Shadowheart

  She nodded, dismissing him. He walked heavily from the chamber. The guard closed the door behind him.

  There was a sound from the bed. Elena turned as Dario struggled to sit up. He winced and held himself on his elbow, panting. "Navona—" He lifted his head a little. "He is hurt?"

  "He did not return," she said, kneeling beside the bed. "Do you want water?"

  Dario nodded. He took a deep sip from the cup she held to his lips. "He was—with me. In the dark."

  "Where?" she asked.

  He closed his eyes. He made a grimace and shook his head. "In the dark."

  "Outside the camp?"

  "Aye," he said hoarsely. "Carried me." He coughed and winced. "There was—fire."

  "Fire?" Elena repeated anxiously, but he was fading back into the fever. He sank onto the pillow, his lashes fluttering. With a rasping breath, he turned his head away.

  * * *

  By the nighttime, Philip was in the pass to the north, and word had come to Monteverde. The condottieri had heard it, too—there was renewed turmoil in the camp as they found themselves trapped between the lake and the mountains and another force the equal of their own.

  Suddenly they sent emissaries and claimed a desire to parley. Elena returned a message with a single word. Go.

  But there was nowhere for them to go easily. Philip had divided his company and sent part of it around the mountains, to block the pass to Venice.

  The messages became more frantic. They begged the Prima to forgive any trespass. They offered the store of Monteverde’s silver back. They pleaded to join her personal guard. Through the night Franco’s men cut down the soldiers who bolted from the camp, and stories of ghostly visions and angels grew at a rampant pace.

  In the dawn Philip’s army was visible from the citadel, like Hannibal marching from the north. Elena sent word to him to halt a league from the city and prepare for battle.

  From the ramparts of the great tower she could see the condottiere camp swarm like an anthill kicked open, motion without purpose. She received two of the officers, who claimed to speak for the rest.

  They apologized copiously for any crime their dead leaders had committed. They were only simple men, soldiers, who acted under orders. They could see that it had been an ill-advised, impudent plan to meddle in Monteverde’s affairs. They would go, immediately, but for the obstacles in their path.

  Elena listened to them. She took them to the western rampart and pointed toward the mountain crags that were already covered in snow. "Every man must swear upon the Lord’s word that he will never raise arms against Monteverde again," she said. "And then you may depart. That way."

  To the west. The high, bleak, pathless mountains, where men would have to struggle to even walk, far less gather and fight or destroy what few outposts lay there. And beyond them, for those who made the journey before winter froze the trails...Milan.

  Let Milan take back the dregs of what they had wrought, and if the condottieri turned bandit before they reached Visconti lands, then perchance it was God’s judgment on them.

  Elena held out her hand and accepted the grateful kisses of the soldiers on their knees. And for nigh a week she stood with Philip in the western reaches of Monteverde’s lands, at a castle— hardly more than a gatehouse—that guarded the remote trails into the mountains. As the condottiere passed one by one through Philip’s ranks, they took their oath to shun any war with Monteverde, relinquished all plunder and weapons but a knife, and received a bag of flour and a flask of olive oil. They were given a cloak and a tinderbox if they did not have one. While Elena watched, one of her bodyguards interviewed each soldier for any news of Allegreto.

  There was none. They had seen specters and glowing angels and barking fiends that looked like dogs, but no one had news of a living man with black hair and a comely face, dressed in green-and-silver dyed with blood.

  The guard brought a ring to her, discovered in a soldier’s pouch, because it was engraved with Navona’s motto. It had been found on the ground, amid some blackened grasses inside a burned-out tent.

  Elena took it from the guard’s hand. The metal was cold in her lingers. In the harsh light of an October frost, she could see that there were letters on the inner curve. Her eyes were not quite clear, they were blurred in the icy air, but she did not need to read it.

  She held the ring in her fist until it warmed. Then she thrust it on her left hand, her fingers trembling, forcing it over her knuckle though it was too small to fit.

  He would come back. She could not believe he was gone. She would not. She dreamed nightmares of men rolling on the ground in flames.

