For My Lady's Heart

  Allegreto lifted his brows. "I put a misericorde in his heart, my lady," he said. "He did not bleed."

  She made a faint sound in her throat. Cara was afraid for her mistress suddenly; afraid she would swoon, afraid Gian would see and kill them all in his jealousy.

  But Princess Melanthe only stared for a long moment at Allegreto. Then she said, "I will not have him thrown in a pauper's grave. He will be buried properly, by a priest, in a church. There will be a stone made, marked by that name the king called him. I wish a chantry endowed for his soul." She moved toward the door. "Find him, Allegreto, and see to it. Tonight."

  Gian caught her arm. "My lady," he said coldly, "you pay him such respect?"

  "He prayed too much," she said. "I do not wish some tedious ghost haunting me with aves and hosannas." She pulled her arm from his hand. "And I do not care for restraint, from you or any man, Gian. Do not touch me so again."

  He smiled down at her. "You're an unruly little dragon. I would not have you slip your couple."

  "Hold me with love, Gian," she said smoothly. "That works best."

  "Nay, my dear," he murmured. "The fear that comes of love works best."

  "Then am I on a long leash," she said, sweeping from the chamber. "Come, Cara—why stand there like a gaping trout? See that Allegreto does my bidding." She paused at the door. "And pay no mind to this talk of looking higher for him. Marry thy English squire—and if thou art clever, thou wilt still have Allegreto panting after thee as Gian does me. And then we may rule the world, I promise thee."

  TWENTY-FIVE

  There were voices. It was a great well of stone, its compass lost in darkness, echoing, with shadows that moved and hulked across the curving wall.

  He had no body. He could see and hear, but the voices made no sense. It had been only an instant's shift, a blink between crowds and color and the poison cup in his hand, then strangling death and this place. A deep horror possessed him. He was in Purgatory; demon-haunted; he had died without shrive or absolution of killing a man.

  One of the demons counted. It was invisible, but he could hear the clink of its claws with each tally. "Two and fifty hundreds," it said with a lurid satisfaction.

  Was that his sentence? So many years? Fear drowned him. He tried to speak, to plead that Isabelle had prayed for his soul, but he could not speak. He had no tongue. He remembered that there had been no prayers. Isabelle was dead, as dead as he, burned for heresy.

  The well echoed with fearful murmurs, with scrapes and footsteps, and then a great crash that thundered and rolled about him. He heard something come toward him plashing and dripping, and wanted to scream with fear of what monster it would be to gnaw and tear at his flesh for two hundred fifty years.

  "He does look dead," the monster said in bad French. "A merry poison, this. I could make good use of it in my art."

  "What, to physic thy patients to death and bring them out again! Dream, thou mountebank—thou couldst not buy it in a thousand years."

  Allegreto's reverberating voice shocked him. Like a demon-angel, the youth floated in the air, appearing and vanishing. He had not expected Allegreto to be here.

  "I would have him wake." Now it was his squire John Marking. "Never did I contract to be party to murder."

  Had they all died? Their voices and faces kept slipping away from him. His nose hurt. He was dimly surprised to have a nose. He tried to open his eyes to see if the monster was gnawing on it, but he only had eyes sometimes, and other times not.

  They were demons, he thought. Demons with voices and faces that he knew. He refused to answer them when they demanded that he wake. It was the Devil calling him. If it called in Melanthe's voice, then he would be sure it was the Devil.

  The monster touched him, cold and wet. He tried to jerk back, his head hitting stone—he had a head suddenly, because it hurt. He had never thought of this. He knew that his dead soul would be like a body so that it might be tortured for his sins, but he had not imagined it would be by single parts, with the rest still gone.

  The wet thing licked over his face, a loathsome cold tongue, water in his eyes and on his chest. He had a chest. And a heart. The Devil spoke in the voice of a maid.

  "Wake now, my lord." It was the gentlewoman who had served Melanthe. He could see her through slitted and dripping eyes, and felt sorry that she had died, too. Wolves, he thought. Wolves had eaten her. "Try to wake," she said. "Drink this."

