They began to hear the sound of people not far off, talking, the clash of what might be halberds, the barking of a hound farther off. It sounded as if it were barking to the sky, there was no echo from a confined space. They might be near an outer door, with its guardroom. They must, she thought, and could feel her heart drumming, they must be very near freedom. Here the walls were of dressed stones.
It was here that they met the man with the torch.
He came suddenly from a small door, and wheeled to look at them, holding the torch high. The dwarf slid his dark-lantern shut. So, at the rear, did Sigismondo. If Piero had looked like a large rat, this man was like a weasel, with small glittering eyes and a long nose that twitched.
‘Who are you? What do you here?’ The voice was sharp, but educated. He was no jailer, no guard, in his long gown.
Durgan said, ‘They are friends of mine. I vouch for them, sir-’
‘Master Leandro!'
Cosima heard herself let out a short cry like a yelp. Leandro stepped back against her, shielding his face with one arm from the torch’s flare. The weasel-man had thrust aside the protesting Durgan, and dashed the torch at Angelo as he forced his way past, hand out to grasp Leandro.
‘You’d escape, would you? We’ll see-’
What he, in that confident plural, had been going to see dwindled suddenly into realms of conjecture. Cosima, pressed back against Sigismondo, knew she hampered him from acting; the weasel had only to cry out, it might fetch those guards and lead to all their deaths. Angelo had snatched the man’s torch, even as he continued to come forward, hand outstretched, mouth open; but instead of words, blood poured out.
Leandro staggered under the man’s sudden weight, sending Cosima back to be steadied by Sigismondo as he crammed himself against the wall past her and supported the man’s body. She, with a fearful glance into the dark they had come from, flattened herself all she could, and he got by. She saw Angelo now, pulling his knife back, wiping it on the man’s gown, slipping it out of sight where he had produced it from. The beautiful face between the gold silk plaits had neither anger nor satisfaction but, though serene, he breathed fast and had moved even faster.
There was now silence. Sigismondo was listening. No change came in the sound they had heard beyond the wall. He murmured to the dwarf, ‘Where can we put him? He mustn’t be found.’
‘But it’s my father’s secretary,’ Leandro whispered. ‘What-’
‘Ask later. Durgan?’
The dwarf had pursed up his mouth. Now he nodded and pointed the way they were going. Angelo put out the torch on the floor, and pushed Leandro and Cosima ahead, after Sigismondo who carried the body. The light of Sigismondo’s — Piero’s — lantern presently brought, up the rear in Angelo’s steady hand.
Leandro said, ‘But he was going to-’
Cosima, surprised that he should speak, was not surprised when Angelo, in the language of the stables, told him to shut up.
Durgan stopped, and closed his lantern. Angelo at once closed his. They were in the dark once more until a door opened ahead. A veil hung there, it seemed, hiding lights. Then she saw it was tapestry, Durgan’s shape appeared against it, peering into the lit place beyond. He beckoned, lifting the cloth. They hurried, across a wide hall bright with flambeaux, Cosima could feel her pulse in her throat and every inch of her body seemed aware of its awful visibility. She expected a guard’s shout.
They hurried down a long straight stair on the other side, then, on a landing where two pillars rose either side of a statue, Durgan seemed to vanish. Sigismondo, sidling, got with his burden between the statue’s plinth and the pillar. Cosima saw that Leandro would have offered to let her go first, but Angelo stuffed him into the gap. He was the one whose presence could still betray what they were up to. A small door yawned behind the plinth and he ducked into it. Cosima followed, Angelo joined them and Durgan opened his lantern. They were at the top of a flight of precipitous broken steps, and must go down.
The steps started as dressed stone and ended as rock. Angelo’s lantern could give little help, there were shifting shadows. Once Sigismondo stumbled, and a rattling stone went down ahead of them into the dark. They were feeling their way foot after foot, and into an increasing foulness of air. Once more it was cold. When she slipped, Leandro took her hand to help her. His hand was strong and smooth; a Bandini ought not to have pleasant-feeling hands.
She wished she had thicker shoes. The raw edges of stone hurt her feet.
They had reached a level floor. The dwarf went forward and the smell told Cosima that once more they must be near dungeons. He had stopped and, raising the lantern, showed a round grating in the floor.
Sigismondo put down the body in its stained blue gown, and set to work. He had to wrap his hands in his sleeves to grip the rusty grating, and it took him a long few minutes to heave the metal from its bed, but no time at all to roll the body into the dark void. They heard, after a long pause, a thud far below.
Cosima feared — she would have sat down had the floor been dry, while Sigismondo put back the grid — that they would now have to go back the way they had come. Durgan, however, led the way on. A long ramp, that curved as if it went inside a circling wall, went upward. The stone was smooth as if it had once been used often, but their feet raised dust. The air freshened. Amazed, Cosima smelt incense. They came out onto the level, and Durgan opened a door that gave onto the vast marble floor and echoing space of St Agnes’s.
Chapter Nineteen
They were next to a side altar. Cosima hurriedly veiled herself. She saw Sigismondo bending to have a word with Durgan, then the door, shutting, became invisible.
People were leaving after Compline, in groups and singly crossing the great floor. Sigismondo gathered his group about him. Here they kept to the shadows, for here he and Leandro could not cover their heads. He put Leandro’s arm round Cosima and told him to lean his face over her as they walked, following him. He walked slowly, his cowl pulled high round his neck. She said, ‘Can’t we hurry?’
And Angelo, at her heels, muttered, ‘Yes, if you want people to stare.’
Outside the door — had she ever been so grateful for the dark? — the men put up their hoods. The dreadful shape of the scaffold loomed to one side. Then it was behind them. Sigismondo hurried his steps now. They entered the confinement of streets after the open square; Angelo allowed a crack of light to shine at their feet. Cosima felt the cold, and shivered. No one spoke. They stopped before a door whose threshold lacked a step — it was at knee height above the ground. Sigismondo rapped softly to a pattern. The door gaped into darkness. He turned, took her by the hips without ceremony and put her up into the doorway. She was steadied by someone unknown, then she smelt Benno. He drew her away from the door for the others were entering.
Then there were lights. They crowded up a small stair. She had to stop and put her veil back to see her footing. A landing full of crumbling plaster led into a big room lit by fat candles, where a large man was getting up from a chair by a brazier; she saw the incredulity on his face as he took a hesitant step forward. Leandro ran to him.
The pair embraced, exclaimed, held each other at arm’s length to look, embraced and kissed once more. At last they brought themselves to remember that they were not alone.
‘Ah, Father, here’s my fair saviour!’ Leandro came and seized her hand, very freely it seemed of a sudden in this domestic and social atmosphere, although on their adventures they had touched hands without question. He led her towards his father. ‘A courageous lady! She played her part perfectly. Whatever you paid her can’t be enough.’