The Flesh and the Devil (41 page)

         
For an instant time seemed to freeze, and then to her
horror she saw tears welling up his dark eyes.

         
‗Juana!‘ Her name was a hoarse whisper on his lips.

         
In a hideous flash she saw herself as she must appear,
still and acquiescent, her head bent almost tenderly over Tristán‘s. Jaime
could not know that the long fingers digging into her arms were like manacles,
that the desperate words he had overheard, but Tristán‘s hands held her fast;
as he lifted his head she stared down at him in helpless accusation and saw a
flicker of satisfaction cross his face. He had planned this, she thought; there
was no shock in his face, not even any surprise. He had known that Jaime would
come back quickly, and had contrived that he should find them together like
lovers.

         
‗So now you know.‘

         
Tristán‘s red head turned to meet the younger man‘s
horrified look. His voice was toneless, but his hand had closed with sudden
cruelty on Juana‘s wrist when he tried to speak.

         
‗This – this is some trick!‘ Jaime had found his
voice and his face was full of scorn. ‗She would not allow scum like you
to touch her.‘

         
Tristán sat back on his heels, his big frame relaxed and
graceful, his voice so calm that he might have been holding a trivial
conversation that concerned him not at all. ‗No, she has married me and
was afraid to tell you of it – you come most opportunely, to save one of us the
labour. There is no shame in it, Juana.‘ He spoke without looking at her, his
eyes on the younger man‘s anguished face. ‗your friend will be the first
to understand our urgency.‘

         
Jaime‘s fingers were gripping the frame of the carriage
door so that his fingertips showed white. ‗She would not,‘ he asserted
stumblingly, ‗She – she told me what she thinks of you – bestial, she
called you, no better than your master.‘

         
‗Did she so? When?‘

         
The question made Juana‘s blood run cold.

         
‗When I came to the castillo –‗

         
‗Ah, then I cannot blame her. We had quarreled not an
hour before because she was afraid to confess our love to the world. I have
just now begged her pardon for what I said then.‘

         
‗No!‘ Juana found her voice. In that moment she was
oblivious to everything but the agony of Jaime‘s disillusionment, and her own
anger. ‗I did not want to marry him, Jaime. He forced me . . .‘ She
hated, stricken, the damning words dying on her lips.

         
For a moment the silence seemed unbearable, and then
Triastán said evenly,

         
‗You are distracted, nina. How could I force you to
such a thing against your will?

         
You could have had me flogged for speaking to you when I
served the Duque.‘

         
It ought to have been true, Juana knew, and she could not
deny it without admitting the real truth to Jaime and condemning both of them –
for Tristán would make the confession he had threatened, and hold to it no
matter what eternity, fighting for words; then, abruptly, despair overwhelmed
her and she dropped her head in her hands.

         
Through the blackness that covered her eyes, she heard
Tristán say, ‗She fears her father‘s anger, but I know you will speak for
us.‘

         
There was a pause as Jaime absorbed the shock of that
deliberate goad, and then he said chokingly, ‗I shall see you dammed
first!‘

         
Juana looked up in fear. Tristán was still crouched on the
floor of the carriage, upright on his heels, his red head thrown back. The
muddy light from the doorway was cruel to the marred flesh of his right cheek,
but his eyes were steady and disdainful as he contemplated the younger man. He
was watching him with the same impassivity that he had used to mask his
thoughts in the Castillo Benaventes.

         
‗Come out.‘ Jaime‘s tongue was stumbling over the
words, his face dark with fury. ‗Come out and fight, you overweening
cur!‘

         
‗Will you degrade your nobleness so far as to fight
with me?‘ Tristán asked softly.

         
‗Yes!‘ Jaime‘s glance was hot as it went from Juana‘s
bowed head back to the mercenary‘s unrevealing face. ‗I will kill any
vermin in the lady‘s service, even if I have to buy a new sword afterwards to
use on my equals.‘ He stepped back, lowering himself into the roadway just as a
sudden squall of rain spotted the peacock brightness of his doublet. ‗Come
out here, scullion, and learn your true station.‘

         
Juana gave a cry of alarm as Tristán rose to his feet and
swung easily out of the carriage. The driver, Ramon, had reappeared at the bend
of the road and was peering back with interest at the two men confronting each
other; then, as the rain lashed down from the now leaden sky, he ran for the
shelter of the trees and watched from there.

         
Juana stared out of the carriage with a sort of stunned
bewilderment. She had known the codes of honour since her childhood, when her
brothers had thrilled her by reciting the intricate rituals that guarded a
gentleman‘s self-respect; but those elaborate manoeuvres had no connection with
the abrupt, ugly reality. It seemed impossible that a mere exchange of words
could put two lives in jeopardy, risking the life that she had married Felipe
Tristán to save.

