Free The Flesh and the Devil by Teresa Denys

of long custom.
             
             
             
              De Castaneda waved his hand vaguely. 'Sit down while I read
this.' His fingers were scrabbling at the waxen seal, tearing the paper in his
haste; he was breathing heavily, like a swimmer before a plunge. 'You have seen
the bride? A dainty piece, mmn?'
             
             
             
              'Indeed, senor.'
             
             
             
              His answer was toneless as Tristán lowered himself into a
nearby chair. He was watching de Castaneda with acute attention, his green eyes
as lambent as a cat's in the soft, warm light.
             
             
             
              The stubby fingers tightened spasmodically on the unfolded
sheet, the fleshy mouth working as he scanned the spidery script, and then a
sound broke from him that seemed to come from the depths of his lungs rather
than from his throat, like the bellow of a thwarted baby. 'God damn him to
hell! And damn alldoctors!'
             
             
             
              He crushed the letter into a ball, slamming it down on the
desk, then drew out a handkerchief and mopped his brow, at the same time wiping
away the furious tears in his eyes. 'Do you know what this says?'
             
             
             
              'I can guess, senor.' Tristán's unemotional tone sounded
like a subtle rebuke to the elder man's hoarse emotion.
             
             
             
              'All my hopes rested in this man, this Doctor Sanchez. He
is famed throughout Spain — if there were anything amiss that could be cured,
either from sickness or witch - craft, he would have cured it. But he writes
that it is hopeless
              — the seed has no life. There can never be a child. I could
have saved myself the search to find a wife.' De Castaneda was blinking now,
the thickening of his voice giving way to a note of resentment.' Yet — '
             
             
             
              He broke off abruptly, chewing his lip and eyeing Tristán
expectantly. No enquiry came, and after a moment he continued resentfully, 'It
may not be disaster, so long as we are circumspect and can keep the truth from
the rest of the world.'
             
             
             
              'As you say, senor.'
             
             
             
              There was an odd flicker in Tristán's unrevealing eyes!
that might have been a reflection of one of the candle - flames, but there was
no expression in his voice.
             
             
             
              De Castaneda eyed him sharply, then gave an approving
grunt. 'Then you will speed Doctor Sanchez, mmn? And still his tongue? I will
give you the thousand reales that were agreed for his fee, and I do not want to
see him again. And I know that you are the very grave of any secret.' He
smoothed back his hair and gave a little tug to his doublet, visibly gaining
confidence as he did so.
              'Twenty years is a long time . . . I have not waited so
long and worked so hard to ensure a direct succession only to give up now, and
for so slight a reason.'
             
             
             
              Tristán's curving brows lifted. 'Slight, senor?' he asked
dryly.
             
     
             
              'It need be no more. Have some wine, Felipe; there are
things that we must talk of, you and I.'
             
             
             
              As he poured wine for himself and the other man, de
Castaneda was conscious of relief that Tristán was sitting. He hated craning
his neck to speak to any man, and