Shadowheart (10 page)

She had thought Raymond handsome. But the Raven was something beyond handsome. Beyond gallant manners and teasing glances. He was like the old, old stories, like the unknown man who waited on a darkened hill, the mist around him, hand outstretched …

In the stories, if a woman went to him… she did not return.

But she wanted to go …

She wanted …

Elayne blinked, her head swaying. A long time had seemed to pass. She sat down in the opposite chair, looking at the items spread across the table. She did not dare let herself drowse again. A pair of brass boxes sat beside the scrolls, unopened. In the center of the table, still wrapped heavily in linen, lay a flat package the size of her open palm.

To keep herself waking, she stood up again and wandered about the library, staring at snakeskins and strange devices, contrivances of metal and glass, furnaces of stone with chimneys protruding from all sides.

“Take care,” he said. “Not everything here is benign.”

Elayne snatched her hand away from a sealed jar she had been about to tap—it seemed to contain a live toad. The animal stared at her phlegmatically, perchance alive, perchance stuffed; not divulging any secrets.

“So inquisitive!” He shook his head.

She turned back to the table, made heedless by the weary spinning in her brain. “You asked me to accompany you,” she said. “What am I to do?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Sit quietly?”

“I have never excelled at sitting quietly. My sister has often said so.”

“Ah, your sister,” he said. Nothing more than that, but Elayne felt as if somehow another presence had entered the room.

He gazed at her steadily, with such a dark reserve that she felt blood rise in her cheeks. “Well, I will sit down,” she said. She pulled out the chair and sat again, folding her hands in her lap.

“The picture of feminine obedience,” he said. “Did you learn that of your sister?”

“Aye,” she said, pursing her lips.

“Good. I would not like to think that you had wasted much of your life in that coy pose.”

“Alack, you are difficult to please!” she said impatiently.

He startled her once more with his sudden flash of a smile. “Why, I only wish for you to please yourself—you are by far the more interesting that way.”

“Hmmm,” Elayne said, taking a deep breath to try to clear her brain.

“Hmmm,” he replied, and went back to his scrolls.

She sat for a few moments, tapping her fingers against her lap, opening her eyes over and over as they tried to fall shut. She knew she must have some occupation or fall asleep. “May I open one of the boxes, then, to please myself?” she asked.

He looked up at her. “You have not changed an atom, you know,” he said.

“What do you mean?” she asked, stiffening.

“You have always been so. A mobile spirit. Curious and inquiring.”

“What do you know of me?”

“I read your cards,” he said, dismissing her question. “Let me open the box, then, Pandora—to be safe.”

If he said any protection spells or performed any rites of propitiation, Elayne did not see it. Instead, he simply drew one of the boxes toward him, took a knife as slender as a reed from his belt, and unpicked the ornate lock with the skill of a seasoned thief. The lid sprang open suddenly, making her jump.

“No demons,” he said, glancing over the top at her. “Some pretty things.” He pushed the box across the table toward her. “You may have them if you like.”

She touched the box gingerly, peering inside. It was filled with a jumble of golden brooches and buckles. No dust dulled their glory—jewels winked and sparkled in the lamplight, tiny rainbows caught in the black depths of the box. “Benedicite!” she breathed, suddenly waking. She drew forth a breast pin shimmering with the red fire of rubies. “You do not mean to give me this!”

“I am sure it will become you,” he said, without looking up. “If it will only keep you still for a quarter hour, I shall be delighted.”

With his slender knife he flicked a cut across the bindings that held the linen package. He spread open the cloth, revealing a flat stone, badly cracked across the carvings that swirled over the dark, rough surface.

For a moment it seemed only to be a half-finished work, as if the stone carver had left off before smoothing his design. But even as she looked, she could make out incised letters in an unknown language, interrupted by the crack and the broken edges.

“The Black Tablet,” he murmured.

She gazed at it curiously, seeing nothing in it to invoke extraordinary interest, but the rich pile of jewels lay ignored as he moved his palm and fingertips lightly over the stone. If the hours of waking wore on the Raven, there was no sign of it in his elegant features. He only paused to reach for a flagon of wine from a sideboard, pouring into a pair of silver goblets.

