Shadowheart (29 page)

“Only me,” he said. “Unless you care to leave a trail of dead men in your wake.”

Elayne was the straggler of the party. She sat with her head down, hardly able to distinguish the sound of a pouring waterfall from the ringing in her ears. The steep paths had become agony for her; she could not seem to find enough breath to fill her lungs. Her legs burned with exhaustion. She rested on a boulder beside the misting waterfall, panting, with sweat trickling down her neck and back and soaking her chemise. If not for the vision of Margaret and Zafer in the hands of Franco Pietro’s men, there was nothing that would have made her stand up again.

What easy ground there was, they had covered in the night, under cloud-glow and a fading moon. A few hours of sleep in a thatched shed and then just before dawn the young shepherd woman had come to lead them. They climbed with a little flock of four ewes and a late-born lamb, taking paths that led upward, up and up past the vineyards and apple orchards into the fir trees, up until fingers of mist clothed the tall trunks in gray, up until Elayne’s head was pounding and she could think of nothing but how to lift one foot in front of the other. A pair of the white guardian dogs ranged alongside, loping through the pine trees and up the rocky slopes, trotting ahead and returning like pale shadows in the woods.

Allegreto had long since thrown off the gray cape and hood. Though his hair clung to his neck and he had tied a band of cloth around his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes, he did not seem to suffer from the wobbly legs and weakness that made every step a torture for Elayne. Their guide sat serenely, no more winded than the dogs. She was a lovely girl, with soft eyes and cheeks delicately touched with rose from the climb. She held the lamb in her lap, gazing up at Allegreto as if he were the angel Gabriel and she some haloed Madonna in an altarpiece. Elayne hated her.

He turned from an outcrop that overlooked the valley below. They were still within view of the city. Elayne could see it between the trees when she found strength to lift her head, a mass of red rooftops, the towers like tiny child’s toys amid a patchwork of green. A river curved across the cultivated valley, running languidly to the silver slip of lake still visible beyond the city walls. The blue mountain crags sprang up to cloudy summits, white drifts that seemed to hang so close she could touch them if she reached up her hand.

“He’s invested the eastern pass to Venice with his troops,” Allegreto said in French.

Elayne could see scraps of color strung in lines along a white strip of road. They might have been tents or crowds of people, though she could make out no individual parts from this distance. The shepherd girl had brought details of the mercenaries in Franco Pietro’s hire; fifteen company of foot soldiers and eight troops of horse—to Elayne it had sounded enough to conquer the entire north of Italy.

She tried to think through the pounding in her brain, blinking wearily at the peaks on the far side of the valley. “I should not mind to have an elephant to ride across this mountain,” she said.

Allegreto leaned back against a tree trunk. “An elephant?” He frowned for a moment, and then raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You have read Titus Livy, then.”

“Lady Melanthe sent it with some Latin texts by Petrarch. I liked the elephants. I was sorry Hannibal did not win.” She gazed down at the city and valley laid before them like a giant map. “I suppose Franco Pietro does not study ancient history. It does not seem to occur to him that you might march from the north.”

He gave a short laugh. “As well you were not here to suggest it to him.”

“Was it your intention?”

He glanced toward the shepherdess, who had been gazing at them uncomprehendingly while they spoke in the French tongue. “In haps,” he said with a shrug. “It is little matter now. How do you fare? We will move more slowly, if you wish.”

Elayne lifted her face. “We must arrive in time. I can do it.”

He observed her narrowly for a long moment. “I do not want you to expend yourself too far.” He made a little gesture with his chin toward the shepherdess. “You are no peasant, to labor like an ox and then give birth in the field.”

“ ‘Tis only that I am not accustomed to climb so much,” she said. “I swear there is no air to breathe here.”

“Aye, ‘tis harder to fill your lungs in the mountains,” he said. “We will rest more often.”

“I don’t want to make us delay.” She planted her staff among the fir needles and pulled herself to her feet.

“Sit down,” he said.

“But—”

“Sit.” He came toward her with such suddenness that she sat back on the boulder abruptly. “I wish to see you take more sustenance,” he said. “You’ve eaten little.” He grabbed up one of their bundles and began to pull out bread and apples.

In her exhausted state Elayne had no desire to eat. But she saw that he was determined on it. And in truth, if she was to go on, she had to find a source of vigor from somewhere. She took an apple and sank her teeth into it obediently. He laid before her bread and olives, along with a rosemary-scented sausage and cheese enough for two or three people, then knelt on one knee beside her. He examined and tasted each and cut off pieces and watched her eat until she could not take another bite. Then, when she would have risen to walk on, he bid her sit longer and rest.

