Shadowheart (42 page)

It was Raymond who had brought him here. Allegreto would have let Gerolamo follow Franco to a normal service and report back. But Raymond had vanished from the infirmary and the citadel an hour since, like Lazarus from his tomb, and Allegreto had a suspicion as to where the Englishman had gone.

They had both entered before the service, Raymond and Franco, but neither departed with the congregation. Allegreto walked across the piazza and lightly up the steps. He slipped into the open door, kneeling and crossing himself, his head well down. Gerolamo had told him there was a scaffolding along the south aisle, tall enough to reach the upper windows. He turned his back on the sanctuary and pretended to dip his fingers in the holy water, though he did not touch it or the carved stone font.

It was unnerving to enter a hallowed place against his ban. It was the church where his father lay sealed in the crypt below, no easy memory. In the dimness the windows glowed with brilliant color against lacy black outlines. The huge space echoed with whispers that were not quite voices, sounds that carried and reverberated endlessly through the long double row of pillars that marched down the nave.

He moved near the scaffold, quietly dropping an offering in the plate and igniting a candle among the bank of lights against the wall. It would be as well to pacify Gian’s tortured soul. Behind the cover of a massive column, he grabbed a rung of the scaffolding and hiked himself up. The wound in his shoulder gave him a twinge of reminder, even after a year, but he climbed quickly and silently up into the shadows near the roof.

From under the succession of arches that topped the pillars, he could see all the way down the length of the sanctuary. A small knot of men stood near the pulpit, highlighted in the fading radiance from the great rose window over the choir.

Allegreto scanned the empty nave below him. At the edge of one of the ponderous columns, he saw a movement. He stared at it through the gloom, distinguishing the shape of a man’s hand fingering his sword hilt. As he looked along the line of pillars, he saw more—six men in all, concealed against the colossal pillars, waiting stone-still but for that single restless hand.

Allegreto held himself in heightened caution, chary of some trap laid for him, a deception meant to lure him here into ambush. But the men looked toward the choir and chancel. Allegreto moved softly along the single board, pausing before he crossed each window to be sure they were not glancing upward. He came to the end of the scaffolding, overlooking the transept where Franco Pietro stood with his men.

Allegreto had assumed that Franco came here to meet Raymond by some preordained plan. But there were men hidden, and Franco had a wariness about him; an edged impatience. His four men were disposed in a guarding position, two before him and two at his flank.

A single priest worked calmly in the chapel of Saint Barbara, the patron of miners and Monteverde. He trimmed candles at the altar, then knelt and crossed himself before he unlocked the spiked iron railing and departed the chapel. The filigreed gate closed with a clangor that rang loudly in the church. He exchanged a nod of courtesy with Franco, as if it were no uncommon thing to see the Riata lingering after the holy offices were complete, and walked across the nave, under Allegreto’s feet, to the side door.

The door closed. As the boom faded away in the sanctuary, Franco said loudly, “Show yourself.”

His voice echoed. Allegreto knelt on one knee, watching.

After a moment Raymond de Clare stepped from under the spiraling stair that led up to the high pulpit. “I asked you to come alone.”

“I take no orders from spies,” Franco said coldly. “If you have news of what Navona plans, then tell me. Or you will find yourself assailed by Riata in truth.”

“Not I,” Raymond said. With a sudden move he lifted his arm and shouted,
“For Navona!”

His yell echoed down the nave. Men swarmed from concealment, a sudden drumming of boots on stone. Franco cursed and unsheathed his sword, swinging around to defend himself. He lunged just in time to parry a thrust, pulling back as his closest guard drove a point deep into the attacker’s chest.

Allegreto rose to his feet, staring down. The Riata made an instant ring of defense, their blades flashing in the circle around Franco, catching colored light from the windows. Raymond drew his sword, backing away.

They were a dozen to Riata’s five, pushing forward, trying to reach Franco. Allegreto stood incredulous. It was a church. He heard the flat clanking sound of a crossbow, a hiss—and one of Franco’s men pitched backward with a bolt lodged in his chest. Another assailant lunged into the gap left by the fallen man, his sword tip aimed at Franco’s unprotected side. The Riata turned and kicked the assassin’s exposed knee, stopping the charge. Raymond’s man stumbled and took Franco’s blade through his throat.

