believe that the harsh, thready whisper was my own.
"You
will know soon enough." I felt him tense. "Have you fetched that
damned leech, Tomasso?"
"He's
coming."
"He
had better hurry. I would not give two pins for his life—or for yours, my
dear—if this one should die on our hands."
"It
was not my fault, Piero. You will speak to the duke for me and tell him I meant
the wench no harm...."
Bewilderment
and terror and a dim feeling of pity for Tomasso's obvious fear, all- were
slipping away from me. To sleep was suddenly the most important thing in the
world, and I slept.
I
had other dreams after that one—for a dream was how I remembered it—but they
were always the same. I saw a face that was strange and yet familiar, a fair
face with demon's eyes; I could not recall where I had seen it, and I half
believed I had invented it out of my sickness. When I woke again, it was to
darkness and dank air that stabbed my lungs, and a shadow beside my bed.
A
voice said, "Do not try to move. You have been very sick."
I
stared up at the sallow face above mine, more bewildered than frightened.
"Who are you?"
"I
am Father Vincenzo." The man spoke comfortingly, as though I should be
reassured by the name, and I saw that he wore the robes of a Jesuit priest.
"I
have been tending you while the fever held you."
I
moistened my lips. "It is not the plague?"
"Not
the sort you mean, though it is plague enough. No, daughter, you drank
something which gave you a fever."
I
could only understand the last of what he said, but I nodded. It was not
strange; many people were sick of a sudden in weather like this, when food and
water were so quickly tainted. Antonio must have sent me to the common hospital
to be nursed by the monks—he bore me hardly when I was in health and would never
tend me while I was sick.
"How
long have I been here?"
"These
two days past. Drink this." A cup was held to my lips. "And do not
spend your strength in questions; time enough for that when your mind is clear
again."
I
drank and lay back. It did not matter that I did not know how I had come to
this; pain still racked me, and I felt too spent to care. I had nothing to do
but obey the solemn young priest, and I did so willingly. In my weakness I knew
no past or future, only the present ease or present trouble of sleeping or
waking—day and night were indistinguishable, for whenever I opened my eyes, the
same torch flames pierced the same darkness and the priest was there.
I
was lying half in sleep when I heard voices close by, mingling with the broken
snatches of dreaming which filled my thoughts. They came from outside the door,
and as I listened, all sleep fled from me and I lay with straining ears,
staring unseeing into the shadows above me.
"I
cannot permit it. It is too soon. She is not half-recovered." There was a
sharp note of anxiety in Father Vincenzo's normally level voice. The one that
answered him was high-pitched and resonant, the voice I had heard in my dream.
"You
belie your own skill, good Father. My spies tell me she is well enough now to
be got from her bed, and the duke has been asking for her threescore times in
an hour. I cannot defer the business any longer."
"I
beg you, persuade him to some other course. It is the devil's work His Grace
will be at."
"And
what more fitting?" The other man laughed. "I verily believe he is
the devil himself. Good Father, resign yourself, and resign your charge to
me—he will not be persuaded."
"Then
delay him. Tell him it will be better for his purpose to hold off for a
space."
"So
I have told him already at your request and coined excuses until my tongue is
bankrupt. It will not serve; my lord's Grace is grown impatient."
There
was a silence and then the man laughed, the meaningless trill I remembered.
"What, Father, are you seeking to save her?"
Father
Vincenzo's voice was bitter. "That girl is innocent, my lord della
Quercia. She believes herself to be in the common hospital and thinks she
"You
will know soon enough." I felt him tense. "Have you fetched that
damned leech, Tomasso?"
"He's
coming."
"He
had better hurry. I would not give two pins for his life—or for yours, my
dear—if this one should die on our hands."
"It
was not my fault, Piero. You will speak to the duke for me and tell him I meant
the wench no harm...."
Bewilderment
and terror and a dim feeling of pity for Tomasso's obvious fear, all- were
slipping away from me. To sleep was suddenly the most important thing in the
world, and I slept.
I
had other dreams after that one—for a dream was how I remembered it—but they
were always the same. I saw a face that was strange and yet familiar, a fair
face with demon's eyes; I could not recall where I had seen it, and I half
believed I had invented it out of my sickness. When I woke again, it was to
darkness and dank air that stabbed my lungs, and a shadow beside my bed.
A
voice said, "Do not try to move. You have been very sick."
I
stared up at the sallow face above mine, more bewildered than frightened.
"Who are you?"
"I
am Father Vincenzo." The man spoke comfortingly, as though I should be
reassured by the name, and I saw that he wore the robes of a Jesuit priest.
"I
have been tending you while the fever held you."
I
moistened my lips. "It is not the plague?"
"Not
the sort you mean, though it is plague enough. No, daughter, you drank
something which gave you a fever."
I
could only understand the last of what he said, but I nodded. It was not
strange; many people were sick of a sudden in weather like this, when food and
water were so quickly tainted. Antonio must have sent me to the common hospital
to be nursed by the monks—he bore me hardly when I was in health and would never
tend me while I was sick.
"How
long have I been here?"
"These
two days past. Drink this." A cup was held to my lips. "And do not
spend your strength in questions; time enough for that when your mind is clear
again."
I
drank and lay back. It did not matter that I did not know how I had come to
this; pain still racked me, and I felt too spent to care. I had nothing to do
but obey the solemn young priest, and I did so willingly. In my weakness I knew
no past or future, only the present ease or present trouble of sleeping or
waking—day and night were indistinguishable, for whenever I opened my eyes, the
same torch flames pierced the same darkness and the priest was there.
I
was lying half in sleep when I heard voices close by, mingling with the broken
snatches of dreaming which filled my thoughts. They came from outside the door,
and as I listened, all sleep fled from me and I lay with straining ears,
staring unseeing into the shadows above me.
"I
cannot permit it. It is too soon. She is not half-recovered." There was a
sharp note of anxiety in Father Vincenzo's normally level voice. The one that
answered him was high-pitched and resonant, the voice I had heard in my dream.
"You
belie your own skill, good Father. My spies tell me she is well enough now to
be got from her bed, and the duke has been asking for her threescore times in
an hour. I cannot defer the business any longer."
"I
beg you, persuade him to some other course. It is the devil's work His Grace
will be at."
"And
what more fitting?" The other man laughed. "I verily believe he is
the devil himself. Good Father, resign yourself, and resign your charge to
me—he will not be persuaded."
"Then
delay him. Tell him it will be better for his purpose to hold off for a
space."
"So
I have told him already at your request and coined excuses until my tongue is
bankrupt. It will not serve; my lord's Grace is grown impatient."
There
was a silence and then the man laughed, the meaningless trill I remembered.
"What, Father, are you seeking to save her?"
Father
Vincenzo's voice was bitter. "That girl is innocent, my lord della
Quercia. She believes herself to be in the common hospital and thinks she
Similar Books
