Shadowheart (39 page)

A maid made a final adjustment to the net that held her hair and replaced the heavy crown. Elena was sick of it, of holding herself straight and unbending under the weight. She drew a breath and lifted her head, signaling the guard to open the doors. The chamberlain announced her grandly—the Magnificent, the Prima Elect, the Principessa Elena di Monteverde. She walked from her privy chamber to the presence-room, where Dario waited with Franco and Allegreto.

Franco bowed immediately, a smooth flourish, withholding nothing. Allegreto looked directly at Elena, his face calm. But she saw death in his eyes, cold and certain.

He made a mocking bow, not quite complete. In the failing light from the open windows, it seemed to Elena that they were all a set of gorgeously dressed puppets on a rich stage, surrounded by frescoed walls and tapestries, going through motions set by some unseen master. She gave them each a nod of recognition, equally courteous. But her heart was shrinking in her chest. She felt a girl-child among men, as if it were an effrontery even to stand in this room and claim authority over them.

“I will not delay us long before the banquet.” She had to force herself to speak. “I called upon you to come so that I might explain what I’ve done. I can wait no longer for you to agree to peace between yourselves. There is word that Milan may make an attempt against us. I require the complete loyalty of your houses to Monteverde above all. Do I have it?”

“Certainly, Princess,” Franco said. “Do you wish us to take an oath before God?”

Allegreto’s mouth curled as he glanced at Franco Pietro. “I cannot take any oath before God, for the Pope says my face offends Him.” He lifted his dark lashes and looked at Elena. “You know well enough where my loyalty lies.”

For one moment she thought of the room in his father’s tower, the brief days of love and pain. But she put it away from her; she could not bear it and find words to speak at the same time. “I do not require an oath.” She lifted her eyes to Allegreto. “Someone once said to me that they are easily made and easily broken. But I do not think either of you wishes for us to fall before Milan, and as long as we are divided, we are in great danger. So I ask you to consider that, and restrain from creating discord and insecurity among the people.”

“I understand, Princess,” Franco said. His scarred face was reddened with some emotion, but she did not know him well enough to guess what he truly felt. This sermon on loyalty from the young maid who had overthrown him could hardly be sweet to his ears. But she hoped. She hoped. The meetings with Matteo had gone better.

She looked to Allegreto. “Will you hold your house in check?”

He did not reply, but watched Franco Pietro with a shadowed study, that steady, lethal contemplation like a wild creature hidden in the trees. Then, with a soft laugh, he glanced at Elena. “I have played this game with you so far, have I not? Princess.”

The title hung in the room, a mockery. She knew she would get no clearer answer from him.

Franco gave him a glowering look from his one eye, his hand at his girdle, as if he wore a sword. Then he turned back to Elena. “What word do you have of this offense from Milan?”

“I mean for Philip to advise you both of all we have heard. The ambassador says it is not so, of course, but there is some possibility that they intend to use the lake for an attack from the south. It is well that we’ve repaired the castles there, but they have little yet to garrison them.”

“The condottiere?”

She gave him a level glance. “I have felt I must keep the mercenaries close.”

She did not say openly that it was because she feared an uprising or conflict within the city. But he made a grunt of acknowledgment.

“Hire more,” he said. “Though the merchants will groan—if it is needed for defense, they will pay.”

“We will all pay if I hire more,” she said bluntly. “I will not tax the merchants alone for it.”

Franco gave a shrug. “What you will, Princess.”

“I have decided not to use outsiders for our further defense,” she said. She held herself still, fighting a desire to step backward. “The main castles in the south belong to Navona.” She looked at Allegreto. “I ask Navona to provide the garrisons.”

“Him!” Abruptly Franco’s acquiescence slipped. “Nay, you’ll put weapons in his hands? No.”

Allegreto made a cool nod, ignoring Franco’s outburst. “I can do it.”

“I’ll not endure it!” Franco made a step, scowling. “That goes too far.”