  He turned his head away. "De'il," he mumbled, the word barely passing his throat. "Deviel."

  "He's alive," Allegreto said. "Art thou satisfied?"

  He could not make sense of it. Alive. Dead. Purgatory, and these were his demons. He did not think the worst could have begun yet, for Melanthe was not among them, but he had no doubt that she would come and take delight to torture him. She had smiled as he drank her poison, knowing that she killed him.

  * * *

  Allegreto returned from the river, beckoning to Cara from the door at the top of the stairs. She was glad to leave this awful place, abandoned as it seemed to be by the monks who had built it, indeed, by God Himself. The great round cellar still held a few ale-kegs, but the water well dominated the brewery, a black pit as wide across as a castle turret.

  She hurried up the arch of stone steps, leaving the water bucket full and one candle burning for their prisoner. Allegreto closed the heavy door, barred and locked it.

  "I'll walk with you to the lodge," he said. "There is a horse, and a guide to take you back."

  She followed him up the wide, sloped passage. At the outer door he opened the wicket and doused the candle. They both ducked through the small door.

  A half-moon was rising, shedding light on the empty monastery. Buildings rose about them in black and gray bulks, shapes without colors. She pulled her hood over her head and lifted her skirt as he led her across a grassy plot. Her footsteps echoed softly as they passed onto the paved cloister.

  A half-year past she would have been terrified out of her mind to walk here in the silence and emptiness. But Allegreto was with her, and not even the ghosts of dead men could frighten her. An old monastery on a summer night, only abandoned because the monks had preferred some better place, held nothing so fearsome as he was.

  He walked ahead of her, noiseless, turning through another passage where the moonlight shone in a pale arch at the other end. They followed the overgrown road to the gatehouse, and Allegreto gave her his hand to help her over the slanted timbers of the half-fallen door.

  He let go of her instantly. But he stopped, facing Cara in the starlight. "Is it true—or did you say it for my father?"

  She could not look into his face. Since they had left Bowland, she in Princess Melanthe's household and he in Gian's, there had been naught but the briefest dealings between them, messages passed for her mistress and no more. She was safe with him, she knew; she did not even fear ghosts with him beside her, but Guy had been given a place with the princess as a yeoman of horse. He was well within Allegreto's reach.

  "No," she lied. "No, I just said it, so that—" She stopped.

  "So that my father would not force you." Mortification hovered in his voice. "I wouldn't have—I didn't, did I? I could have said yes to him."

  "Let us not speak of this." She started past, suddenly fearing him as she had not before, fearing that they were alone here in the empty dark.

  "Are you betrothed to him?"

  "No." She said it too quickly, too breathlessly. That was to protect Guy, but she had no lie to protect herself if Allegreto chose to constrain her by strength.

  "Do you think I'll kill him?" he said. "I won't kill him."

  She stopped and looked back across a distance of a yard. He propped his foot on the warped and canted door, the moonlight on his shoulders. "I only wondered if you would go home with us."

  "Of course. My sister."

  In a silken tone he asked, "Will Guy save and keep your sister?"

  "You sound like your father."

 
"How not? I am his son. And Navona alone can steal your sister safe from the Riata."

  "What does that mean? Will you make me choose between Guy and my sister?"

  He lifted his head. "Then you are betrothed."

  "You swore Navona would keep my sister safe."

  "You are betrothed. You are. You are. Monteverde bitch." It was not an execration; it was like an endearment with him. He swung away and walked on, passing her, a moonlit shadow.

  Cara went behind him, keeping distance. The faint path led across a water meadow and up onto higher ground, where she could look back and see the sheen of the river beyond the dark priory. Night dew made her shiver.

  "So—will your Englishman remain with the princess, that you may go home with us?" Allegreto asked.

  She did not answer, but walked on behind him. He hiked himself over a stile and waited on the other side until she climbed it.

  "You should see that he asks her for a place soon." Allegreto wove around a black patch of bushes. "You heard her say tomorrow she leaves—it won't be that swift, but as soon as she can have my father upon a ship without his suspicion, she will. We can't hold the green man long."