While he inspected the tablet intently, she took a deep sip from the offered cup, trying to rouse herself. She toyed with the sparkling breast pin. The twisting, teasing smoke of memory rose and twirled like a spent candle’s smolder in her mind, that sense that she had seen something, or said something before, without remembering when or where.

She was losing the battle with sleep. Her eyes drooped. She drank more of the tart wine, in an effort to keep herself vigilant, but toads and soaring falcons drifted and spun in her brain.
Things will not always happen as you expect,
Lady Melanthe said, as outlandish notions and stratagems formed in a reverie, dreams of escape and nightmares of wandering. He had discovered who Elayne was. He was her enemy; he might try to ransom her to Monteverde, to Franco Pietro. But he said he would teach her and called her tender names. It seemed that Lady Beatrice was railing at her for her incompetence.
Use your wits, girl! Use your wits!

Elayne came upright with a little jerk of her head. “Where is Lady Beatrice?” she mumbled.

“Asleep,” the Raven said, and Elayne realized where she was again.

She blinked at him and rubbed her hand across her eyes. He sat back in his chair, stretching out his leg, watching her.

Opportunities will come
, Lady Melanthe had said.
Use your nerve
.

“Sir,” she said, struggling through her lethargy. “You are a pirate.”

He shrugged. “By hap I am, if you insist.”

“Hence—people pay you ransom to go free.”

His black eyes glittered. “They do. Unless I cast them off a cliff.”

She frowned at him. It was impossible to decipher whether he was in jest or in truth. She squeezed her palms together. “My lord, I have a proposal for you.”

He waited, steepling his hands and looking at her over the tips of his fingers.

“Sir—could I pay you to keep me here?”

For a long moment he said nothing. Then he tilted back his head and began to laugh.

“It is not so absurd!” she said thickly. “I have nothing of my own, I confess, but you could write to the Duke of Lancaster—he’s been appointed my guardian by—by—” Her weary brain could hardly find the name. “King Richard. Of England.” She took a deep breath to clear her brain. “And I believe that you would find him eager to pay a goodly sum for my release. You could have all of that, but keep me here instead.”

“Now, there is an admirable design!” he said. “I believe you have a pirate’s heart. But what if the duke refuses to pay?”

“Then—” She hesitated. “I believe—you seemed to know of Franco Pietro of the Riata….”

“Indeed! I should write to Franco Pietro, and say the duke did not see fit to ransom you, so will he kindly defray a proper sum to obtain his contracted bride?”

“But do not send me to him, after you receive it,” she prompted.

“Of course not! Why not write to both of them at once? I could ransom you twofold and still sell you to the Saracens. An excellent plan.”

“No, I mean for you to keep me here.”

“And what am I going to do with you here?” He tilted his head. “You would be awkwardly in the way when Lancaster and the Riata send their fleets to obliterate me.”

“I doubt they would send fleets. Fleets? Not over me.”

He nodded.
“Avaunt,
let us take that chance, then. No doubt I’ll sink them if they come. But still I don’t know what to do with you, if you can’t be sold,” he said mildly. He filled her drinking cup again. “Do you wish to become my concubine?”

“No!” she said with a furious blush. Heat rose up through her body, awakening her. She avoided his eyes. “I don’t mean that at all!”

“There is no choice, then. I would have to toss you from the cliffs.”

She set her jaw and took a quick swallow of the wine. “Never mind. I don’t speak in jest, though you laugh. You said you might keep me here longer than I like, but in truth, you cannot delay me long enough for my taste.”

He traced the incisions on the black stone. “You don’t wish to marry the Riata?”

She drew a deep breath and took another generous swallow of the wine. “No. I abhor the idea.”

“We are in wondrous accord, then, my lady.” He looked up at her as he ran his fingertip over the carvings. “I had no intention of allowing it to happen.”

There was nothing visible to betray it, but Elayne felt as if some faint lightning rushed between them, like a storm far off. The Raven stood, his tunic gleaming in the blue light. The water-dragon seemed to sway slowly overhead.

“Navona is not finished,” he said in a voice that caressed the words. “Not yet while I breathe.” He leaned on the table, his black cloak flowing down over his hands. Nothing he had discovered among his purchased treasures had elicited a look like the one he gave her now. “You may have your desire to linger with me, my lady Elena, but I need no payment from the duke. I demand another ransom, sweeting. I require you for my wife.”