She knew the source of this overbearing concern. She had seen Sir Guy insist on the same sort of indulgences to Cara when she was with child.

“Do not make foolish delay for me,” she said to him. “You must be there.”

“And leave you by the wayside?” He pitched an apple core into the roaring cascade.

“Aye, if you must!”

He shook his head. “There is time.”

“How long?”

He looked away from her. “There is time.” He tied the food bundle to the end of his stave.

“You cannot be certain,” she said. “Think of Zafer and Margaret, and what you have forgotten—”

“I think of it every moment,” he said curtly. “And other things, also. Waste no more of your precious breath on this, madam.” He stood up over her. “Rest until I command you otherwise.”

On the summit of a mountain pass they paused again at a tiny wooden shrine. They had climbed up out of the trees into blowing snow, where the only plants were grasses and lichen and a few miniature flowers clinging to the crevices of rocks, whipping in the wind. Elayne kept her head down, facing away from the gale and huddling within her mantle, holding her gloved hands under her arms. The rock she sat upon felt like a block of ice.

The shepherd girl, too, sat hunched over her lamb, with the dogs lying at her feet and the sheep scattered nearby, snatching at grasses or curled into windblown piles of wool. Elayne worked hard for breath. She knew they could not stay here long—already a deep shiver possessed her as the wind cut through her clothes to her damp chemise. She could see Allegreto’s figure a distance away, where he stood alone on the broad open saddle of the pass, staring down into the valley that lay ahead. The wind whipped his hair and tore at his cape, but he seemed heedless of it.

The ridges rising to either side of them were almost lost in gray fog and snow, the landscape utterly barren. Elayne shook inside her mantle. She was too tired to stand, but the cold was sinking into her very bones, making her shudder helplessly. She gripped her staff, trying to force her unsteady legs to obey her, when one of the dogs suddenly looked up. They both hurled themselves to their feet, barking feverishly as they raced toward the dark shape of a man that materialized out of the blizzard.

Elayne made it upright, standing next to the shepherdess, squinting through the snow toward the stranger. He stood still, held at bay by the furious dogs.

“Call them back!” It was a young man’s voice, shouted over the barking and the wind. “I’m here to warn you, fools! There are bandits in this pass.”

Allegreto was suddenly beside her, blocking the snow as she leaned heavily on her staff. “Call the dogs,” he said briefly to the shepherd girl.

She made a high-pitched cry, half-carried away by the gale. The two dogs paused. They looked back. The girl called again, clapping her hands. With reluctance their white guardians turned and trotted toward her.

“Look.” The young man pointed up onto the far slope. He walked forward as the dogs retreated. Upon the rise stood another man, silhouetted in the fog. A second appeared beside him. Elayne held back her hood to look at the ridge above, and saw armed men there, too, stationed amid the clefts and rocks.

She turned to Allegreto, hardly able to close her shaking and frozen fingers on the walking stave. She could not run. If he had not put his arm about her waist, holding her back against him, she was not sure she could have stood. The boy—he was hardly yet a man—came up boldly, though he kept his distance from the dogs. He was tall, dressed in rags that could hardly have kept out the cold, his head wrapped in a dirty black cloth.

“I see we are well trapped,” Allegreto said, bracing solid and warm against her.

“I know them,” the tall boy said urgently. “They can be satisfied with enough gold.”

“You are their emissary?”

“Nay!” The youth shook his head vigorously. “I live below. I don’t like to see folk hurt. I can talk to them. I might succeed, if you offer gold enough.”

“And if they are not satisfied?” Allegreto asked. Elayne felt his low voice as a warning, like a growl from the dogs.

The young man looked meaningfully at her and the shepherd girl. He shrugged. “You won’t leave this mountain alive. The women—well…” His words trailed off into the wind.

Elayne waited, shaking uncontrollably, half-expecting Allegreto to step forward with his poisoned dagger and murder the boy. She did not know what would happen then—if the bandits above would rush upon them. When he moved his hand downward toward his knife, she stepped away from him with a faint cry.

He restrained her by the elbow. He drew a single coin from his purse and flipped it to the young man. “Go and talk, then. Say that I send health and all honor to the dread and invincible Philip Welles, and this is how much I offer to see us safely through the pass.”

