Sung in Shadow, page 30
And then, looking involuntarily beyond him, she saw Chesarius the brother of the Duke, the witness of her wedding at Marivero.
Her shock was so enormous that it did not outwardly show itself, and if Troian felt her fingers turn icy cold, his powers of logic were not, in that instant, at their most infallible. Her lids had been immediately lowered; they gave the impression of shyness, not the shutters flung closed over turmoil, which they had become.
She had not guessed, in her remotest dismay, that Chesarius would be the ducal witness at her second wedding, as at the first. Her fear and misery had been throughout spiritual or carnal—never practical. After her initial reminder to the nurse that her first marriage had been overseen by outsiders, Iuletta had mostly forgotten it. While silence on the part of those who might undo her current match, led her to think, if and when she did so, that the witnesses would never speak. (Plague, so rife in the Montargo Tower, could have dispatched the witness there. The boy called Benevolo was only a child. And the Rocca Tower was prudent: perhaps a gift might later be sent to the Duca’s brother, cajoled from her new husband’s purse—Cornelia’s verdict and notions, which had been the more confidently relayed to Iulet as time elapsed without betrayal.)
Now reliance upon abstraction had brought the false bride to this pass. Was betrayal imminent? The face of the grave young man above his scarlet and gold offered nothing, neither threat nor reassurance. It was probably not his express wish to be here. Probably not his express intention to strip her infamy naked in the midst of the church—
Iuletta could not bring herself to look at him again, and now in any case they were walking into the cool white cave of the Basilica, between the stacked marble of the pillars, through the drenchings of spangled dust.
(She could not even ask God what she should do.)
If Chesarius spoke out, her shame, her horror, would surely be insurmountable. She beheld it all in a dazzle of foretelling. The astounded face of the priest, the detonation of rage that was her father, the Belmorios leaning together as if stunned, defensive, malicious, incredulous. And Troian, his shame perhaps vaster and less tolerable even than her own, staring at her, now white, now red, at a standstill between the conflicting tides of fury, embarrassed hurt, tripped and sprawling pride.
They saluted the High Altar, and went by. Flowers of light from the round window filled the air, staining her gown, the floor. The petals fell away. There were smoke and frankincense and candles. They had entered the capella.
Lilies and roses currently screened the rapt faces of the blessed, the controlled unhappiness of the wriggling damned. Yet here she had stood with Romulan, by that pillar, before that altar. And known that an abyss wider than infinity had come between them.
The chapel was filled. Beside herself, fifteen essential persons occupied the space. Lord and Lady Chenti. The parental Belmorios. The golden groom. Iuletta’s two garlanded attendants in their dresses of pink sunshine. Troian’s garlanded gentlemen in their clear glassy green. The Belmorio witness, the cousin, envious and haughty. The “cousin” witness from the Chenti Tower, no longer smiling, gnawing his mouth. The priest and his assistant benignly stationed at the altar. One gentleman in scarlet attending on . . . Chesarius.
Iuletta did not look at them. She did not, as for a wild moment she was tempted to do, glance in appeal toward her mother. Her mother was a hollow vessel, a mask, from skull to foot. Her mother mourned Leopardo in hidden, indefinable ways Iuletta had, sensitive herself beyond endurance, interpreted. Iuletta had at last fathomed, wrongly, Electra Chenti’s soul. She had wished for a son. Leopardo had been that son’s image but not the truth, and so she had reviled him. But Iuletta, the female reality, she hated.
Neither her God nor her mother would assist her. Nor her beloved, who loved her not. Only the one she cheated, dishonorably and foully cheated, who, handfasted with her, now knelt with her in obedience to the motions of the priest.
So she had knelt to be blessed, in Marivero.
Her heart quickened, and the golden necklace weighed at her throat like lead.
The light rain of the holy water was scattered upon them. It should sting and burn and scar her for her sin. But no, soft as dew, the water kissed her flesh. Could she not die now? She should have died. Should not have come to this shame. A sharp knife would have ended her confusion. She had leaned at her colored window and cried salt tears, could she not have cried salt blood?
