Three-Cornered Halo by Christianna Brand Page A

me do? Do you wish to come with me and supervise the affairs of my marriage bed?”
    â€œI should like to be assured, Exaltida, that it is to your marriage bed that you go.”
    The Grand Duke raised his right hand with a swift movement as though he would strike out at the thin, old, ravaged face. But he controlled himself and lowered it again. “I go to my wife’s bed, Arcivescovo, and to nobody else’s—at present.” Anger smouldered in him, flamed up suddenly, died down again. He knew of a punishment far more telling than a physical blow. “If there is a fault it lies with the Grand Duchess. Perhaps you would suggest—divorce?”
    â€œA divorce? Per Dios, Exaltida …!”
    â€œLa Bellissima is not Catholic—or only by adoption since she came to this country; it means very little to her. She is young and she is beautiful: for fear of her beauty, she takes secret means so that she shall have no child. Her mother is a clever woman; it is she, I suppose, who instructs her in this matter. I have protested but I am met with bland protestations. I can do nothing more about it. So what do you propose?”
    â€œBut divorce!” The old man choked and stammered, a purple flush mounted upwards across the gnarled old face, leaving the grooved scar livid and hideous against the receded hairline. “Exaltida, this is not for a moment to be thought of. The Church does not permit divorce. Think of the scandal to your people, Exaltida; think of the effect on the life of this island, think of your own immortal soul.” And he drew himself up in quavering dignity and repeated, heartsick and afraid: “It is unthinkable. I speak to you with the voice of our Holy Mother Church: it is impossible that you should resort to divorce.”
    â€œThat is what the Grand Duchess is relying on,” said El Exaltida; and his hands relaxed like the paws of a cat releasing a claw-marked mouse and letting it go. “Very well, Archbishop. A child will come when God—and La Bellissima’s mama—see fit. So that is the end of that. What else was there?”
    What else but the matter of El Margherita? “The question of applying to the Pope is in the hands of the Patriarch.”
    â€œWhen I speak to El Patriarca, he says it is for you, Exaltida, to decide.”
    â€œVery well, then, you may safely leave it between the two of us.”
    â€œBut you do nothing. Sometimes I almost think,” said the old man, fretfully, “that I should write to Rome myself.”
    â€œYou would be exceedingly ill-advised to do so,” said the Grand Duke; and his voice was warm black treacle with vitriol in it.
    The Arcivescovo shrugged his gaunt shoulders under the black soutane. “He who has nothing left, need not fear to lose it. If I thought I could do good, I would try. But I know nothing of these things, not even whom to address. You and El Beatitud hug it all to yourselves.…”
    â€œIt is the province of the Patriarchs of San Juan to conduct our affairs with Rome. Attend to your own business, which is the care of the Cathedral and the cure of souls: and leave the rest alone—or you will find yourself not here to do either.”
    â€œAs to that, Exaltida, threats cannot frighten me.” He touched the terrible scar with fingers thin and noded as bamboo sticks. “I am soon to die.”
    â€œAnd no doubt would rather do so in your bed than on the floor of a dungeon in the bowels of the prison. You would not be the first, my Lord—and no questions asked. I will not have interference in these matters. Do not speak of them again.” He snapped his fingers with a sound like a pistol shot and a guard sprang forward from an inner archway and stood at attention. “Very well, Arcivescovo: the audience is ended.”
    But long, long after the tragic figure had groped its slow way down the marble steps, he sat on, silently, gazing with