“Do you think it might inconvenience your plans?” Allegreto asked in a silken voice. “Why should you dislike the idea?”

Franco flung toward him, breathing hard. “Should I suffer a serpent at my back? Foul enough, that I’ve stood by and let you be raised again at my expense.”

“At the expense of what you stole from Monteverde and Navona.” Allegreto’s hand moved over his belt where his dagger would have been. He opened his fingers wide, his body still. “If you have no intention to steal it again, why should it offend you if I garrison my own property?”

“You devil spawn! If she is fool enough to trust you, I am not,” Franco declared. “You’d have a knife in my back as soon as—”

A sharp rap on the outer door interrupted him. Franco stopped and turned, striding to the window, taking a deep and furious breath of the soft evening air. He crossed his arms.

Elena was not sorry to suspend the talk. She glanced at the guard, bidding him to open. There was a commotion as the arched doors swung wide, voices … she heard Raymond speaking hoarsely and saw him half-standing, supported by some of Philip’s men. He was bloodied, his doublet slashed and his face scarred with dirt. When he saw her, he stumbled forward.

“I came to tell you—” He dragged himself up, holding his arm around his ribs and staring toward Franco Pietro.

He clamped his jaw closed and leaned onto the arm of the man holding him.

“What has happened?” Elena hurried forward, reaching for Raymond to help steady him, but he pushed her away feebly.

“He was attacked on the way into the citadel, Your Grace,” the man said. “Half-killed him, but he wouldn’t have us do aught but carry him straight to you with the news.”

“She must know,” Raymond muttered, his face white as he gripped his doublet. Blood seeped through his fingers. His legs were failing under him. “Tell her.”

Elena stood back in horror, a sudden coldness gripping her heart. “Tell me,” she said.

“It looked to be Riata men, by their insignia,” the guard said, averting his eyes from where Franco Pietro stood.

“Nay!” Franco exclaimed. He pushed himself from the window. “That’s a lie!”

Raymond slid to his knees, panting. “Princess. I came. For you to know as soon as—” His voice trailed off. His eyes rolled and he lost his senses, going slack against the guard’s leg.

Elena made a faint sound. She could not tell if he had been stabbed as well as beaten, but there was enough blood to terrify her. When his eyes flickered open again, she found her voice. “Bring the surgeon and a hurdle,” she ordered, turning to Dario. “Now!”

Dario’s face was brutal, his thick jaw set hard. He went to the door and issued commands, but made no move to leave the room.

“Riata had nothing to do with this,” Franco snarled. “He’s English! Why should we attack him?”

Elena glanced at Franco. She had already thought the same. Her lip quivered with a sudden dreadful weakness. She did not think she could look at Allegreto, she was so afraid of what she would see in his face. But she forced herself to turn to him.

He was observing Raymond without any emotion, watching as they brought the hurdle and helped him onto it. But when he lifted his eyes and met hers, a subtle change came into his face, a defiance. He did not flinch from looking at her. He showed no sign of shame or triumph. He seemed to dare her to accuse him.

Franco did it for her. “Navona arranged for this, by God! To discredit me before you! We‘ re not such fools as to kill some foreign envoy without reason, and wear our badge while we’ re at it!”

“And I am not such a fool as to let him live if I meant to kill him,” Allegreto said.

“No doubt you intended for him to be left alive,” Franco snapped, “so that he could prate of Riata insignia with his last breath.”

“He is not breathing his last,” Allegreto said with contempt. “More’s the pity.”

The surgeon came running into the chamber. He halted, as if it startled him to see Elena and the others there, and fell into a deep bow. “Your Grace! I beg your pardon! I was called here.” He glanced at Raymond where he lay stretched on the hurdle, his face pale and strained. The surgeon bent to his knee, started to pull the torn doublet open, and then looked up. “Sirs! Take this man to the surgery. This is no fit place to examine him.”