         
Understanding made her lips curl in disgust as her fingers
clenched the softness thrust into her hands. Tristán had stripped off his
doublet and pushed it to her without a glance as though she were his second.

         
Juana whispered, ‗If you kill him, I shall never
forgive you.‘

         
For a moment she thought he had not heard her, then he said,
‗He challenged me, not I him.‘

         
‗You provoked him on purpose.‘

         
His cold eyes narrowed. ‗True, so I did, and he took
the bait like a starving salmon. I mean to pay him for striking me, no more –
did you think I meant to cheat you of our bargain? I shall let him live.‘ He
added through her gasp of relief,

         
‗Perhaps with a face marked like mine, or worse.
Would life be so sweet to him then, do you think?‘

         
Before she could answer he had turned away and was striding
towards the open space where the two tracks crossed. Jaime was already there
waiting, hat and cloak discarded, while the rain steadily darkened his brave
silk doublet, he was flexing his rapier and making experimental passes with it
as Tristán approached, but the mercenary, as he halted, made no attempt to
touch his swords-hilt.

         
Juana saw Jaime‘s head jerk up at the sound of the
approaching foolfall, and saw his stance alter indefinably as he stared up at
his opponent; the blade checked its swing, and the gesture ended in an abortive
jerk. He said something, sharply and imperatively, and Tristán‘s red head moved
so briefly that the denial was almost invisible; then, as Jaime gestured again,
Juana realized that he was ordering Tristán to draw his sword and fight. Yet it
was not the bold challenge she had expected – the rasped command held a note of
unease that puzzled her, and she wondered what he could see in Tristán‘s face
that she could not read in the reposeful line of his back. So far as she could
see, he had made no threat, his hands were at his sides, his body relaxed, and
only the mock-deferential inclination of his head answered Jaime. Then, in an
almost neglectful movement, he rested his hands lazily on the hilt of his
sword.

         
Shocked, Juana saw Jaime‘s point flash up to prick his
opponent‘s throat. He had panicked, she realized, though she could not tell
why; his eyes had widened childishly, and the rivulets of rain that ran down
his face, plastering his black hair to his head like a satin cap, looked like
the sweat of fear. The blade jabbed, prodding frenziedly at the base of
Tristán‘s throat like a goad.

         
‗Draw your sword, I say! Draw!‘ the command came
again, ragged and breathless now above the beating of the rain.

         
‗In my own time – I believe that is permitted.‘

         
Tristán‘s voice sounded unruffled, and his fingers
tightened slowly on his sword-hilt.

         
‗You – coward!‘ the younger man‘s voice broke on a
sob. ‗Coward!‘

         
Juana only saw the quick lunge of his arm and its suddenly,
almost ludicrously, Jaime went staggering back, his face white; his sword-point
wavered and fell. He took a couple of unsteady steps backwards, holding the
sword like a child‘s broken toy, and then all at once he turned and began to
run. He jammed his sword back into its sheath, stumbling as he did so, and,
reaching the grey horse, pulled himself clumsily into its saddle. He cast Juana
a wild, half-furtive look, then wheeled his startled mount and set off at a
reckless pace down the downhill track.

         
Tristán remained motion in the roadway, watching him go,
and as the clatter of hoofbeats fades he swung round and came back towards the
carriage. By now the force of the rain was pitting the road‘s surface, and
water was pouring from the twigs and rattling on the carriage roof like a drum.
Juana shrank back from the door as he climbed in and slammed it behind him, her
throat so full of tears that she could hardly speak.

         
‗What did you do to him?‘ she demanded incredulously.

         
‗Nought, if you will believe it.‘ He sounded suddenly
tired. ‗Perhaps the water damped his honourable fury and quenched his
zeal to protect you – I know not.‘ The thick red hair was darkened to deep
bronze by the rainwater, and he pushed the dripping locks off his face. ‗At
all events he has saved his skin, and saved it whole – that was all you cared
for, was it not?‘

         
Juana hardly heard the question, she said in a dead voice, ‗There
is blood on your shirt,‘ and the broad shoulders moved in a light shrug.

         
‗I think it annoyed your
preux cheavalier
that
I would not draw when he bade me. Disobedience from a servant!‘ his lips
smiled, but his eyes were bleak.

         
‗He only pricked the skin, but something made him run
when he had done it –

         
perhaps it was the sight of real blood on his pretty
sword.‘ Then he added, with a bite in his voice that made her start, ‗A
loving wife would have stanched this as soon as she saw it.‘

         
He held out his handkerchief to her, but she shook her head
stubbornly. Her hands, burred in the damp wool of his doublet, were trembling;
reaction churned within her, making her want to weep or to hurt him for making
her more afraid than she had known she could be in the moments when he had
stood turned away from her, refusing to draw his sword.

         
Viciously, she said, ‗You should have married a loving
wife, then.‘