“A piccolo—” the tall boy objected, his wind-chapped face turning redder still. “I dare not! This will only enrage him!”

Allegreto grinned in the teeth of the gale, the snowflakes wetting his dark eyelashes and collecting on his hood and shoulders. “Then add that the Raven invites him to take drink and meat with us this eve, for the sake of bygone adventures together.”

The light of the campfires glowed on tall tree trunks, highlighting the white scars of cut limbs. Under a shelter made of pine boughs, Elayne sat on a log bench, breathing the sodden smell of smoke and wet forest. Rain dripped from two places in the makeshift roof and made puddles at her feet. She was still
trembling with fatigue, but her
clothes were new and dry and the fires gave out a cheerful warmth.

After a goodly feast, if rough, Philip Welles’s men lay about under what cover they had, gulping large swigs of excellent Tuscan wine. A few women and children worked at clearing the meal, while the giggles of less industrious females sounded from unseen places.

Philip Welles was an Englishman. He had the strong laugh and pink cheeks of the northern isle, though there were deep lines engraved about his eyes and his hair had gone to gray. He held council under the pine boughs like Robin Hood, with a tree stump for a throne. It was difficult not to like him; Elayne had to remind herself several times not to blurt out her replies in English when he used his painfully awkward Italian to address her. He seemed to have some notion that she could not follow the general conversation in French, but his manner toward her was so fatherly and cheerful that she let him bumble his way through his misformed Monteverde tongue, and only nodded and smiled in reply.

Even Allegreto appeared to be in a congenial humor. His face seemed relaxed in the firelight, his hair still damp and his jaw clean-shaven. But when Philip dismissed most of his men and turned to the pirate, demanding to know what purpose was afoot, Allegreto’s dark eyes came alight.

“I have need to penetrate a castle,” he replied.

“Where?” Philip asked instantly. “What defenses?”

“Maladire. The old Navona fortress at d’Avina.”

“Hah!” The outlaw sat back. “Let us take London and Paris as well! I’ve thirty good fighting men!”

Allegreto smiled. “Nay, do you think I want a battle?”

Philip narrowed his eyes. “What do ye need us for, then? I’ve no craft with your poisons and stealth.”

Allegreto’s smile vanished. “Such things are my office, aye.” He looked into Philip’s face with no expression. “But don’t tell me you’ve not guile enough, old fox. I require a diversion.”

For a moment Philip seemed aloof, as if he had been offended. Then he grinned, the lines about his eyes creasing deeply. “And how much would you be offering for this diversion?”

“One thousand marks of Venetian silver.”

Sadly Philip shook his head. “Divided among thirty? Hardly worth our time on the muddy roads, my friend.”

Allegreto lifted his eyebrows. “The traffic through this pass must be prosperous of late!”

The outlaw rubbed his lower lip with a stout finger. “Aye, we’ve had some luck.” He frowned. “D’Avina, you say?” He glanced over at one of his men who had remained.

The man nodded, as if in answer to an unspoken question.

Philip ran his tongue over his lip. He jerked his chin. “Bring me those chests with the silver coins.”

The man rose quickly and spoke to someone standing outside the shelter. In a few moments he returned with a companion, both of them lugging large metal-bound boxes. The chests hit the ground with a heavy chinking. Their tops were painted with the emblem of Monteverde, a castle upon a green mount.

Philip leaned over and slid a key into one lock. With a heave, he pushed the opened chest toward Allegreto. “Examine that,” he said.

Elayne could see the glint of silver coin inside—a very great deal of it. She could perceive why the offer of one thousand marks had not been judged overly generous. Allegreto scooped up a few pieces and turned them in his palm. He shaved the edge of one with his dagger, then bit the coin and shook his head. He glanced at Philip, who said nothing.

Allegreto looked down again at the coins. He dipped a handful from the chest, sliding them one over the other with his forefinger. Suddenly he paused. He let the silver shower back into the chest and then picked up one piece at a time, setting them side by side on his open palm, rotating each as he looked closely.

He closed the chest, laying the coins out in even rows. He reached over and took a handful from the second box. Over and over, he compared coins, holding them close to his eye on the back of his hand. Finally he made a soft snort.

“All struck with the same burin. There is an extra prong on the crown.” He looked up. “Did you rob these direct from a minter’s bench?”

“Not I,” Philip said.

“Who?”

“We escorted a fellow of Germany through the pass,” Philip said innocently, as if they had been hired for the task. “This was the payment.”