Elena stood back as the guards and Philip’s men gathered around to lift the hurdle. To see Raymond lying still and bloody wrenched her with guilt. She should never have allowed him so near to her, never permitted friendship or intimacy, even as careful as she had been to make certain they were always in view of company. “Send me news instantly. No one is to speak abroad of this.”

“As you command, Your Grace!” He bowed again, hurrying out with the others.

Elena stood looking after them until the double doors swung slowly closed under the hand of the guard outside. The wood made a hollow sound. She was left with Dario and Franco and Allegreto.

“No one is to speak of this outside,” she said again, staring at the heavy door.

“I will swear on God’s holy writ that I did not cause it,” Franco said. “Whoever attacked him—it was no Riata.”

She turned slowly. A vision was in her mind, of Allegreto’s face leaning close to hers, his hands at her cheeks, pulling her hood close.
“Only me,”
he whispered in her memory.
“Unless you care to leave a trail of dead men in your wake.”

She felt him now without looking at him, felt his dark, still presence. She hugged her arms around herself. The daylight had almost faded, leaving the corners of the chamber in dimness. The candle flames swayed in evening air, making the faint shape of her shadow bend and rock on the wall.

Allegreto offered no oath of innocence. When she finally looked back at him, he gave a chilly laugh. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Of course I must have done it,” he said. “The Devil knows I wanted to.” He opened his eyes with a look of disdain. “Arrest me, then, and let us complete this farce.”

Beneath the scorn, there was something else—a barely contained wildness, a despair in him, as if he did not care what she did to him.

“Allegreto,” she asked, “you did not cause it?”

“I did not.” His voice seemed oddly helpless. “If I had aimed to kill him, he would be dead.”

She knew that for a certain truth. Yet she had not seen Zafer since the morning; he had vanished among the crowds before the duomo. She hardly trusted herself or her own judgment. From outside the window came the sound of church bells tolling evensong. She bent her head, feeling the crown weight it forward.

It was beyond forgiveness, how she could love him when she knew what he was. She knew he could say false and make an angel believe it true. She had seen him hold a knife at Dario’s throat. She had heard the crack of a man’s neck in the darkness and felt the blood pool at her feet.

There was no one else who had reason to hurt Raymond; the Riata knew nothing of what he had once meant to her. It was a senseless attack on a chance victim—for anyone but Allegreto.

In the deepening gloom he waited. He stood apart, her beautiful killer, accused and tried and condemned by all reason. She could hardly check herself from going to him and pulling him hard into her embrace, holding him to her heart.

He said he had not done it. With no reason but that she was blind in love, she chose to believe him.

“It must have been a band of ruffians,” she said slowly. “I will see that Philip looks out for any further disturbance.”

Franco made a growl of protest, uncrossing his arms.

Elena glanced toward him. “Consider well if you have an objection, my lord,” she said. “The only witnesses say it was your men.”

The Riata scowled at her, his eye-patch a black disfigurement across his face. But he said nothing. Allegreto seemed to move and then stood uncertainly, his defiance suddenly vanished, as if he was not sure what she had meant.

“Let us proceed to the banquet,” she said. “The surgeon can attend me there with news.”

Franco had changed nothing in his years of occupying the citadel. It was all as Allegreto remembered, still a mix of rough ancient stone and the improvements that Ligurio had begun to make, the intricate designs and colors of the brilliantly tiled floors, the windows cut into walls that had seen no light though them for centuries. But the thick old timbers of the ceilings remained untouched.

He knew the day that work on the plaster and frescoes had ceased. The stone masons had laid down their mallets. The painters had put away their brushes, leaving a painted drape of cloth that vanished halfway into the upper curve, never reaching the painted hook that awaited it.

He could see it from where he was seated at the high table, the long succession of frescoed damask drapes along the wall that ended on the day of Prince Ligurio’s death. The great gilded chains and candle branches that the prince had installed still hung from the walls, adorned by dragon heads that hissed into space.