Lady Melanthe had warned her of poison.
Beware what you eat,
the countess had said.
Take heed of what you drink.

Elayne lay very still as the headache gripped her, looking through her eyelashes at the room, trying to remember how she had come there. There was a scent of flowers, a soft breeze that lifted the bright silken bed-hangings of saffron and blue and red ochre. From the coolness of the air, she thought it must be morning. Slowly she realized that she was naked underneath the sheet, her hair spread loose across the pillows.

She held her hand to her temple and closed her eyes. When she opened them, a blurry gleam of gold caught light through her lashes. She lifted her hand, staring at the ring on her third finger.

On the broad band, letters were engraved.
Gardi li mo
, she read.

Guard it well.

She frowned. Through the ache in her head, she found a memory of the pirate, standing over the table in his library.

A young maid started up from somewhere in the room, hurrying to the side of the huge bed. “Good morrow, Your Grace!” she said in English. She made a deep bow down onto her knee, her head disappearing below the level of the bed for an instant. “Your Magnificence slept well, I pray?”

Elayne let her head fall back onto the pillows, trying to still the spinning in her brain. “I don’t know how my magnificence slept,” she grumbled, her eyes closed, “but my forehead is like to split in two.”

“My lord said it might happen so,” the maid said kindly. “He sent a remedy for such, in the juice of grapes. Will Your Grace take it now?”

Elayne looked at her suspiciously. The girl was yellow-haired, much younger than Elayne, with pale blue eyes and a round face. A sprinkle of blond freckles gave her a cheerful countenance. She seemed out of place on this island of wizards and pirates.

“I will bring it,” she said, as if Elayne had agreed.

In a moment she returned to the bedside with a tray of hammered brass. She held up the ornate ewer and cup, pouring carefully. Light gleamed on the brilliant enamel designs.

“You drink of it first,” Elayne said.

The girl nodded, unsurprised, and took a draught. She wrinkled her nose and then smiled with a purple-stained upper lip. “I fear it has a trace of bitterness, ma’am. But my lord says it will cure your head.”

Elayne waited a few moments, to be sure the girl stayed waking. “What is your name?”

“Margaret, if it please Your Magnificence.” She gave another bow of courtesy.

“Pray do not address me as ‘magnificent.’” Elayne put her hands to her aching eyes and saw the ring again. She sat up, drawing the sheets to her chin. Her head pounded. Margaret did not seem to have fallen into a faint, or expired, so Elayne took up the cup of grape juice and drank a large swallow.

She worked at the ring. It would not come off.

“Does it pain you, Your Grace?” Margaret asked anxiously.

“It does not belong to me,” Elayne said. She took another swallow of the purple liquid, and then finished the entire cup. A metallic taste lingered on her tongue. “I am not entirely foolish, though I took his drugged wine.”

Margaret bit her lip. She took the cup from Elayne and set it carefully on the tray.

Elayne held the sheet close about her shoulders. As luxurious as the chamber allotted to Lady Beatrice had been, this one was richer by far. No king would be ashamed of the artistry in the bright frescoes and carvings that adorned the domed ceiling. At first they seemed like religious tableau, or scenes of gentle parties in beflowered gardens, but a second glance revealed astrological signs woven into the ladies’ headdresses. The creatures that lolled at their feet like pets were not lapdogs, but small monsters, or fairies, or something indescribable. The tall bed frame was gilt, swathed in tasseled silk. Scrolls and books lay piled on a velvet table-covering—Elayne counted twelve volumes in three stacks, more books than she had ever seen collected in one place apart from the pirate’s library.

“What chamber is this?” she demanded, holding the embroidered coverlet close.

“It is my lord’s bedchamber, Your Grace,” Margaret said cautiously.

“Why am I here?” Elayne was burningly aware of her nakedness beneath the sheet. “Is he coming here?”

Margaret bobbed her head. “In a little while, he will return with the lady and some others. I am to prepare Your Grace and the chamber for inspection.”

“Inspection!”

“The sheets, madam.” She gestured toward Elayne’s knees in the bed. “I have some flowers, too! I will spread them very pretty beside you in the bed, if it would not make you shamefast.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Elayne felt panic. “Inspection? Who is coming? Am I to be sold?”