  "Who is to set him free?" Cara had a sudden ghastly thought. "Mary, what if some mistake is made, and he's left down there after we're gone?"

  Allegreto turned to face her, so suddenly that she almost fell over her skirt. "I would not let that happen!" he said fiercely. "And if you care so much, then stay here with your precious Guy and see to it yourself!" He snorted. "But I wouldn't put it beyond the two of you to drop the key down some gong-pit, so I guess I'd better do the thing."

  He pivoted and strode on along the path, ducking a branch.

  "You'll stay here?" she asked, trailing him.

  "I'm to miss the departure and catch up in Calais. I think I'll let my father give me a good whore," he said bitterly, "and have her teach me about pleasure until I can't crawl out of the bed to travel." He took Cara's arm and propelled her in front of him. "There's the lodge. Her father had all this enclosed for a hunting chase, and there's none but a parker who likes good Bordeaux. The princess gifted him with a tun of it, so you need not expect he will ask questions." He pushed Cara ahead. "The guide will see you back to her. Farewell."

  He was walking away before she realized the finality of his tone. She turned and gazed after him.

  "Farewell, Allegreto," she called softly.

  He did not pause. He vanished in the dark.

  * * *

  "I know you can hear me."

  It was Allegreto's voice again. Ruck had all of his body now. His stomach walmed, and he shook in every limb. It was a Purgatory he had never conceived, but no less appalling for that. He thirsted. He could not get his breath, and these insistent demons plagued him. He swallowed, trying to lift his hands, but one was weighted down with iron and the other would not do as he expected, moving aimlessly at the end of his arm.

  "Open your eyes, green man, if you can hear me," the Allegreto-demon said.

  He remembered that he had a name. "Ruadrik," he muttered. He stared bleakly at Allegreto, trying to see the shade of a monstrosity behind his comely face.

  The demon smiled a wicked smile. "Ruadrik, then, if you'll have it so. Listen to me, Ruadrik. Try to remember this. You have food and drink here. There's a pail, if you need it. I'll return in the morning. Remember. Don't lose your head. Do you hear me?"

  Ruck tried to lift his hand, to catch and strangle him, but he could not.

  "Wink your eyes if you hear me," the fiend ordered. Ruck closed his eyes. When he had eyes to open again, the demon was gone.

  * * *

  "He was waking, my lady," Cara said very softly.

  Melanthe laid her forehead down on the pillow. She had been waiting at the window, waiting and waiting. She had not thought Cara would ever come.

  It might have killed him, the poison they had used, a grain too much, a drop of wine too little—but Gian's would have done it with mortal certainty.

  "He spoke, but made no sense, my lady," Cara said. "Allegreto sent word to you that he is weak, but will be well by morning."

  Melanthe lifted her head. The night air flowed in the open window. She put her hands on her cheeks to cool them.

  "My lady—" Cara said. "I wish to tell you—when I spoke—when I said I was betrothed. I had no right to make a contract without your leave. Forgive me!"

  Her words seemed distant to Melanthe. She flicked her hand in dismissal. "Later. I cannot think of that now."

  "My lady. Please! I have no wish to marry Allegreto."

  Melanthe made an effort to turn her mind to Cara's distress. "After all he has done for thee? Poor Allegreto. Thou dost have thy claws in his heart."

  "I never meant to do so, my lady! He frightens me. And—I fear for Guy."

  "Such a tragic face. Guy? That Englishman from Torbec, I suppose. He is beneath thee. He hasn't a florin to his name. Silly girl, his lord lives in a pigsty. Thou mayest believe me, for I saw it."

  "My lady—I love him."

  Melanthe gave one short laugh. "Verily, this is what comes of letting foolish female creatures sit at windows and lookout upon the street, is it not? We dream stupid dreams, and fall in love with any unsuitable man who walks past."

  Cara bowed her head. "Yea, my lady."

  "I spoke to thee once of love."

  "Yea, my lady."

