Shadowheart (41 page)

“You do,” she whispered. “You gave it to me to guard.” She made a small sad sound, pressing her hand to the shape of the ring beneath his tunic. “I have done poor work of it.”

He shook his head, lowering his forehead to hers. “My only queen.” He took her chin and kissed her gently. “You are all that I will ever love, in this life and beyond.”

She clutched the loose folds of his unbelted tunic in her fists, leaning to him, burying her face against him. “Do not desert me,” she breathed.

“I will be here.” He set her away, pushing her chin up with his thumbs. “Even if you cannot see me. Now you must go down, before Matteo discovers you gone.”

Allegreto scorned tournaments and the ignorant blocks who galloped about on horses, knocking their heads together for the joy of it. Franco Pietro had accepted the princess’s invitation to participate; he was striding around dressed in full armor, braying to his men like a heroic donkey. Allegreto did not know if it was the princess or Matteo that the Riata was so stirred to impress, or both, perchance, for he made great show of kneeling before the dais where they sat, his black armor gleaming dully under the blue shield painted with Riata’s dragon badge.

He was good. It was an old thorn he had twisted often in Allegreto’s side. Gian Navona had never allowed his bastard son to participate in the lists. Allegreto had not known if it was some concern for his safety or only because a bastard was not suffered to champion Navona in such a public entertainment. But Franco had taunted him with cowardice, urging Allegreto to ignore his father and at least join the boys in their practice for the events. Allegreto had never been such a fool as that. He would not give Franco a chance to knock him down with a blunted lance, or Gian a reason to doubt his obedience. So he had stood against the wall and watched, as he did now.

Knights from Ferrara and Tuscany and Milan fought. There were even some Germans, and a pair of Frenchmen sent to represent the condottieri. It was a hastilude, merely for pleasure, and so the weapons were dulled, but the Riata made an excellent showing by bashing several contenders off their mounts. The walls of the citadel were draped with banners and crowded with spectators who waved colorful flags, shouting wildly at each course. Above the low-pitched, eerie moan of the long mountain horns peculiar to Monteverde, the cheers rose to a passionate roar when Franco challenged the knight from Milan and rode off the field triumphant, leaving his opponent on the ground and leading away the warhorse as a prize.

Whatever bitterness they might have felt for Franco Pietro before, he was beloved of the crowd now. Even Matteo was standing, shouting with the rest as his father rode to the princess and presented the armored destrier with a bow. The boy said something eagerly to Elena, received a smiling nod, and sprang over the draped railing on the dais with a child’s carelessness. Nimue came right after him, under the rail, nearly taking down a swag of cloth as she scrambled from the dais. Elena stood and clapped while Matteo took possession of the great warhorse and led it from the lists at his father’s side.

Allegreto stood straight from the wall. He turned away.

With somewhat less than courtesy, he pushed his way through the swarm of onlookers. He found Zafer at the foot of the steep ramp that led down from the main fortress to the level of the tournament yard. He exchanged a glance with the infidel youth and walked on alone up the incline.

He avoided the imposing shadow of the great tower and circled instead through the smithy, where all work was suspended, even the bellows and tools carried down to the tournament grounds to provide repairs. In the nearly deserted precincts of the upper citadel, he passed through the empty guard barracks, ducking under the low beams, and entered a small courtyard. The walls resounded with distant sound, a faint rumble in the quiet. In the afternoon light, olive trees and herbs gave off a pleasant scent.

The tourney would be over soon. The princess was to journey part of the distance to d’Avina before nightfall, in preparation for the reenactment of her first glorious procession to the gates of Monteverde. Allegreto thought it a foolish scheme, a dangerous excursion from the city. But her favorite, Raymond, had put the idea in her head, and so country maids were harvesting sunflowers and mending their best clothes all along the road from the mining town, in readiness to laud the princess as she passed.

Allegreto paused in the court, looking at the small door that led to the guards’ infirmary. It was a chamber cut into the side of the rock itself, bricked out by more stones to make a room. Broom weeds grew in the cliff beside the deep passage to the open door.

There was no sign of the surgeon. The single guard was snoring softly, propped insensible against the stone wall. Zafer had made sure of that. Allegreto moved silently into the doorway. Raymond de Clare lay on a pallet, sleeping. There was a bandage about his head, and another across his ribs.

