The Flesh and the Devil (70 page)

         
She did not understand him. She tried to speak, but the gag
smothered her voice; the soft, strangled sound seemed to please the crippled
man.

         
'I assure you I have not been . . . idle since I came here.
I have learned . . . much, thanks to some friends of yours. Felipe has done by
bidding, mmn? Got you with child.'

         
'Senor,' Martinetti interposed quickly, "shall I
loosen the ropes? If she strains like that, they will cut her.'

         
'Leave her! I am ... in pain, too.' De Castarieda's face
was a pale, vindictive mask. 'She confirms it most kindly . . . the tale could
have been false. My dear niece, no one will. . . blame you, when they learn
that you . . . anticipated your marriage to . . . Bartolome; they will be glad
to know that there is a child to . . . inherit. You will have nothing but. . .
honour as the new Duque de Valenzuela's . .

         
. mother, mmn? Don Gaspar will be . . . disappointed, but
he will come too late. The child will be born and . . . in possession. You will
live in luxury for the rest of your life . . . and mine, too. The child needs
its dam. These tidings . . . will delight your father,' he added, watching her.
'He sent to beg my aid, when you . . . were so cruelly abducted by . . . the
good Felipe. I told him to rest content. That I would find you.'

         
He fell silent, breathless with the effort of prolonged
speech, but malignant triumph seemed to radiate from his hunched body like
venom from a toad's. Juana shook her head in instinctive denial; she felt as
though some almost-forgotten nightmare had reached out to claim her again, this
time perpetually.

         
De Castaneda gave a strained chuckle. 'Tell her, Riccardo .
. . how we tracked her here.'

         
'We knew that the senora's dwarf was a friend of the
pellirojo,
'
 
Martinetti spoke without looking
at her, 'and when she-died, and he was discharged, I was set to follow him in
case he tried to meet with him. He led me here at once, and the senor followed
-'

         
'The manikin . . . recognized Riccardo, alas,' de Castaneda
put in with a hint of his old relish, 'but by then we had . . . found Felipe,
and Riccardo . . . could kill him before he could . . . pass on any warning.
Felipe still does not know . . . that we are here.'

         
He was beaming as though he expected congratulation, but
one side of his wide mouth still drooped inertly.

         
Juana let her head fall forward. She could not bear de
Castaneda to see her tears and know that she wept for her husband's friend, for
the little stunted creature who had been the only being in the Castillo for
whom Tristan had shown any affection. And Pedrino had come all the way to
Villenos for his friend's sake, not knowing that he was drawing enemies after
him, . . . She hoped with sudden fierceness that the dead did not, as she had
been taught, at once learn the truth about their lives.

         
Her only consolation now was that Tristan was still free,
that whatever might be done to her could not harm him or even touch him. It was
ironic that she should be drawing comfort now from the passionless indifference
that bad wounded her so terribly; but Pedrino's death, if be should ever learn
of it, would hurt him more than this long purgatory that threatened her. Even
now she was thinking,
Can I warn him?
 
and not of what she should do to escape.. . .

         
'Show me her face,' de Castaneda rapped. 'I want to see
it.' The Italian's hand dug into Juana's hair, dragging back her head. She
closed her eyes, but she could still hear the long hiss of breath from the
wheeled chair, and after a moment he said, 'Tears already! I am disappointed. .
. You used to fight harder, my dear niece, I was enjoying the task . . , of
breaking you, when Felipe . .

         
. ran counter. Now I can continue. . . . We have years
ahead of us mmn? . . . No, hold her-' as Maitinetti's grip slackened and her
head was pulled back again, though not roughly.

         
De Castaneda paused, as if he waited for some response
before he continued, 'There will be no danger of. . . the child's real father
coming forward, I... have taken order for him.' Juana stiffened in every
muscle, and he chuckled as he watched her. 'I told you I had been busy . . .
and for that I have employed a couple of hotheads . . . provincial gentlemen .
. . jealous enough of theirsister's honour to...kill her upstart Jover. By now
they should have done my business.'

         
The key flashed hatefully as the wasted hand toyed clumsily
with it. 'I did not think Felipe would discard his prize so soon, but his cold
. . . temper holds - held, I should say. I
 
do
 
not mean to . . . part with
you so lightly, never fear.'

         
He sat with his head cocked, listening greedily for any
answering sound that might escape her, and Juana marvelled inwardly that he had
not caught the sound of her heart breaking.

         
Awareness came back slowly, so slowly that he was not aware
of the instant of rousing. The pain was there whether he woke or slept, and so
was the darkness that came and went in waves. His thoughts groped towards
reality once or twice and then fell back exhausted. It was easier not to know
where he was, or why, and forgetfulness meant that he could rest. . .