Margaret shook her head vigorously. “Your Grace, of course not! If he would not tolerate the least one of us here to be enslaved, how should he allow such a thing for you?” “He spoke of it several times. He threatened me with it.” The girl looked disapproving. “My lady, may God forgive me, I cannot believe you. He would not countenance any such thing.”

“What is this inspection, then? Who does he bring?”

“I believe he will bring your lady attendant, madam— the elderly lady. She will wish to be assured of the proper consummation of your marriage to my lord.”

Elayne gave a gasp. “She will wish to be assured of no such thing!” She sat straighten “Where is my chemise? I must rise.”

“Nay, Your Grace, it would be best to stay—”

“I have not said that I would marry him! My gown!” Elayne said forcefully. “Make haste!” She pushed herself off the bed, dragging the sheets around her. As she pulled them from the mattress, she saw spots of blood-red amid the white folds. “Deus!” she exclaimed. “What—”

She stood still. A wave of mortification and horror rose to her cheeks as understanding came upon her. “No,” she whispered. “Depardeu, no!”

“Do not be abashed, ma’am,” Margaret said. “It is an honorable mark upon your wedding bed.”

Elayne stared at her. She almost declared the girl a lunatic. She had not consented to any marriage with this pirate. But the ring upon her finger, his bedchamber … she remembered nothing of how she had come there.

She turned away, holding the sheets tight about her. “He would not dare!” she exclaimed under her breath. And yet even as she spoke, she knew he could commit any transgression that he willed. Marriage would be a favor compared to other prospects.

Lady Beatrice’s sharp voice penetrated the chamber, an ill-tempered forewarning that caused Margaret to hurry toward the door. Just before the maid reached for it, the latch swung open silently, as if it had no weight. Margaret stood back, bowing down to the floor.

Elayne conquered a fervent urge to hide herself. She stood as straight as Cara had ever demanded, holding the sheets and tangled tresses of her own hair close to her breast as she glared toward the door.

The countess entered, rapping her cane with each step. Whatever sleeping illness had possessed her, she seemed suddenly recovered now. She paused, her thin eyebrows lifted almost to the tight line of her wimple as she looked Elayne up and down.

I am a princess,
Elayne declaimed in her mind, and returned Lady Beatrice’s look with defiance. She would not bow or even nod. Not now—when one move might cause her meager coverings to slip.

Behind Lady Beatrice the pirate stood in the doorway, dressed in pure indigo, his long hair tied behind his neck. He wore two daggers on the belt at his hip. A silver pendant dangled from his ear, giving him an even more pagan aspect. Beyond, she could see that there were others waiting, but he blocked their faces from the door. As he met her eyes, she lifted her chin angrily.

He seemed amused. He might even have made a wink at her as he gave a formal bow of courtesy, but she was not certain, for he lowered his face as he went to his knee. His reverence was easy and elegant—as polished as any at the court of Windsor. He rose effortlessly and stepped into the room, closing the door on the crowd.

“And what have you got yourself into, girl?” the countess demanded. “This poor fellow seems to think you have some noble blood in you, and so he’ll wed you on the spot.”

Il Corvo said, “You may spare us any play-act, Lady Beatrice. I know her bloodlines to a fine degree.”

The countess turned her head and shoulders toward him. She thumped her cane and shrugged. “You seem to have made sure of your mark on her. If you are so convinced of who she is, what ransom do you suppose to get now that she’s besmirched?”

The pirate walked to Elayne. She turned her face away. He lifted her hair and traced his fist down her throat. The velvet of his sleeve brushed her bared shoulder. “Do you wish to make a more certain examination? I would not like to send you back to Melanthe with any doubts in your mind.”

“Send me back? To England? Aye, and you suppose I will be pleased to carry news that you have ravished the goddaughter of the Countess of Bowland for your whore?”

“Taken her as my beloved and honored wife,” he countered calmly. “As I told you, we gave our vows in my own chapel here not a few hours since. I am grieved that you were too ill to be in attendance, but now you may see for yourself that all is sealed.”