Allegreto leaned on the crude frame of the door. The Englishman seemed to be resting easily for a man who had been almost beaten to death. Zafer had discovered from the surgeon that Clare had no bones broken, and only a few cuts across his chest. From the moment Raymond had stumbled into the presence-chamber, whining as if he were like to expire, Allegreto had been sure he was not gravely injured.

It would be easy to gravely injure him now. Easy enough to take one of the surgeon’s knives from the box by the door and slip it into the Englishman’s heart. The wound might even be overlooked—Allegreto could use the most slender pick and wipe the spot of blood on the bandages. The man died of some internal harm from the beating. And Raymond de Clare would no longer be a question, for Allegreto or anyone else.

For a few moments he amused himself with the possibility. The Englishman was a well-looking harlot. She had written of his first kiss as if he were Galahad.

It was tempting. But she would not like it if she found out. She believed Allegreto now. Took his word. He discovered that it would be a painful thing to lie to her.

Allegreto kicked a pebble across the floor. Raymond jerked on his pallet. The Englishman came upright quickly, reaching for his sword. Allegreto watched him realize that he wasn’t armed, or alone. Raymond stared at Allegreto for an instant, started to scramble up, and remembered he was mortally wounded. He sagged back on the pallet.

“Are you in dire pain?” Allegreto asked, lifting his eyebrows.

Raymond shuddered and laid his head back. “Pain enough. Curse the Riata villains.” Then he turned his head with a scowl. “You’re Navona.”

“I am.” Allegreto gave a courteous nod. “And I will not dispute your opinion of Riata.”

Raymond made a soft snort. He put his arm over his chest, as if it hurt him. “Villains, the lot of you! You’ve done nothing but cause her sorrow. Where is the guard?”

“Elsewhere,” Allegreto said.

Raymond looked up at him. Allegreto leaned in the doorway, his ankles crossed.

“What do you want?” the Englishman said testily, tugging at the bandage across his chest. “Do you also wish to kill me?”

“I desire nothing so much,” Allegreto murmured, “but it would cause the princess sorrow. Foolish as she may be for it.”

Raymond plucked at the binding. His bare shoulders had begun to sweat. “I could say the same to you, Navona. I could find it in my heart to murder you for what you did to her.”

“Get up and try it,” Allegreto said.

The other man glared at him, then laid his head back on the wall, his face turned away.

“But you are injured,” Allegreto said. “I beg your pardon. I do not wish to quarrel with you. Or to kill you. It was a small jest.”

“I am hugely amused,” Raymond said.

“Let us talk a little of money.” Allegreto smiled. “By chance that will be more to your taste. Who paid you to feign this attack on you?”

Raymond closed his eyes. “Oh, is that what the two of you have invented to mislead her? I feigned it! Does she believe you?” He gave a laugh and caught at his ribs. “And what sinister mission do I have that makes me smash my own head and cut myself open?”

“That is what I wish to know.”

The Englishman turned with a sneer. “I have no mission, Navona, but that I love her, though you’d comprehend nothing of that! I’ll do what I can to protect her from you and Franco. I begged her—but she was so rash as to set the pair of you free to work your evil. She thinks you have some honor in you.” He made a commendable groan as he turned his back, lying undefended on the pallet with his face to the wall.

“Honor I may not possess,” Allegreto said softly, “but I have five thousand sovereigns for you, if you will work for me.”

Raymond put his hand over his head. “You make me sick.”

Allegreto observed him thoughtfully. “I wish your recovery well, then,” he said to the Englishman’s back. “If you think again, you can find me.”

He walked quietly out of the chamber. Zafer waited in the shade of an overhanging oak. They moved together just inside the barracks.

“Do not lose sight of him,” Allegreto said.

Zafer nodded. “You discovered anything, my lord?”

“Nay. Only that he does not believe I have five thousand in gold to line his purse. I set about it badly. I should have played his friend.” He shrugged.

Zafer made no remark. He only said, “The guard will awaken soon, my lord. I will keep watch.”

Dario had summoned them again to the presence-chamber, Franco with his hair still showing damp from a bath, and Allegreto wearing boots as if he meant to travel.