  * * *

  "Your Grace!" At least five councilors were on their feet in objection, but the eldest took advantage of his precedence. "You must not depart on such a scheme! We cannot allow it!"

  Christmas and Easter had come and gone, and letters that had wandered astray for months had arrived, informing the bishop of Monteverde that in light of the solemn repentance and offerings made by his worshipful child in God, Allegreto della Navona, the censure of excommunication laid on him would be lifted after he made his penitential offerings and traveled to the Pope for absolution.

  "Allow it?" Elena said. Her hands were cold in spite of the white fur that draped over her wrists. "Do you think I am a prisoner here?"

  "Nay, Your Grace, certainly not, but—"

  "Then I will go."

  "Your Grace, we comprehend and share your grief, and understand that you desire the proper observances to be made, but to go to Rome! It is not necessary. Let us send an envoy to carry our respects and reverences, and beg what you will of the Holy Father."

  "I will go myself."

  The old councilor gave her a reproachful look. "Your Grace has pressing duties here."

  "To listen to further debate over who I am to wed? I will not wed. I will go to Rome. I wish for this letter from the Pope to be made public in every corner of Monteverde, so that Allegreto della Navona may hear it and know."

  They only looked at her, their familiar sober faces lined down the long table. Since the night of the escape, they had been more gentle, less contentious among themselves. It had united them as brothers, and their devotion to her had grown to stifling proportions.

  She saw what they thought. She braced herself, but she was failing, losing her conviction in the days and weeks and months that passed.

  "Your Grace," the old man said, with a kindness that cut her to the heart, "it would be wiser to have a mass said for his soul in every church."

  She shook her head, refusing.

  He looked up and down the table. "Signori, I propose that we gather a sum and cause an epitaph of intercession to be made on behalf of Allegreto Navona, to be placed in some honored spot in the city, so that all who see it will be reminded to say a prayer for his soul. And in tribute to his valiant action in the recovery of the Prima and all of the council, that we request a special mass to be said for him throughout the realm."

  "No," Elena said. Her voice rose a little; she heard the high-pitched note in it herself. "I will not have you speak as if he were dead."

  The elderly councilor pursed his lips. He lowered his eyes and sat down without calling for a vote.

  She sat still and upright in the huge throne-like chair. "I will go to Rome and make certain that his offerings are carried out properly, and that no faults can be found in them, so that his anathema may be absolved."

  No one said aloud that it was too late for absolution. They averted their eyes. The great dark chamber echoed with shuffles and aimless shifting.

  "It is not your responsibility, Your Grace," a councilor mumbled far down the table.

  "It is. It is the least—" Her voice caught. She paused. "It is the least we can do. He saved all of our lives, and Monteverde."

  "Franco Pietro did as much, Your Grace."

  "Franco did well. But he could not have executed the plan that freed us. He has said so himself. And I will leave him in comma
nd of the citadel while I am gone, with Philip under him."

  Before the rebellion of the condottieri, they would have gasped in outrage. Now they only murmured, less concerned by the Riata than by fear of her departure. Like parents with a sickly boy child, they dreaded to have her out of their sight. They put forth all of their arguments—she had duties, she would alarm the people, she was acting without thought or prudence. She rubbed her fingers over the ring. They averted their eyes, pretending not to see it, pressing her on and on. Finally she put her face in her hands and ceased to reason with them.

  "I must do this!" she cried, her voice echoing from the walls and timbers of the roof. "If it slay me, I must do it!" She lifted her face. "Elect another in my place, if you will, for I cannot give you more."

  Twenty shocked faces stared at her.

  The elder councilor rose again, pushing himself up with a slow move. "Your Grace, you force me to speak with perfect frankness. It is apparent that you allow your sentiment to outweigh your wisdom. For you to leave the realm on such a foolish and worthless undertaking is unpardonable. If you refuse to put the welfare of Monteverde first, Your Grace—perchance an election should be considered," he said heavily. "Though it rends my heart to speak of it."