Blood began to spread, polluting the marble floor of the sanctuary. Allegreto pressed his hand against the arch beside him, breathing harshly. He had never thought he would be sorry to see Franco cut down like a dog. He had spent a lifetime hoping for it. But this… in a church, in Allegreto’s name… if Franco died like this, it would be Navona to blame. And it would be war again.

Raymond could mean nothing but war. Nothing but to break the fragile peace of the houses and the republic. Nothing but to make the princess fail.

Rage gripped Allegreto. He watched the Englishman stand aside while Franco fought for his life. The Englishman who claimed he loved her, who had fawned on her and kissed her and inspired poems of ardor and devotion.

Franco could take two against one of these hired killers—they fought like cattle, with no skill—but he was favoring his leg, his footwork clumsy, his arm a fraction slow. The tourney had taken its toll.

His men had dispatched four of the assailants. But he had lost two of his own already. He was going down. In the sounds of blade on blade and the harsh grunts of men in combat in a place of God, Allegreto saw Elena’s dream falling to destruction before his eyes.

He looked down between the boards of the scaffold, toward where the bolt had been fired. A man crouched near one of the pillars, hastily reloading a crossbow. Allegreto slid over the edge and jumped down the shaky arrangement of supports. As his boots hit the floor, he was already turning toward the hidden archer. He went in low and at an angle, moving fast.

The man was sighting carefully down the length of the bow, doubtless trying not to shoot any of his companions. A noble thought, for his last. Allegreto slipped behind him, gripped a handful of curly hair, grabbed the man’s jaw and twisted his head violently to the left. Cartilage popped and snapped as the archer’s neck broke. Allegreto caught the crossbow as it fell, preventing it from clattering to the stone. He left it on the dead man’s body, already in motion toward the Riata. Franco had no guards remaining, but his men had made a ferocious defense. In the light from a tall candelabra, the sanctuary was like a battleground, a chaos of fallen bodies and blood. Franco still fought fiercely against his last two assailants, moving sideways as if in some bizarre dance to keep one of the assassins between himself and the other. If he had been fresh, he would have cut them in pieces, but he stumbled and slipped on the fouled floor, going down on his knee. With a shout, his attacker lifted his sword for a final blow.

Allegreto stepped from behind a pillar, grasped the tall iron candleholder and hurled it with both hands. The heavy piece of iron caught the man in his belly. He went sprawling, his sword spinning across the floor. He screeched and rolled as burning wax splattered his flesh. Allegreto drew his sword, lunging over Franco just in time to meet the blade of the last man. He struck it aside on his arm bracer and impaled the assailant through his heart.

He yanked his blade free as the body fell, consumed by blood rage. The burned man still rolled on the floor. Allegreto kicked him in the face and killed him before he could rise.

A sudden silence descended, the last echo of the combat dying away to sounds like grieving sighs. Allegreto stood still, looking down at the dark pools and smears of blood defiling the sanctuary floor. He felt covered with it, drowned in it. He could taste it on his tongue. If he had not been so full of rage he would have wept.

The Englishman had never joined the fight. Allegreto glanced up at a motion along the aisle. He saw Raymond slip out the side door—and into Gerolamo’s waiting grip.

Franco had made his feet. He was sweating, his chest heaving with exertion. He looked at Allegreto as if he were some baffling vision that had stepped out of a streamer of light.

“It was not me, Riata,” Allegreto said. “Not me.” He dropped his sword. “It is betrayal of us all.”

The three towers of Navona brooded over an open square with a fine stone well at the center. A woman drawing water in the last of light looked up, stared for an instant, and hurried down the steps from the well. She ran away across the square, splashing water from her urn down the front of her skirts.

The great arched doors faced the piazza, walls of wood strapped by iron and marked now by old blackened tongues of smoke. Allegreto kicked the half-burned wicket door, holding Raymond by one arm while Franco gripped the other. What was left of the bolt gave with a crash. Gerolamo shoved the entry full open and they passed under the arch of stone.

“Discover a light,” Allegreto said. He shoved Raymond up against the wall, holding his hand to the Englishman’s throat. Raymond made rattling sounds as he tried to breathe.