         
He was lying twisted, on his right side, with his left leg
drawn up as though he had tried to push himself along the ground; his shoulders
were flat to the earth and his right arm somehow crumpled clumsily under him.
He pieced together fragments of awareness between patches of unconsciousness,
cursing his own stupidity. He knew well enough how to fall to lessen the risk
of further injury; he had done so often while he served in the French and
Spanish armies. He could not think why he lay sprawled so untidily now, as if
he had been thrown down and not fallen at all, and it worried him.

         
He lay still, taking in the cold and the uneven surface on
which he lay; and the smell. He could not remember where the fighting had been,
but the sounds of battle had faded now — would they send scouts to look for the
missing wounded, or would he have to find his own way back to camp? It would be
no easy matter in this darkness, he thought, with his head ringing so that he
could not even remember which direction he should take.

         
It was the smell that aroused Tristan fully; not the smell
of gunpowder or horses, but the stink of rotten fish. His nostrils flared in
instinctive fastidiousness, and his eyes flickered open. He had not known until
then that they were still shut, that the darkness had been held behind his own
eyelids, and for a long releasing moment he lay looking up at the stars. They
shone still-and it was not surprising, he realized wryly, that he was cold.
Against the night sky, the stars were as clear as ice crystals. So many nights
in Spain were deadly cold.

         
But that smell - where in the name of the saints
was
 
he? His brain could unearth no memory of a
place like this, nor of where he had been making for when he was struck; there
was only the sense of some terrible betrayal. He forced his mind back, trying
to forget the cold without losing his grip on the thread of consciousness. He
recalled the angry voices of his opponents, their elegant blades wielded to
kill. He bad been fighting Francisco de Fron-tenera when the blow came from
behind. . . .

         
Francisco. Agostin.
Elena.
 
Understanding spread through him like ripples
in a pool. There had not been a battle, only a tame fight over a whore's
nonexistent honour; a fight that, but for his own carelessness, he would have
won. He remembered bringing down two men when he had thrown Agostin, and
thinking no more of them when Francisco came at him; one of the three must have
brought him down somehow.

         
A cautious movement, no more than a testing tremor of
muscles, brought the answer and left Tristan shaking. The right leg - probably
a ball lodged somewhere above the knee. The cold had been merciful, then,
numbing the agony of wrecked flesh and torn muscles until he was fool enough to
try to move. That explained his present predicament, he thought with rather
grim amusement; Elena's brothers had undoubtedly thrown him on some dung-heap
to die.

         
The amusement faded as quickly as it had come as he
remembered the letter. Juana must have written it; no one else in Villenos
hated him sufficiently to wish him dead. It was ironic that he should have
cancelled her debt to him after she had sent it, but she could not have expected
that - it had surprised himself. Once or twice as he held her, and again just
before he left her, he had thought she was about to tell him something and had
bitten the words back before she could utter them. A confession? A warning?

         
He had not believed that she could hate him so long and so
fiercely, but he had had his answer tonight, Tristan thought.

         
The spontaneous tensing of his muscles was what jerked him
out of his reverie, and the realization that he was growing gradually colder
made him think about trying to stand. A rapid mental review revealed no serious
injury beyond the wound in his leg and an uncomfortable suspicion that he has
been kicked all over while he was unconscious; but when he tried to stand up
the world reeled and spun, and he had to grit his teeth against the bile that
rose in his throat. He took brief consolation from the fact that nausea was
common with gunshot wounds before he lengthily, shudderingly sick, and he lay
with his cheek against something soft and horrible while he tried to think
coherently.

         
His involuntary paroxysms had brought him over on his face
without noticing it, freeing his right arm, and a faint stir of feeling told
him that life was returning to it. It was simple, or should be; he had only to
push himself up on his hands, take some of his weight as briefly as possible on
his injured leg, and then he could stand up on the other. He breathed slowly
and deeply, feeling over the ground‘s surface with his outspread hands, and
braced himself for the effort of lifting.

         
His trunk lifted a handspan from the mud and filth,
quivered as the stress on his right hip sent excruciating pain shooting down
his thigh, and then Tristan fell face down with a helpless, humiliating
splatter. He groaned softly, more in selfcontempt than in pain, remembering too
late that his right leg was spreadeagled straight and would not bend at will.
He would have to slew it sideways somehow before he tried to raise himself
again, so that when he lifted himself on his hands the bent knee would
perforce, if briefly, take his weight.