“Luck indeed,” Allegreto said with a dry smile. “I’d expect an armed company to convey such as this, and no deal with the likes of Philip Welles, begging your indulgence.”

“Aye.” The outlaw did not take offense. “You would think so, eh?” He nodded slowly. “And yet he was a young man, with only two pack mules and a servant, and the coins hid among bags of onions.” Philip shrugged. “Saint Mary, we wished the man no harm, and he went upon his way.” He grinned. “Back home, I believe, as his traveling funds were a little low. Too liberal with their purses at every tavern, these young bucks, eh?”

Allegreto smiled dryly. “Take care how you spend these coins, my friend,” he said. “The alloy is bad, as you know well enough. Now if you like good Venetian silver that will pass anywhere without a question—my offer stands. Make it fifteen hundred marks.”

Philip seemed to ponder, as the firelight warmed his grizzled face and gleamed on the coins. He shook his head. “I am tired,” he said slowly. “Tired of this life.”

Allegreto said nothing. Beside Philip, he appeared timelessly youthful, as if age could never touch him.

“It is not enough,” Philip said. “We‘re thirty here. Three of us share half, and divide the rest by each man. Even with another fifteen hundred marks, after we split fair among us … not enough.” He sighed heavily. He looked down at his open, callused palms. “I’m weary, boy. Weary of the rain in my bedroll and the weapon always in my hand.”

“Tell me what you want, then.”

The outlaw looked into the darkness. “Eh. A warm house in town. A plump merchant’s daughter to soften the featherbed. And peace.”

“You would be fatigued to tears in six months of such a life,” Allegreto said.

“Nay, not I.”

“What will you do? Eat and sleep and rut and grow fat. You’re not so old. Leave that for when your mind grows dim and you can’t think of a fraud to earn your breakfast.”

The corner of Philip’s mouth turned up. “A fraud!”

“Aye, a fraud. As your black heart desires, I well know. Set aside the Venetian marks, then.” Allegreto nodded toward the chests. “What is it you devise to plunder?”

The twist of the outlaw’s mouth turned into a grin. “You are ever one step ahead of me, lad. You tell me, then.”

“I don’t know enough yet. There is an engraver’s burin escaped from the mint. Where is it? Who has it? How often is this watered coin leaving Monteverde?”

“It was not leaving. The boy was headed in from the north. Claimed his father is the chief officer of the mines here, if you can credit it. Name of Jan Zoufal, or something like, he said. Seems to be a foreigner.”

Allegreto turned his hand suddenly, flipping the coins and catching them in his palm. “It’s extortion you have in mind, then?” he asked.

“Nay, I don’t doubt the honorable Jan Zoufal would send me packing if I tried that. Who would believe an outlaw like me against Franco Pietro’s head man?”

Allegreto looked at him a long time. His glance moved to Elayne, touching her like a leisurely brand. Even through her weariness, she felt it. He smiled at her and turned to Philip. “Still… there is promise in this,” he said at length. “Much promise. I believe we can make an arrangement.”

Philip grinned widely, kicking the chest at his feet. “I knew you would see it. Well met!”

Sudden shouts came from the darkness beyond the camp. The bandit instantly leaped to his feet, ducking outside. Allegreto followed. Elayne rose as she saw a big white pup run into the clearing, gamboling alongside a knot of men who emerged into firelight from the trees. They held a stumbling figure erect as they marched him forward.

She recognized Dario in the same moment as he looked up toward Allegreto. The youth’s broad face held a wild expression; he seemed to find his feet and then fell on his knees when he saw his master.

Allegreto strode forward. Nimue ran to Elayne, leaping on her skirts with big muddy paws, but Elayne could only grab the puppy and hug her close, staring in alarm at Dado’s bowed shoulders and look of agony.

“
Matteo
!” Allegreto demanded, standing over him.

Dario shook his head. He pressed his fists to his forehead, then bent over his knees down into the mud. “Escaped, my lord.”

The bandits gathered mutely around. A silence spread over the entire camp. Even the women stopped their work, everyone held frozen, without sound but for the muted pop of the campfire and Dario’s half-sobs of breath.

“What passed?” Allegreto’s face had gone to a mask, his dark eyes to ice.

