelling costume. He saw her, hesitated, turned aside, and then came towards her. It was the Lord of Torcello, a very minor member of the company. There was something crestfallen and apologetic in his gait.

He, at least, had the decency to speak to her, though she had too much pride to listen to his excuses. He was a practical man. He had to go where the others followed. But even he was not concerned about her. He was concerned only to make his own conduct dignified. She could not bear to hear him. She
dismissed
him, to his obvious relief, and went back to her own tent. She sat there with Antonio and Cariola, listening to the sounds of departure, which were hushed and muted. Did they still think she had any power over them? If they had, they would not have dared to flee. They did dare to flee, therefore this furtiveness ill became them. But then few of us have the courage to run away in pomp.

Suddenly it was quiet. Even the birds were still. There was nothing left to agitate them.

She jumped up, with a glance at Antonio, and went outside.

“What does it mean?” she asked Antonio.

“I do not know.” He went forward to investigate.

For the tents were still standing. They quivered in the
off-sea
gale.

Antonio came back to report that they were empty and abandoned. The company had left in some haste, Montferrato having drawn all of them rapidly after him.