  Melanthe pulled the window closed. She could see the reflection of candles in the glass, and a wavering darkness that was herself. "What did I say of it?" she whispered. "I have forgotten what I said."

  "My lady, you said to me that great love is ruinous, my lady."

  "And so it is." She put her hands over her hot cheeks again, watching the obscure movement in the glass. "So it is."

  "My lady—if it would please you—if Guy might find a place in your retinue when we return—"

  "God's death, dost thou care no more for thy betrothed than to lead him into the viper's nest?" Melanthe turned angrily on the girl's brown-eyed innocence. "And what of Allegreto? Is he to sing a gleeful carol at thy wedding?"

  "My lady, it was Allegreto who proposed it"—Cara made a courtesy—"that Guy find a place with you, so that I might go home."

  Melanthe gazed at her. She could not see in the soft face anything but a tame doe's stupid trust. "Do not press Allegreto too far." She rose, flinging the pillow aside. "Nay, if thou must have this Englishman, then you will both remain here. And count thy blessings."

  Cara bowed. She went to Melanthe's bed and began to turn down the sheets. The manor bells tolled matins.

  "I'll go to the chapel," Melanthe said. "In faith, I cannot sleep!"

  * * *

  She would have preferred to go to the garden, or the mews, but Gian had spies on her in the household, and she did not dare arouse any curiosity. As well accustom herself to altar and roodscreen—it would be the whole scope of her life soon enough.

  She thought perhaps she would surprise everyone and be a fiercely austere nun. The ladies who retired as religious and still kept high estate had always seemed pathetic to her—acting out a play without stage or spectators. No, she would give everything to the church, and fast, and have visions. And they would all be of a man who had loved her once.

  He hated her now. She had done all she could to drive him to it. She had a conversation in her head with him about it, to explain to him. She had poisoned him, yes, but it was to spare him. She imprisoned him, but it was to keep him safe until she and Gian were gone. If she denied him as her husband, broke her vow and murdered his heart, it was so that she did not have to live knowing that he did not.

  She could not kill Gian instead, she told him. She had thought on it long and deep. She knew of wives who had slain their husbands—one had been flayed alive, but the others had only paid fines. But it was no easy task, not with Gian, who had eluded the best of killers, and if she failed once, there would be no magistrate to sentence her, for she would not live so lon
g. Allegreto would not aid her in it, nay, but oppose her.

  And if she succeeded—she would be theirs. She would belong to the Devil wholly.

  She told these things to Ruck. But it was not a conversation. He never answered. In her mind he stared at her with unyielding silence. He would not understand. Could not. Her deliberate dishonor was beyond his comprehension, as the black depth of Allegreto's love was beyond Cara's.

  They knew themselves—she and Allegreto. They knew how close the Devil had them. She could almost pity Allegreto, who still held to his own mysterious honor by a thin thread. If he had wished to rid himself of Guy as a rival, he would have done it, and yet this subtle suggestion of his that Cara and her lover return to Italy boded of darker intentions, or else foolish hopes. He was not so old, Allegreto, that he might not have hopes, but Melanthe would not allow Cara to drive him beyond endurance. She and Guy must stay in England, far away from him.

  In return for such a kind favor from Melanthe, Allegreto would make certain that Ruck hated her. He would say all the things that Melanthe did not have the strength to say herself, kill pride and hope and future. And Ruck would go home to live in his enchanted valley, where Melanthe had never been meant to go.

  They were old allies, she and Allegreto, strange friends and familiar enemies.

  "This is your last lesson, green man. Have you learned it?"

  "Ruadrik."

  "Ruadrik, then." Allegreto made a courteous bow. "Lord Ruadrik of Wolfscar."

  His voice echoed in the old brewery, calling from all sides, whispering back from the high slits of light made in the shape of holy crosses, the only windows in the curving wall. Ruck had shouted until his voice was nearly gone, but if anyone passed outside those windows, they did not come into his prison.

  She had done this. Allegreto made no secret of it. Ruck was to be kept here until she was gone from England, and if he followed her, he would die by some means just as unclean and secret as her sleeping poison, but lethal this time.