There were murmurs from the banqueters at the long tables below, as there had ever been. His presence, and Franco’s, was no doubt a topic of heated argument. As the sweet fried bread and meat jellies were served between courses, a trio of carolers presented a ballad that described the triumphant entrance of the Princess Elena into Monteverde. The singers added some flourishes to the story—a miracle dove of peace and a few battles won by valiant miners against enemies unnamed. Riata and Navona came away with more credit than Allegreto would have expected in this paean to the new republic. He supposed that the princess had made her wishes clear. She had been utterly determined to drag him and Franco Pietro to seats at the high table.

He sat before people who had hated him for years, next to a young councilman whose father had been tortured once by Gian for paying too openly amorous attention to Princess Melanthe. They were courteous to one another, having no weapons at hand. She used that much sense at least: Dario’s men had examined every guest at the gate for any blade or means of mayhem.

Allegreto was yet benumbed by what she had done. Even now, even here—especially here—he could not shake himself of Ligurio’s dream and how she stood for it.

He had no part in it, and yet he loved her and this fantasy of a place where it was not tyranny and fear that ruled. He loved the fragile concord that she held together by sheer will and faith and stubborn idiocy. If he had cast a hundred horoscopes, he would never have foreseen it. His lady queen, she had dared to make things true that no living man had even hoped to dream.

He did not know if she truly believed him or not, that he had not tried to kill her English lover. She had her reasons to ignore such an incident in the midst of her celebrations, to avoid any arrests or storm of accusations. But when she accepted his word, only his word and no more, it had been like one of Ligurio’s windows punched through stone walls, a shaft of sun into a place that had never been lit before. He sat with a hole inside of him, not sure if he was bleeding or burning from the brightness.

Raymond de Clare would live. She’d had word of that before the boxes of spiced confetti were cleared from the table and the first courses began. Allegreto was separated from her by several councilors, her grandfather’s old advisers who held first precedence in Monteverde, but he had seen the relief in her face when the steward had come to whisper in her ear. It cleaved him with jealousy, but he was still bewildered by the strange kernel of joy at her trust in him. It tempered malice, made it difficult to understand himself. Made it difficult to eat. Difficult even to breathe.

Dario and Matteo and one of Franco’s men performed credence at the high table. It was another of the whispers that must be circulating wildly among the guests below— that Franco Pietro’s son served Navona even
yet.
Matteo had grown. He had more assurance now, only tipping the wine a little too far the first time he came to Allegreto, spilling a few drops over his towel. The boy took his ritual sip, looking over the rim of the cup at Allegreto with a particular unblinking look.

It put Allegreto instantly on guard. He realized how he had been drifting on some thoughtless cloud. Long-ingrained habit made him attend always to what passed around him, but he had let his concentration slip too far in such an exposed place.

He realized that Dario, too, was noting Matteo’s subtle move to place the clean silver trenchers and blunted knives. With an embellishment of courtesy, Allegreto bent his head deeply to the councilman beside him and offered to carve the meat.

He drew the platter toward him, lifting it just enough to feel the slip of paper beneath. In an excess of enthusiasm for his task, he pulled the trencher slightly too near, over the edge of the table, and gave his neighbor a wry smile for his clumsiness as the message slipped unseen into the folds of tablecloth over his lap. He pushed the roasted bird back and began to carve.

* * *

Nimue leaped and cavorted, a pale shape in the moonlit tournament grounds. Allegreto walked freely beside Matteo—hardly allowing himself to enjoy the sensation after the months of captivity. It had not been difficult to arrange this reunion. After the banquet and diversions finally ended, as the princess had retired to her antechamber with the wine-bemused guests from the high table, the boy simply said to Dario that he was going to take Nim for her last excursion of the day, and asked Allegreto if he would like to go along.

Dario had shrugged and said the princess would expect Matteo in bed before Compline, and given Allegreto a subtle signal of safety with his left hand.