But she would not die. God would not strike her down. God would not oblige.
Troian Belmorio’s hand, firm and tender, led her now toward the altar.
“Lord, have mercy on us. Christ, have mercy on us.”
The Mass was beginning, the short Mass suitable to the impatience of the ceremonies of love. Through the smoke and the incense, she watched the wafer of Body elevated above the chalice of Blood.
Surely he must speak now? Surely Chesarius, his duty and his knowledge on him heavier than her leaden collar, bound by nothing but the peril to his soul and his anger at her harlotry—surely he must cry out against her—now—now—
Romulan. . . . Let me die. Let me die now before he speaks.
She could not even faint. Could not even loosen her joints sufficiently to fall down. The powder of dead flesh on her tongue, the taste of blood in her mouth. It should have choked her. It had not.
The Mass, its banquet partaken of, was concluded.
The phrases of the wedding were commencing. The priest was speaking of grace and the duality of man with woman that was the decree and gift of Heaven. And then, turning to Troian, the first of the momentous questions was being asked of him.
And Chesarius had not shouted, had not even stepped deliberately forward and interrupted the priest with a frowning shake of the head. Chesarius had done nothing. And suddenly, her senses swimming in a dreadful sickness that would not allow her to swoon, she knew Chesarius would not speak at all. His reasons, base or sympathetic, she could not divine. Perhaps he pitied her as she had pitied herself, the easement and discard of a murderer. That he was here was possibly, after all, intentional, his purpose to demonstrate his discretion publicly. No, he did not mean to reveal her treachery. Her conviction was utter. She was secure.
(Troian answered the priest’s inquiry, slowly and carefully, his voice almost beautiful in the silent timeless chapel.)
And Iuletta knew, as utterly in that moment, that she had relied upon Chesarius’ betrayal.
And if not betrayal here, today, betrayal sooner, during the days and days of preparation. When she was hailed and toasted, when she was sketched in the arbor, when the love songs had lingered with the candles and she had lain on Troian’s arm. All that while, she had expected the shouting voice—Chesarius, Luca Montargo, Benevolo Montargo D’Estemba. Evan Mercurio rising from the tomb to point at her, his glamour only a little dimmed by death, laughing, cruel and kind: “And may I hope to see you again at Susina’s brothel? And may I remind you, my donna, you are already wed?” Yes, she had awaited them, her betrayers, quick or dead. Each time Cornelia had prattled, soothing her—no one will speak—Iuletta had known this was not so. She had known it with such certainty she did not distinguish it and remained in ignorance of her knowledge. For she had been assured of betrayal. For she had needed, trusted in, desired betrayal.
Which now was denied.
She saw the priest’s face with its solemn smile turn to her, and the lips parting.
“And will you, Iuletta Chenti, uphold the honor and fidelity of this House?”
So simple, the answer: I will.
The silence spread, like something viscous spilled, between them all.
The priest, solicitous of timidity, repeated his question more firmly.
“And will you, Iuletta Chenti, uphold the honor and fidelity of this House?”
The silence spread. She sensed Troian half turning to her. She heard the pale rustlings of movements, gowns and mantles and veils disturbed. A clink of gems. A mutter. The face of the priest was concerned. Must he repeat the words once more?
Iuletta drew her hand from Troian Belmorio’s. Another traitor had after all been available.
“Father, I am unable to marry this man.”
Still the silence. She would have anticipated a reaction of noise. But no, no noise at all now. She felt herself enclosed, separated. The capella was far away, and the people in it. She did not have to be afraid. She was old, and like Daphnea, was petrifying inside a shell of bark.
“I cannot marry him,” she said, “for I’m wed to another.”
Then, the noise came. Her father, of course, bellowing like a bull. She did not cower from the voice, nor the brutal steps, and when the hand seized her arm in the gentle smoke, she did not flinch.
“What are you saying, girl? Eh? Answer me! Did I hear you rightly? Eh? Answer or you’ll feel the weight of my hand.”
The priest remonstrated. Troian, she supposed, could not at this point speak.
