The Palace (44 page)

The cell was rather smaller than the others had been, narrower, with higher
walls and less light. Instead of a cot there was only a straw pallet, and on it
a figure in a torn chemise huddled, the shreds of a silk gonella pulled around
her shoulders in a vain attempt to stay warm. Though the light was almost gone,
Ragoczy saw that the silk was, or had been, green brocade, the same material as
the gown he had given Demetrice when she had come to be his housekeeper. The
figure moved and two rosy-blond braids fell across the soiled silk.

"Demetrice," he breathed. Carefully he climbed higher, until he could hook
one arm over the stone frame of the window. Then he began the exhausting job of
pulling the bars away from the window. He worked silently, afraid to call to her
for fear he might also get the attention of the monks at the castle. There might
well be guards on the ramparts above him, and only so long as he made little
noise would it be possible for him to get into Demetrice's cell. As he tugged
the second bar away, he remembered ironically how many tales of vampires he had
heard in which the vampires were shape-changers. At that moment he devoutly
wished it were true.

The last bar came away. He gathered up the other two and flung the three
together as far as he could out over the cliff, hoping that they would fall far
enough from the castle to be unheard. He hung on, listening, and when he was
satisfied that no one had noticed the soft, distant clang, no louder than the
bells put on cattle, he pulled himself up into the window.

Until that moment, he had not thought about how to approach Demetrice. He
realized she was lost in a fitful half-sleep, and could not be easily awakened.
Catlike, he dropped silently to the floor of her cell, and stealthily he went to
her straw pallet.

In one swift movement he had fallen to his knees, one hand over her face to
stop her possible scream, the other reaching for the iron fetters.

Demetrice thrashed violently in his grasp, then sank her teeth into his hand.

He had broken the first fetter and was reaching for the other when he could
not endure the pain of her teeth. He turned her to him, forcing her head against
his chest while he broke the second fetter.

She was twisting against him, struggling to get a hand free to hit him, to
scratch him, to drive him away. She wondered which of her jailers had broken
into her cell at last, for though the monks assured her there would be no abuse
from her guards, she had seen the calculating expression in their harsh faces,
and while the monks were at prayers, there was no one to protect her.

Ragoczy seized her wrists, but instead of pinioning her hands behind her, he
held them between his own, against his chest. "Demetrice," he said, his voice
warm and low. "No, Demetrice. No, cara. Hush, Demetrice, hush."

The force of her lunge almost sent her sprawling, but by then she was fully
awake and had realized that this was no jailer, no renegade monk. A thousand
memories stirred in her, memories of dark, compelling eyes, of endless discovery
and learning, of black and silver and rubies and the sign of the eclipse with
wings erect. She caught herself and looked up at the man who had risen to stand
beside her, one small hand outstretched to pull her to her feet.

"Come, Demetrice," he said, and this time she knew him.

"San Germano?" There was as much disbelief as welcome in her voice and she
hesitated to touch him, suddenly fearing that she had gone mad and he was the
dream of her madness.

"Softly," he said, just above a whisper.

"San Germano?" she repeated, fearfully putting her hand in his. She felt the
fingers tighten and she almost sobbed with relief. He was real. Awkwardly she
got to her feet, cold and exhaustion making her body leaden. She started to
speak, but a wave of dizziness swept over her and her first step toward him
faltered.

Then he reached out, drawing her into his arms, his smooth-shaven jaw against
her cheek, his quiet words in her ear. "Amante mia."

"It
is
you," she murmured. "You came."

"Yes." He drew back, but only to be able to kiss her mouth. His lips lingered
on hers, not demanding, but wonderfully insistent.

She ascended into his kiss like a diver at last reaching air, like a crocus
breaking through snow to the first warmth of spring. She had buried desire with
Laurenzo, thinking it dead, and contented to have it so. But now it rose again,
and she welcomed it with gladness, as she welcomed the tentative, beginning
explorations of Ragoczy's small hands.