Allegreto had acknowledged it and walked out. He had no doubt that there were watchers on him, but Matteo had chosen his ground well. As soon as they reached the lists, Nimue bounded immediately out onto the wide grassy yard, beyond the bedecked scaffolds standing ready for the hastilude in the morning. Allegreto and Matteo followed her. There were others strolling in the grounds and standing on the walls that overlooked the city, but no one in the center of the great open space. A half-moon gave light enough to see Nimue trot along the line of the wooden lists, investigating smells.

Allegreto stopped and leaned against the heavy railing. He had a moment’s thought to say how tall Matteo had grown suddenly, and then recalled the disgust of his own childhood at the mention of such a thing. “What passes?” he asked instead.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” Matteo said, hiking himself onto the single rail. “If you are.”

“I don’t?” Allegreto looked aside at him solemnly. “Have you forgot all the means to kill me that I taught you?”

“No!” The boy jumped down, and then hiked himself back up again. “No. I meant—don’t suppose I’ve turned to Riata.”

“You are Riata,” Allegreto said quietly. “I never meant you to forget that.”

“No, I—
avoi
, I am. But—” He had an unhappy break in his voice.

Allegreto waited. He had not expected that Matteo alone would have some truly serious message for him, but he was not averse to causing Franco to writhe and fret over whether he meant to steal the boy again. And Elena had seen them leave together. She had not prevented it. She trusted him. The gap in his soul drank in the strange sensation.

“You must know that she wants me to be great friends with my father,” Matteo said anxiously.

“I heard such.”

“Do you mind?”

Allegreto shrugged. “He’s your father. The Bible says to honor him.”

“Were you friends with your father?”

Allegreto lifted his head and gave a short laugh. “No.” He curled his hands around the railing. “But I was a bastard son.”

“I suppose that is different.”

“Very different.”

Matteo dropped to the ground. He squatted on his knees and pulled at the grass. “Did you like your father?”

Allegreto began to wish he had not come. He watched Nimue gallop across the yard to some other scent. After a long moment he said, “I loved him.”

Matteo ripped up a handful of grass. “I wish you were my father,” he said in a muffled voice. “I love you.”

Allegreto felt the gap inside himself tearing open. Like a vision through it, he could see wheels beyond wheels of hate and scheming, of never-ending fears. He could see how he had been Gian’s tool, and had made Matteo his. All driven and pursued and drawn by love.

“Franco doesn’t mind if I make mistakes,” Matteo said, as if it were an affront. “He says he doesn’t care, because I’m his son.”

Allegreto was silent, gazing up into the dark. The stars were cold points of radiance hanging against the deep black arch of the air.

“I don’t want to like him,” Matteo hissed miserably. “I’m afraid that Englishman is going to kill him.”

Allegreto turned his head. “Englishman?”

“Signor Raymond. When I was out with Nim one night, I heard him talking to someone. They were speaking low, but I heard my father’s name. And they were trying to be secret.”

Allegreto stood straight. “Who did he speak to? What language?”

“I couldn’t see who it was. I climbed up to look, but they were above me on the ramparts. They spoke in the French tongue. I could tell it was the Englishman because of how he says the words.”

“Did you hear else?”

“Only Franco’s name, and talk of money. The other one spoke of gold.”

“When?”

“Ten nights past.”

“Did you tell Dario of this?”

“Nay. I don’t care if they kill Franco. He’s Riata.” His young voice shook a little. “But I—” He stopped and then said, “I thought I would tell you.”

Nimue suddenly ceased her investigations of a fluttering cloth that adorned the viewing stands. She turned and took a bound, standing stiff-legged, her plumed white tail curled up over her back. Her deep bark echoed in the yard.

From the top of the steep pavement that led down into the tourney yard, torches flared. Men came striding, their shadows a wild dance against the castle walls. Nimue ran forward, a rumbling growl in her throat. She stood between Allegreto and Matteo and the newcomers, barking a loud warning, until suddenly her ears lowered and her tail waved in welcome as she ran to make her greetings.