Elena too was dressed to ride. They were not alone now; the French knights and her retinue all stood gathered with Philip and Dario in readiness to escort her from the city. Philip’s presence unsettled her while Allegreto was near. She had never had a father, but the old bandit seemed to read her heart with a father’s insight. She felt herself grow heated as she caught Allegreto’s dark glance. It was impossible not to think of the night before, of his kisses and his body thrust against hers. She had looked for him all day, and seen him sometimes, leaning insolently in the shadow of the walls, lounging like one of the young bloods of the city who bet their fortunes on the breaking of a lance.

She tried to avoid looking at him now. She complimented Franco Pietro, thanking him for his brave performance at the tournament. The Riata was in good humor, she thought, still proud of his victory. It was exactly what she had hoped for. The people had a new affection for him, and he had represented Monteverde against Milan, instead of Riata against another house. It had taken a toll on him; he was favoring his leg heavily as he walked. But he looked tired and pleased with himself.

“I will not ask you to mount a horse again, my lord,” she said to him as he rose with difficulty from his knee. “I wish for you and Navona to remain in the city while I am absent. It is only for two nights—but all of the council will be with me. I will feel more at ease knowing that the citadel is in the hands of experienced commanders, even for a such a small duration.”

There was a faint murmur in the room. They all gazed at her as if she had lost her reason.

She made a small shrug. “If you are going to fight one another, I cannot stop you,” she said bluntly. “You could do it as well in my sight as here. But I pray that you will both be alive and at peace when I return, and greet me at the gates together with welcome. It would make the people happy.”

Allegreto gave a soft snort. “More like they would be struck dumb with wonder, Princess.”

She let her eyes meet his. The moments in the dark with him seemed to set them apart, as if everyone else in the room were a stranger to her. The scent of lovers curled about them, so vivid that she was afraid it was more than imagination and memory.

His lashes lowered. He bowed his head and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “But I will remain. And I pledge that I will be alive when you return.”

She tore her look away, fingering the cuff of her sleeve. It seemed the silence around them was too heavy, too curious. It was as well they would be apart for a day or two. “God grant you mercy for your service, my lord,” she said formally, directing a nod to his left ear.

“Will my son stay in the city, Princess?” Franco asked abruptly.

“Matteo has asked to go with me.” She forced herself to stop rolling the pearl on her cuff between her fingers. “He would like to see d’Avina again.”

“What guard do you take?” he demanded.

“We have ten horse and a company of foot,” Philip said. “Captain Guichard has also sent an escort.” He nodded toward the French knights from the condottieri. “We will break the journey at their encampment, and continue tomorrow to d’Avina.”

Franco cast a narrow glance at Allegreto. “I do not suppose it is wise to leave Navona at liberty alone here, Princess,” he said. “I will remain.”

The sunset on Monteverde’s duomo was famous. The golden mosaics on the facade of the cathedral caught light and sent a glow like a halo onto the piazza and the towers and into the air itself. The domes and spires glittered white; stone-carved ice. Allegreto stood in the deepening shadow among a few pilgrims watching the sight wide-eyed, no doubt hoping for a miracle to appear in that golden mist of light.

He was watching for something else. Gerolamo had brought word that Franco was attending vespers at the duomo—not such an odd thing, for Franco always kept his soul in good standing. He took communion often, sometimes even daily, and heard the evening offices with regularity. Allegreto supposed that it was an efficient habit—not only was Franco cleansed of his grievous sins shortly after he committed them, it also provided a suitable cover for meeting with his partisans and agents. The Riata made sure that he developed no certain habit; though he attended mass and other offices regularly, he heard them at churches all over the city, changing daily in some order that Allegreto had never been able to fathom.

The distant sound of the choir floated on the golden air, the last psalm fading into silence. Allegreto could have recited by heart the canticle of Mary that would follow as the priest mounted on the pulpit to read in a voice that echoed solemnly through the great aisles and columns. As the sun fell behind the mountains and the halo faded, the pilgrims rose and dusted off their knees. Allegreto keep his head lowered. He could just see Gerolamo and his other man, who stood in the lengthening shadows of the piazza and watched the duomo’s side doors.

The service came to an end. After a pause for thanksgiving, the huge bronze doors swung open and a small straggle of the faithful came out, old women mostly, completely swathed in black veils. They moved as old women should move, with tiny steps and care on the stairs. Allegreto scrutinized them, but they were all too short and feeble to disguise any Riata, or Raymond de Clare.