In the dim, fading square of light from the window, his shadow lay over hers,
one presence merging with another. And then he took her high on her arms and
held her back from him. "Demetrice, how much you tempt me."

Although there was some amusement in his voice, she read in his touch, in his
voice, in his glowing eyes how much she had shaken him. She trembled as she
looked at him, and the words stopped in her throat.

"You're cold," he said softly, and pulled his fur-lined cloak from his
shoulders and in one swift motion wrapped her in it.

Gratefully she hugged the cloak around her, eager for the warmth his body had
given it. She sighed deeply, almost lazily as the stiffness which so many days
in the narrow, dank cell had given her began to loosen and fade.

A wry smile pulled at Ragoczy's mouth. "I should have done that first." He
did not trust himself to touch her again so soon, and he stood back from her,
watching as she sank onto the straw, still straight, though on her knees. "I've
missed you, Demetrice."

She nodded slowly, but she was thinking of something else. Her eyes stung at
his words.

"When there was no letter, I was worried, but I didn't learn of this until
the Feast of the Circumcision. If I had known, I would have come sooner." He
leaned against the wall, letting his calm, low voice dampen the longing that had
flared between them. "It will be difficult, but I will see that you are freed,
amica."

In the three years he had been gone, she had forgotten his compelling force,
or perhaps, she told herself, she had not seen it because before now she had
looked at Ragoczy with the ghost of Laurenzo between them. Now she felt him as a
lodestone feels the way north. With an abrupt motion of her hand she silenced
him. It was an effort of will not to turn to him and be drowned in his eyes, but
she held herself rigid and asked a question that had been born in her years
before. "Is it very terrible, what you do?"

Ragoczy closed his eyes in fleeting anguish but his answer was steady. "No,
not terrible. Unless you make it so."

"But…" She stopped, her mouth suddenly dry. "Does it make me like you?"

He wondered if she knew what she had said, and his face softened. "Not at
first. Eventually, if we come together too often, you will become what I am. Or
if you take from me what I take from you."

She was so intent on the turbulence of her mind that she did not hear him
when he moved. But she felt him behind her, not touching her, as if a great wind
was blowing.

"Well, Demetrice?" He was still, very still, waiting. All the world hung
suspended in the silence between them, as if time had learned to move slowly.
The small dark cell of rough stone was as vast as space, spreading out around
them like the sky. No words passed between them in that immense intimacy, when,
hardly seeming to move at all, Ragoczy began to undo her braids, freeing her
palely blushed hair from its confining ribbons.

She held her breath as he spread her hair across her back like a veil,
draping the strands over her shoulders. Then his hands came to rest against her
neck, lying tranquilly on the high, gentle rise of her breasts. A tremor ran
through her and his hands withdrew swiftly, cleanly, without taunting, lingering
or playfully toying.

"No." She spoke quickly, her breath coming faster as a new urgency was
awakened in her.

He hesitated. Slowly he knelt behind her, and not knowing she had done it,
she leaned back so that her head rested on his shoulder. Though she would not
look at him she took solace in his nearness, in the comfort his body gave her.
The rhythm of his breathing sustained her and the curve of his chest against her
back supported her without restraint. Gradually his closeness became familiar,
his touch as friendly as hot wine on a cold day. Demetrice closed her eyes and
turned toward him, into his arms.

His fur-lined cloak still enveloped her, and from it she took a certain
measure of privacy, a sanctuary in which her loneliness was preserved, as if his
devastating gentleness could be held at bay, if necessary, with fur. Yet the
cloak opened. She felt his hands on her body, cherishing her, learning and
teaching all the ways of her exquisite elation. The cloak, the ruined gonella,
her chemise, were nothing against the warmth of his lips. He cradled her close
to him as they lay back on her straw pallet. The caressing words he murmured she
barely heard for the thunder that was in her soul. Blinded by a rapture that
satisfied a longing she had not known she had, Demetrice surrendered herself to
the celebration of her passion.

