The Flesh and the Devil (15 page)

         
Since Olivares's disgrace and death, the secretary
explained fluently, things had changed. His Majesty, in one of his rare fits of
self-assertion, had assumed control of his own affairs at a time when the
letters from Andalusia were arriving almost weekly. He had opened each one with
his own royal hands, read it, ripped it to shreds and then burned the pieces.
The letters had seemed to exacerbate the King's ever-growing melancholy, and
the secretary confided that he had given thanks to God when the news of Queen
Mariana's pregnancy, following hard upon the last of them, had given the King's
thoughts a new turn.

         
And now, Torres mused, a letter from the Castillo
Benaventes which told of a plot to marry the Duque de Valenzuela to some nobody
of a provincial without the King‘s consent. There was much of conscience and
spiritual anguish in it, it clearly came from a woman, even though it bore no
signature, and the writer had obviously been privy to great part of the scheme.

         
Torres paced about the room, determination hardening his
rather meeklooking face. The tale might be true or it might not, but it would
not do to take unnecessary risks in the face of the King's — and Olivares's —
obvious determination to forbid the Duque's marriage at all costs. The letter
was dated four days ago and urged haste; if the wedding had already been
solemnized, not even the King's power would prevail against it, and the
consequences for all those concerned might grow out of hand. Torres's own head
might no longer be safe on his shoulders.

         
He left Madrid for Andalusia within the hour, and not one
of his precious books went with him.

         
The sun had a brazen heat, and the wind that plucked the
bullion tassels of the canopy over Juana's head felt as though it had been
trapped in the courtyard too long to keep its freshness. She understood now,
she thought, why so many fountains played indoors and out throughout the
castillo, for it was only directly above the water that she could sense any
coolness.

         
She listened, trying to hear the tinkling of the water
above the chatter of the women about her. Every lady at court, it seemed; was
eager to seek employment or preferment from the Duquesa-to-be. Since the
Duque's approval had become known, her every step had been dogged by
petitioners and unknown waitingwomen.

         
She was thinking of the letter to her father as she sat
languidly under the blue silk canopy, hedged about by her ladies. It was
written, with much labour: a simple, unemotional account of the Duque's
condition, his infirmities, his behaviour. Miguel should have no cause to
complain of her temper or childishness, she had vowed as she wrote, but she was
still at a loss as to how to send it

         
The talk resounded about her, but she did not hear it; the
other women in their sombre, magnificent gowns, clustered round her like so
many stiff-petalled flowers, seemed less real than the sensation of coolness
beneath her outstretched palm. There was a sunlit dazzle on the water that
reminded her of Felipe Tristán's eyes. Unrevealing in their very brilliance,
vivid and yet as chill and inscrutable as water. . . .

         
Her hand clenched.
No,
 
she told herself,
think of something else.
 
Of this socalled liberty. She had spent the
hours of siesta sleepless, choking with the remembered reek of her
husband-to-be's breath, and demanded leave to go into the open air; but even
that freedom, they said, could not be granted to one whose person had become so
valuable. Instead of letting her loose to risk the threat of the woods and
hills, they had set her here like a caged creature with a canopy over her head and
a dozen chattering guardians, and told her that she must be grateful even for
this. She longed to rise and walk, if only to make a breeze by her own motion,
but she was hemmed about too closely to rise.

         
Michaela, too, was looking sour, she noticed. The maid's
first excitement at coming to Andalusia had subsided, and now her dark face had
such a discontented look that Juana wondered whether she was missing her old
life at Zuccaro. It was so unlike the Moorish girl that she would have puzzled
about it before this, if her own misery had not echoed Michaela's. She resolved
to enquire the cause when they were alone together.

         
A sudden stirring made her look up towards the cloister,
where
 
Eugenio de Castaneda was coming
towards them with Dona Luisa and half-a-dozen more. Around them the dwarf
Pedrino frisked and tumbled, and what little peace Juana had found ebbed
instantly away. Her fingers closed on a pebble by the fountain's rim and hurled
it into the water with a vicious
plop.

         
`Senorita, you are bored with your solitary humour, mmn?'
De Castaneda glanced at the spreading eddies. 'We come to offer you better
entertainment.'

         
'You are too 'good, senor, but my solitary humour is hardly
worn out. I have too many to bear me company.'

         
'Hmmn? Well, this shall seem solitude once you are married,
I promise you. But for the present —' he smiled at her — 'we must have you
seeming more the joyful bride. Such a sad face does not fit the time.'

         
'I cannot be a joyful bride, nor any bride at all, until I
hear from my father that he wishes me to be so still!' She stared at him
steadily in the face as she told him her intention, thinking with a trace of
puzzlement that he did not seem surprised.