The small flicker of a candle rose in the darkness, illuminating a chaos of burned timbers standing askew where they had fallen from the floors above. A crushed chest lay in splinters, with scorched leather horse trappings spilling from it across the floor. Allegreto cast a glance at Franco, but he had no fury to spare for the Riata at the moment.

“We’ll take him to the cellars,” he said, giving Raymond a hard thumb against his windpipe for the pleasure of it.

The Englishman gasped and struggled. As Allegreto released him, Franco yanked him away from the wall. Between their daggers, as Gerolamo held the candle high, they took him in a pool of flickering light down the stairs.

Everything of value had been looted long ago from the fowers. But the fire had not reached here; the stone vaults had held up the floor. There were still manacles in the cells where Gian’s enemies had been questioned. And the rack and cudgels; the pulleys and ropes of the strappado.

Raymond was drenched in sweat. He set his heels when he saw the strappado—and so Allegreto instantly reached for the cord. “Who pays you?”

“The Visconti!” Raymond exclaimed, with an upward break in his voice. “You don’t have to put me to question— I’ll tell you all!”

Franco pulled the Englishman’s hands across his back. Allegreto looped the rope and made it fast.

“I’ll tell you!” Raymond cried in panic as Gerolamo began to turn the wheel at the wall and work the pulleys. Raymond’s hands rose backward above him until he was standing on tiptoe. He swung and wailed, foolishly fighting, trying to lift himself on his arms.

Allegreto signaled his man to stop.

“They said they’d pay me to murder Franco,” Raymond gasped. “But I did not agree. They said they’d kill me if I didn’t!”

Franco made a sound like a snarl. “Raise him.”

The wheel creaked. Raymond whimpered as he was lifted from the floor, his head and shoulders hanging forward on his arms. Allegreto had a vision of Elena’s face, a sudden glimpse of her steady gaze leveled at him. He blinked, shivering.

“You finish it,” he said to Franco. “I’ll kill him. I can’t kill him.”

“Don’t kill me!” Raymond squealed.

Franco laughed. “Has your stomach grown so delicate, Navona?”

Allegreto walked to the stairs and stood staring up into the darkness as Franco ordered Raymond to be dropped. The Englishman fell with a shriek. He sobbed and groaned. “I was to slay Franco… to make way for Milan,” he mumbled.

“It was no men from Milan with you,” Franco said. “Who was it?”

“The French! The condottieri!” Raymond screamed, gasping as the wheel began to crank, lifting him again. “Love of Christ, don’t!”

“What do the French care for killing me?” Franco demanded.

“French captain … they’ll murder him—tonight. His second takes command!” Raymond wheezed. “Milan …”

Allegreto swung around. Comprehension washed over him, a huge dark wave, as Franco met his eyes. “The condottieri,” Allegreto said. “They’ve turned. God save, she’s gone out there.”

“Matteo!” Franco breathed. He took a step toward Raymond’s dangling figure.

“Drop him!” Allegreto shouted, striding forward. The rope went slack, and then caught hard, jerking Raymond’s arms from his frame as the Englishman shrieked. “You worm, you knew it! You knew it all along.” Allegreto drew his knife. He stood where Raymond hung moaning and put the blade to his throat. “You said you loved her, you puling maggot, and you sent her out there to them.”

“Don’t!” Raymond gasped, rolling his eyes at the dagger. “I’ll tell you! My signal…”

“What signal?” Franco demanded.

“Two lanterns … please, please God don’t… in the tower—the prince’s chamber.”

“What of the princess?” Franco asked, while Allegreto’s hand trembled, drawing blood from the tip of his knife.

“She’ll be safe! They promised me … rule here. Marry her. But I didn’t want to!” he screeched as Allegreto moved.

Fury held Allegreto mindless; he was just sane enough to know it. He looked at Franco, finding some reason there— the Riata put a hand on his shoulder, staying the blade.

“When do they expect the signal?” Franco asked.

“This night,” Raymond croaked. “It was to say … Riata is dead. Then the French captain—they’ll murder him. Rally—” His head fell slack as he lost his senses.

Franco signaled to Gerolamo to lift him again. He came awake at the pull of the rope on his ruined arms, making gibbering sounds of pain.

Franco looked up at him. The Riata’s scarred face was like stone. “And then they attack?”

“Send a message. Open gates or… slay councilors— one by one.”