Chenti paid no heed to the priest. He shook her. She saw only boiling redness where he stood.
“I am married,” she said.
He thundered. “Married? Damnable hussy, you’re mad not married. Where did I get you? Dishonor me, you thankless jade, before my friends—” and in the middle of the tirade, ridiculously, macabrely, he was bowing to them, trying to restore himself, though beyond self-governance—“Forgive my chagrin, sirs. This girl of mine is playing the goose with us. Are you not, Iuletta? Come, let’s hear the truth.”
“You have had the truth.”
His fingers seemed to meet through her arm. She could no longer see him, for she had closed her eyes. The darkness would protect her.
“Tell me his name then!” The man who held her roared. “Bring it up like vomit, you slut. Who are you wed to?”
She found then she could not speak the name. Not from fear, but because it was, even yet, so precious to her. The two words Romulan Montargo were beautiful, as her love had been. She could not form the syllables and give them over to this rampaging beast.
She heard the rasp of fabric then, and knew her father had thrown up his arm to hit her violently, before the priest, the altar, the wedding party, the blessed and the damned. He was very strong. The blow might break her neck. She waited, unable to move in his grasp, but the blast of skin, muscle and bone did not reach her. Instead she heard a strange grunting, and then the awful grasp of fingers was prized from her arm. Astonished, her eyes flew open.
Chesarius, the ducal kin, was lowering both Lord Chenti’s arms to his sides, with the deceptive smoothness of great physical control.
“No, sir,” Chesarius said, “there’s no need to beat her.” His voice was entirely level. But in it, conceivably, was the idea of a man who had grown tired of animal force, injustice and the death of friends.
Chenti mouthed. Some of the words were audible, others not.
Chesarius said: “I will tell you his name myself, sir, since it’s gone so far. Your daughter is wedded to Romulan Montargo, dead Valentius’ heir. I know this, for I was their witness, along with two or three others whose names I do not think you require. The marriage was legal and honorable, before men and before God. It was to have been revealed the next evening, and would have been, and compensation made where it was necessary, if,” Chesarius paused. He said stiffly, “if there had been no bloodshed that day and two Houses brought low for it Iuletta,” he said, “you need not have spoken because of me.”
She saw something of his face, mostly the serious eyes. She wished to say that this she knew, and that it was her own self which had driven her to speak. But she could no longer, it seemed, find words for anything.
Chesarius glanced at the priest.
“Yes, Father. You may expect me at the confessional. And my gratitude for absolution, in whatever form of penance you impose.”
Iuletta, following his gaze, found, accidentally, Troian Belmorio.
Again, she was impelled to vocalize. Again, she could not What remained for her to say?
His color was high, as if with fever, or as if he had been slashed across either cheek. His mouth was slightly open, and he breathed through it, very fast His eyes were black with anguish, each of the agonies she had predicted for him. Humiliated and robbed, his new love stabbed in the heart, his pride in rags, Troian Belmorio stared at her, as he had stared from the moment she failed in her responses. Somewhere in his face, a very young boy pleaded with her to admit she lied. Beside the boy, the inevitable man, snarling, knew she did not.
It seemed that still he could not speak any more than she. Gestures must speak instead. And quickly then he pulled the bridal wreath unburned out of the flames of his hair, and tore it across and threw it, now two handfuls of mashed leaves and weeping roses, at the hem of her dress. After which he turned, and staying for no one, strode out of the chapel and away through the Basilica toward the doors, the steps, the square where the processions waited to sing and be merry, and the crowd to call and praise and hold out its paws for coins. In a second, with a muffled curse, tearing off his own wreath, Troian’s cousin ran after him.
Old Belmorio, his face rewoven by disgust and bewilderment, hesitated only a few moments longer. He swept the Chenti party with one look, and said, with a single cold nod to Chenti’s Lord, “I shall expect your messenger,” gave his Retzi wife his arm and stalked in the wake of his son; the two gentlemen attendants, still unfortunately garlanded, hastening to follow.