         
He listened grimly, his mouth set in a meditative pout and
his eyes nearly closed, then suddenly barked at Dona Beatriz, 'You, senora, you
condone this, do you, this . . . intransigence? I thought you would have ruled
your niece better!'

         
Dona Beatriz looked terrified, but she rallied. 'I believe
Juana to be in the right of it, senor. If what she says is true. . .‘

         
‘If!
 
You
might know that she would say aught to rid herself of a husband after what she
tried to do, mmn?'

         
'I know my niece, senor, and I trust her word in this.'

        
'You are a fool, then,' de Castaneda retorted rudely. 'But
it is no matter, I did not come to talk of any such trifling things. Now you
are rested, senorita, will you take up your tour again?'

         
She shook her head, wordless.

         
'No? But such a sight will charm your eyes — it might even
reconcile you to the means you have to possess it.' The bright little eyes
peered at her keenly.

         
'I do not trust my eyes alone, senor.'

         
Juana bit her lip. Surely that presumptuous servant had not
gained even so much possession of her mind? She realized as she spoke that the
women about her had fallen silent and were edging away, perturbed by the
unseemly clash of words.

         
'Here is for your nose then, senorita!'

         
The dwarf was suddenly jigging before her, thrusting a
small hand into his sleeve to pull out an absurdly bobbing bunch of paper
flowers. As the scentless blooms waved in her face, Juana gave a little laugh
like a sob; the dwarf had cared enough for her to try and make her smile, and
the small kindness almost broke her careful composure.

         
'Take them, senorita,' the dwarf urged cheerfully. 'They
are for you.'

         
She obeyed, burying her face in the barren petals, but a
moment later she froze. Something stiff had scratched her cheek; something
white that was wrapped round one of the stems and fastened where it could not
be seen except by the one who held the motley bunch. A quick frown puckered her
forehead, but already the dwarf was capering away, singing a ballad-snatch in
his high, husky voice. She was still staring at the flowers in her lap when de
Castaneda's voice jolted her.

         
'Perhaps you would prefer Bartolomé's escort to mine?'

         
'No!' She knew that he had spoken only to provoke her, but
she could not prevent the quick response, and saw his somehow satisfied look as
she rose to her feet, clutching the paper posy in trembling fingers. Ì thank
you for your great concern, senor, but I had rather make my own entertainment.
I shall go in now.'

         
She turned on her heel and walked away, so quickly that at
first only Michaela followed her. She did not see the ugly look that crossed de
Castaneda's face as he watched her departure, nor did she notice that he caught
Dona Beatriz's arm with unmannerly abruptness as she passed by, and began to
talk to her in a low, hectoring tone.

         
The letter was unsuperscribed, beginning abruptly as though
the writer had no time to waste in unnecessary words, and was written with
evident haste. Juana smiled over the neat, clerkly hand: the university at
Salamanca had transformed Jaime's inky scribble. It must be from Jaime, she
told herself as she stared down at the paper — who else could have contrived
this sudden miracle, the rescue that she had petitioned heaven for?

         
If you have the courage to take it, there is a way to
gain your desireswithout disparagement: be at the gateway in the north corner
of the Patio ofWarriors at midnight, and someone will come to you.

         
There was no signature, but the sender must be Jaime.
Somehow he must have followed her, learned of her plight and meant to rescue
her. But
withoutdisparagememt —
 
had he managed to persuade Miguel to change
his mind to allow her to withdraw from the marriage honourably?

         
'Is it good news, senorita?' Michaela enquired.

         
Juana quickly crushed the paper in her hand. 'No, it is
naught. A toy of the dwarf's — a riddle-me-ree, or some such. Why do you ask?'

         
Michaela shrugged. 'I hoped it might put you into a better
humour,' she said more briskly. 'You have been sad past reason since you knew
you were to marry this Duque. And to be so scornful to such high-bred ladies
when they come to serve you! I thought that yonder might be a letter from a
lover and that it might make you happy again.'

         
A suspicion of a smile touched Juana's lips. 'Was I so
sharp with the Condesa de Araciel?'

         
'As if you owed her money, my word on it! I have seen you
more civil with the grooms at home.'

         
'You seem unhappy yourself of late, Michaela — do you miss
Zuccaro after all?' Juana touched the maid's brown hand. 'You were as eager to
come at first as my father was to send me.'

         
Michaela grimaced, starting to turn away from her mistress
before she recollected herself and halted. It is well enough. It is only that
now I—'

         
'What? Come, tell me.'