When the thing she had dreaded for so long occurred, she met his need not
with disgust but with rejoicing, in triumph. Her arms tightened around him as
her bliss resounded to the limits of her senses. His ardent tenderness evoked a
fulfillment more complete than anything she had known before, and phoenixlike,
the whole strength of her love rose from the ashes of her grief so that she was
reborn.

Late in the night she slept, but wakened to find him watching her, his dark
eyes alight. He drew her tight against him, sensing her need. Under his hands
her flesh blossomed, yearning toward him with the unending longing that roses
feel for the sun.

His joy was as great as her own. He reached to explore the splendor of her,
to know every nuance of her pleasure, the very texture of her desire, the entire
complexity of her love.

Some little while before dawn he left her, waiting as long as he dared before
climbing to her high, narrow window, and making his way down the precarious
walls of the castle. A cold, filmy mist wound between the trees and curled
against the battlements of the castle, hiding his progress from any sleepy
guards.

Demetrice dozed on the straw pallet, warmed by Ragoczy's cloak and the memory
of his nearness.

Text of a letter from Ruggiero to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano:

To my master:

This comes to you by the good offices of a Bolognese merchant who is
traveling to Fiorenza, and should be in your hands before the middle of
February.

I followed your instructions and left Venezia four days after you did,
bringing, as you requested, a small train of baggage on five mules. The journey
was fairly fast, all things considered. But it was our misfortune to be set upon
by brigands the day we left Bologna. It was a fairly large force, perhaps as
many as thirty, though I didn't see more than eighteen. Though we fought against
them, by numbers alone they prevailed. I am sad to tell you that Teodoro was
killed by them, and that two of the laden mules were taken by the brigands. I've
sustained a few injuries and for that reason I am at a monastery near Monghidoro.
The care here is excellent, and it should not be more than a week before I am
capable of resuming the journey.

The good Fra Sereno is writing this letter for me, as I am not able to do so
yet.

It is with the help of these good monks and the Grace of God that I am able
to communicate with you at all, for after the brigands attacked us, they left
those of us in your employ behind. Tito, though suffering from a serious blow on
his leg, yet walked to this monastery and brought back help. If he had not done
so, we would have been at the mercy of the brigands and the winter.

Be sure I will be with you again shortly.

 

Fra Sereno, for the servant Ruggiero il monastero della Carita del Nostro Signor Brothers of San Ambrogio

 

Near Monghidoro, February 1, 1498

All the benches for the congregation were filled, though it was only a
Tuesday, and a market day at that. Near the altar a number of Domenicani
Brothers made their final reverent preparations for the Mass their prior was to
celebrate that morning. There was a small group of Trinitariani Brothers near
the door, one of them carrying a breviary from which he was reading aloud.

Just before the hour of the Mass struck, there was a stir at the back of San
Marco. The foreigner Germain Ragoczy stood in the door, resplendent in a roundel
of rusty-gold silk. His stiff velvet cap was lavishly sewn with seed pearls and
he carried a small golden dagger tucked into his tooled leather belt. The heels
of his boots were loud in the hush that greeted his arrival, and every eye
followed
him
as he walked down the aisle. Pausing to genuflect and cross
himself most devoutly, he glanced over the assembled Fiorenzeni, and realized
with some dismay that even hard-bargaining merchants were in the church, ready
to hear Mass and Savonarola's sermon.

A somewhat wheezy chord on the organ gave the signal that the celebration of
the Mass was about to begin. Because it was the season of Lent, the monks who
entered the church were singing the
Dies Irae
, their awe-inspiring
words sung with a tinge of smug satisfaction.

There was a formal attention paid to the Mass, but when the spiky figure of
Girolamo Savonarola mounted the Oratory of San Marco, a new excitement ran
through the congregation. Ragoczy could sense the hold Savonarola had over
Fiorenza in the taut, almost somnambulistic faces around him. There were women
with fists clenched under their chins, their eyes filled with terrified
adoration. Ragoczy felt a strange sickness in his mind. He had seen such
expressions before, long ago, when Babylonian mothers had watched their infants
being thrown into the burning maw of their god, Baal.