Lady Beatrice tapped forward and reached for a fold of the sheets around Elayne, bending over to examine one of the bloodstains. She flicked it away and straightened. Elayne felt like one of Sir Guy’s horses at the market.

“It will never stand, once Lancaster is informed,” the countess said, gripping the cane’s head in her bony fingers. “If you know who she is, fool, you know she’s contracted for a portion enough to buy your little island a hundred times over. You’d have done better to hold her for a handsome profit than to defame her virginity.”

He gave a cold nod of assent. “You, too, have a pirate’s mind, I see, my lady. As it falls out, however, a handsome profit is not my desire.”

“What is it you expect, knave?”

“I expect you to return forthwith and convey tidings of the marriage of Princess Elena Rosafina di Monteverde to Allegreto Navona, along with my cordial gratitude to the Lady Melanthe.”

“Gratitude! You’ll have the armies of England and Monteverde upon you in gratitude! What of her betrothal contract?”

“You may further advise our good lady Melanthe to hold the armies of England in check,” he said, “if they wish to be arrayed on the winning side.” He looked down at Elayne. “But Melanthe will understand. She owes me this. Read closely how she chose the words of that wedding contract.” With a half-smile, he slid a lock of Elayne’s hair through his fingers. “She owes me. But by Heaven, I do thank her for it.”

Elayne tweaked her hair away. She was trembling. “Whatever it is you want of me, whatever enemy I am of yours—you did not need to do it this way.” She glared up at the pirate, clutching the sheets close. “I had no wish to go to Monteverde, nor bring armies upon anyone. If you could prevent me from wedding the Riata in some way—I told you I abhorred the match. I would have obliged you in whatever manner I could. But not this!”

“You regret our vows already?” he asked. “You wound me!”

“You know there were no vows made!”

He touched her cheek like a lover. “Have a care of what you say in the heat of the moment,
carissima.
You were not so unwilling in the night.”

“Oh! You are full of lies!”

“That I am, my lady.” He shrugged. “It is one of my many mortal sins. But these blemishes upon our sheets are not a lie. And there are a score and more of my people outside this chamber who witnessed our pledge, and our lying down together, and come at present to wish us well. To withdraw now from your given word is a matter to consider gravely.”

She wanted to shout that it was not true—there had been no pledge or oaths exchanged. But like a cheating opponent at chess, he had maneuvered her when she was not attending, and she found herself with no escape. She could declare she had made no vow to be his wife—but what would she be then? Besmirched, as Lady Beatrice said. It might be that Franco Pietro would still have her, or the Duke of Lancaster would send armies, but at best she would end up where she had dreaded to go, under a cloud of stark humiliation.

She could feel Lady Beatrice’s judging look. She was no longer chaste. She did not feel different; she had no memory of what had been done to her—but the pirate made her sound as if she had been eager for it.

In haps she had been. When he touched her so lightly, she felt as if there were a flash between them, a sting, an ache that ran from his fingertip across all of her skin.

“Well, girl?” Countess Beatrice demanded.

He moved away, as if to allow her freedom to choose. As he walked behind the countess, silent as a cat on the carpeted floor, he paused. He slipped the dagger from his belt and turned it in his hand, so that the morning sunlight caught the white diamond in the handle and sent a prism of light across his palm. The maid Margaret watched him placidly. He looked up directly into Elayne’s eyes.

“What do you say?” The countess leaned upon her cane, her back to him. The stiff wings of her old-fashioned wimple made a screen around her face. “Has he forced you into this, child?”

The Raven did not move, or take his eyes from Elayne’s. His face was gentle, perfect, his hand balancing the dagger and his dark brows slightly raised as he waited for her answer.

And she understood him. With a clarity as brilliant as the gemstone on his weapon, she understood that he would kill the countess if Elayne denied him. Lady Beatrice would be a messenger with no doubt in her mind, or she would not be a messenger at all.

“Do not think you are friendless,” the countess said gruffly, unknowing of the viper poised to strike. “There is recourse for this kind of villainy, if you’ve spine enough to demand it.”

Elayne swallowed. She shook her head.

“There was no villainy,” she said faintly. “We are truly wed.”

The countess snorted. “God spare us, you witless chit! Not a moment since, you claimed there were no vows.”

“I only pretended to repent of it—for fear of your displeasure, ma’am.”