The two maiden attendants of Iuletta were softly crying, huddling together, alike in pink and tears.
Chesarius bowed to Lord Chenti.
“If you’re wise, my lord, you’ll keep your kin here till I can fetch some men from the Chitadella to clear the square.”
Chenti drew in a thick labored breath.
“You knew of all this?”
“Yes, my lord, as I told you. But I hardly think you’ll raise your arm to me.”
Chenti balked. He shifted and plucked at his mantle.
“You misunderstand me, sir. I’m the Duke’s loyal admirer.”
“So are we all. He has admirable qualities, as your lady could attest, after her walk to the Rocca. Could you not, madama? But then my brother, sir, hates to see a woman physically abused. I am sure you will remember this, when alone with your daughter.”
Chesarius and his gentleman went away. Next, the priest and his assistant, who the bastard Chenti “cousin” caught by a pillar, and presumably pressed money upon.
Chenti paced about, looking at none of them, till abruptly he ordered the bastard to collect his horse from its station under the steps and bring it to him in the alley that ran behind the graveyard. The bastard hastened to comply.
“I’ll be damned if I’ll wait in this soured slop,” Chenti said to his wife. He examined her, and said, “Your work, you bitch. I might have known your fruit would be rotten.”
Electra said nothing. Shouldering clumsily by the columns, Chenti went out, and so through the side-door that lovers used for trysts, along the cloister and down among the trees of death.
The two bridesmaids had crept on to a distant bench to cry when Electra rose and went to her daughter. Iuletta had not moved since Belmorio had cast the garland at her. In her flawless bridal finery she stood there, having brought chaos to everything else, herself apparently untouched.
When Electra stood before her, their likeness and their unlikeness, both, were disconcerting. The black hair, the slender shapely form. Yet hyacinth hair in one, dragon’s blood in the other, and the one figure like a flower stem and the other figure like a bone. The faces were unmatched. The younger peerlessly beautiful, lowered, unreadable. The older face like a carving, with a snake behind it.
“Well, my child,” Electra said, “look up, and get my news.”
Iuletta, slowly, lifted her head. And Electra struck her, once, with a flat thin sound like a snapping blade.
“I doubt Chesarius will deny you one blow from your mother’s correcting palm,” Electra said. “The rest is soon given you. Listen carefully. You have wed the enemy of the Chenti Tower, the butcher of your cousin Leopardo, my brother’s son, my nephew, who—even dead—is worth a score of you. What should I do then? The villain, your husband, murderer of my kindred, has vanished and I do not know his land or his lodging, nor could I come at him there. But take heed, for this will interest you. I’ll set those to watch you that you cannot see, and if you see, cannot elude. And if your bedmate risks justice to find you here, or anywhere, or gets you word, or should you move to join him, I shall know of it, and how to come at him. And then I’ll send another shall meet your love, your darling. Another who will embrace him with knives, kiss him with poisons, put him to bed in a grave. Do you believe me, Iuletta?”
“Yes, madama. But he’s gone and will not come back to me.” And, having regained the means of speech, Iuletta met the black insomniac eyes with her own, wondering and blue and deep, and older far than Electra Chenti’s. “He has abandoned me, Mother. And now I thank God, my soul upon its knees, that he has.”
NINETEEN
Lord Chenti had laid his anger to one side. Admittedly, laid it aside where it was still visible, and where he might swiftly pick it up again without fumbling for it, but so much was to the good. (A man of strong principles and political ability, beset by the idiocy of the females under his sway—Sweet Jesus, he had restrained himself where another would have used his rights to work havoc. He had been uncommonly lenient. Well, perhaps that also was to the good. He was a worldly and a cunning diplomat, who might yet wrest harmony from disorder.) So, clad in the under-mantle of the stern interrogator, he stood before the pink trees of his daughter’s bedchamber, unsuitably framed by foliage, birds and fruit, bending on the girl his most awful look, and with it the full weight of his patriarchal majesty, quite unaware of the grotesque and horrifically laughable figure he cut. Perfectly aware of the extent of his God-dictated jurisdiction.