Dario sat up, his square jaw marked by slashes of mud. He spoke to Allegreto’s boots. “At the cross trail to d’Avina, in the night. We took shelter at a farmhouse. The babe was weeping and I thought to warm him. We had time; we were well in time to pause and rest. The woman was kind. We ate.” He bent his head and locked his hands together until they shook. “My dread lord—I fell asleep—without securing him.”

Allegreto stepped forward and grabbed the youth’s hair. He yanked Dario’s head back and down. “You tracked him?”

Dario swallowed in his bared throat. “I tried. I tried. I lost him at the edge of the town. He’s gone into it, I think. I left word with the cat to hunt him, and came here.”

For a long moment Allegreto looked down at him. Time stretched to taut infinity, as Dario winced and panted.

“Are you confessed?” Allegreto asked softly.

The young man’s face grew still. He wet his lips and clutched his hands together to his mouth like a man in desperate prayer, making a soundless whisper against his fingers.

Elayne let go of Nimue. The puppy dropped to the ground and bounded toward the remains of the bandit feast.

She saw Allegreto’s hand reach for his dagger. He had a look of inhumanity beyond any comprehension. Dario ceased his prayer and crossed himself, exhaling, his face and body relaxing into peace as if he fell asleep with his head forced back and his clasped hands resting on his knees. For one instant she saw Allegreto’s face too change; his eyes drifted shut like a man about to lose consciousness—then he opened them, his fingers closing on the dagger as he drew it with a swift move.

“Do not!”

Elayne heard her own voice ring like a bell through the clearing in the trees. She stepped forward.

Allegreto stilled, his knife poised to slash over the boy’s throat, the blade gleaming in the firelight. She could see Dario’s pulse pounding under his skin, but he made no move, no resistance.

“Let him go,” she said.

No one spoke. Campfire smoke drifted slowly across the sodden ground in tendrils and rose into the trees. From the edge of her vision, she saw that the bandits stared at her, but she did not take her eyes from Allegreto.

He was like a statue with Dario kneeling before him. Not one flicker of emotion or expression crossed his face.
When he raised his eyes, he
seemed to look at nothing, unblinking.

Suddenly he shoved Dario’s head forward, withdrawing the knife. The youth fell down with his face and his hands on the ground, sobbing openly.

“Princess,” Allegreto said. He made a cold bow to her and sheathed the dagger. He turned and walked away.

“Who is she?” Philip asked.

No one had spoken to Elayne in the night, after Allegreto had gone out of the camp. But now in the chill morning he was returned, and the bandits stood in a circle around the blackened fire-pit, gazing at her with wary awe, with the same expressions she had seen on their unshaven faces as they had watched Dario crawl to her and kiss her mud-sodden hem.

“The one who can grant all your pardons when she takes her place in Monteverde,” Allegreto said. “Or have your hands cut off and hung about your necks for thieves, while your bodies dangle at the city gates.”

Philip walked to her and went down on one knee, baring his head, his mail chinking as he hit the ground. With a sound of creaking and muffled thuds, all his men did the same. “Princess,” he said. “God and Your Grace forgive me! I did not know.”

Such reverence disconcerted her. She looked down at his grizzled hair. “I thank you for your welcome here,” she said. “There is nothing to forgive.”

He remained on his knee, and Elayne realized that he was waiting.

“Rise,” she said in French. “Everyone.”

Allegreto had not knelt. He stood looking across the banked fire at her. She did not think that he was pleased. “Philip,” he said, “we must speak in private.”

The bandit turned a little, not quite facing away from Elayne. “Aye,” he said gruffly. “I think it a wise idea.”

He sent his men to the perimeters of the camp and escorted Elayne into the shelter of pine-boughs. He insisted that she be seated on the tree-stump throne. She did not know if it was because he had discovered her title and hoped for pardon, or that she had averted Dario’s execution in cold blood in his camp, but he made it evident that he looked to her now as the higher power.

Dario himself hung uncertainly at the far side of the clearing, near where Nim was tied. Allegreto ignored him as if he did not exist. Elayne thought of calling him, of sending him to fetch Margaret’s babe that had been left with the woman at
the
farmhouse,
but she thought
better of it. The blind coldness had not left Allegreto’s eyes. The baby was likely as safe in a house as in this camp among women who drank more ale than the men. Better that they all feign Dario was invisible until his dark master decided otherwise.

“Pardon my bewilderment, donna—but you are Prince Ligurio’s granddaughter?” Philip asked bluntly, standing under the shelter with the dry green pine needles brushing his balding head. He looked from Elayne to Allegreto and back to Elayne again.