Franco Pietro ignored her, pacing forward aggressively, still showing a slight limp from the sword wound in his leg.

He had four of his men at his back. Allegreto held himself still, lounging against the railing, measuring the distance.

Franco halted, just far enough away. “Matteo,” he said. “Leave him.”

Allegreto put his hand on Matteo’s shoulder and gave the boy a push. “Go.”

Matteo resisted, leaning back against Allegreto’s hand. Nimue turned from fawning and sniffing at Franco’s knees and bounded happily to the boy.

“Go with him, Matteo,” Allegreto said, giving him another light shove. “Honor thy father,” he said mockingly. He did not care to linger in such an uncertain position, with no weapon on him. Matteo took a step forward. The boy grabbed Nimue’s collar and stood sullenly.

Allegreto nodded once to Franco. “I bid you eve.” He rested his hands on the rail and vaulted it, walking away into the dark.

Allegreto could not breach the citadel from outside, but once he was within the gates, he knew how to move through every corner and stone of it. It was in Ligurio’s old chambers that Franco had made his only mark— changed the paintings of ladies playing chess and plucking roses to scenes of hunts and tournaments. Allegreto covered his candle and walked softly through the dark rooms that occupied the upper floor of the great tower. The alchemical tools were long vanished, but Ligurio’s library was still intact, the boards lined with books and unbound papers. Allegreto stood a moment, remembering the prince and a boy hungry for gentle words and wisdom, for things he had never known. They had spoken of science and history and politics. They had even argued sometimes, a thing Allegreto would never have dared with Gian.

Here amid Ligurio’s books, his thoughts, Allegreto tried to reason what the prince would say. Allegreto did not understand Franco Pietro now. A year had passed. Franco should have made some move long since to reclaim Monteverde, to purge Navona in a final sweep.

This attack upon the Englishman—it was a clumsy attempt, pointless, far too inept for Franco. Matteo thought Raymond de Clare had accepted money to kill his father, but from what little the boy had heard, it might as easily have been the reverse, a pact for Raymond to perform some deed for the Riata. The Englishman was close to the princess; the word was he saw her daily. It could have been murder or information or only another meeting with his son that Franco desired.

And now someone in Riata livery gave the English whore a warning, but let him live. Or it was Franco’s attempt to blame the thing on Allegreto and have him arrested again—a poor gamble with witnesses who had seen Riata badges on the Englishman’s attackers.

Allegreto stared at a map of Monteverde that hung upon the wall. No thoughtful voice from the past spoke to him. No ready answers came. He only thought that Franco Pietro must be failing in his mind. They were both of them breaking somehow, splintering in directions that had no logic.

From the boards under his feet, he felt the faint vibration of doors closing in the chamber below. He blew out his candle and let his eyes adjust to darkness. After a few moments he moved quietly out of the library.

In the bathing room, faint moonlight from a narrow glass window fell on the naiad that still presided over the basin, spreading her marble arms and offering to pour water from her mouth. It was one of Ligurio’s inventions, a piped system that would bring water down from a cask heated on the ramparts to Ligurio’s bath and the ladies’ quarters on the floor beneath. Allegreto walked to the statue and put his ear to the nymph’s cool stone lips.

From this place, it was possible to hear all that passed in the ladies’ chamber below, where Melanthe had resided.

Elena’s voice came to him, her affectionate chiding voice that she used with unruly dogs and children. He closed his eyes, leaning his shoulder on the wall to listen.

She had a diversity of voices—the unyielding tone of the Prima di Monteverde, the brave cry that echoed over the crowds and claimed they were all one, the husky whisper that bid Allegreto take her deeply, rolling in his arms to arch and tremble beneath him. She spoke now to a maid and harried the dallying Matteo to his prayers, leading the boy in a recitation of names of the souls they asked God to bless and absolve. Allegreto heard Franco’s name, and even his own.