  "Then do so." She took up the weighty scepter and let it fall on the table before them with a thud. "Haps you will find someone wiser than I to lead you."

  THIRTY-ONE

  Elena lit candles. She prayed, but it was without humility or gratitude. It was with anger and desolation, with rebellion, and so she knew none of her prayers were heard. But she could not find humility in her heart, or acceptance.

  She had made Dario and Zafer and Margaret wait with Gerolamo by the lakeside. They were all she had taken for escort, leaving the pomp and safeguards of Monteverde’s walls behind. Dario was still weak, but he would not be abandoned, moving awkwardly and stubbornly beside Zafer, both of them falling easily back into their old ways of keeping mutual watch.

  In the small church that overlooked the abandoned piazza, she prayed. She did not wear a widow’s weeds this time, or veil her face. If the old Navona recognized her, or had any notion who she was, he did not speak of it. He only asked her if she wished for confession and absolution, and when she refused, gave her the same unhappy look that he had before. She thought he might have remembered her then, for he gazed down for a troubled moment before he murmured a blessing and turned away.

  She knelt at the plain railing before the altar, her head bent. She felt as if there were a hole in her chest, a place where even air could not enter. She pleaded with God, an incoherent prayer that held no sweet expressions of adoration or petition; her prayer was a drum that beat in her heart, Please do not let him be in Hell, please do not let him be in Hell, please do not let him be in Hell.

  She had paused at every church and prayed it. But here, where he had entreated her to be shriven when he could not, it was not even words. It was a dagger cutting over and over in her mind, please and please and please have mercy.

  She heard no answer. The church was still and cold, the priest gone away to some other duty. Her journey to the Pope seemed futile, a hopeless task, too late and too little. Six months she had insisted that they search for Allegreto, that they not give up, but there was no sign. Only the two known Riata dead and a score of corpses that had been buried in a common grave, burned beyond telling what they had worn or who they had ever been in life.

  The door opened behind her, sending light down the length of the little church. She crossed herself and rose, gripping the rail as she stood. Her knees hurt. She did not know how long she had been there, but her fingers would hardly unclench in the cold.

  She walked back with her head lowered, watching the well-worn stone floor beneath her feet. When she came to the open door, she was aware of someone standing in it, waiting. She thought it was the priest, and lifted her head to speak to him as she left.

  She stopped. Haloed against the strong light from outside, Allegreto seemed a vision for an instant, an unbearable hope. Then he moved one step inside the church. His outline took on shape and form, simple substance. In the moment of perceiving him, every detail seemed clear and perfect, the dust motes falling slowly about him, his unadorned tunic of blue; his wine-colored sleeves, the low-slung, plain belt and dagger at his hip. His face; his smooth hard jaw and the long eyelashes that brushed downward over his skin; his flawless mouth unsmiling. He only looked at her.

  She closed her eyes and opened them, and he was still there. Her knees gave way beneath her. The jumbled noises that came from her throat had no meaning; they were his name, and dry gasps for breath, and peeps and sobs of frenzy as she pressed her face to his soft boots. She clung to him, unable to speak, unable to weep, unable even to breathe—able only to touch him and feel that he was alive.

  "Elena—" He knelt with her, catching her arms, pulling her up to face him.

  She pressed her forehead to his chest. "I thought you were gone. I thought you were gone." Her voice was hoarse and deep. "Allegreto."

  He cupped her face. She looked up at him, and the tears came then in a furious burst; she grabbed his tunic and pressed her face to his shoulder, weeping so hard she could barely draw breath, kneading at him with her hands as if she could make certain he was not a phantasm of her desperate mind. Then she sat up, hiccoughing, running her palms over his face and shoulders and arms. The fabric was rough and crisp beneath her fingers. The shape of him did not vanish. She could feel him. He was real.

  He caught her hands in his, looking down at them.

  "They found your ring." Her voice shattered into husky squeaks. "Everything was burned around it." She made a little moan. "Oh, God save—you are alive!" She brought his hands to her cheek and pressed them hard to her skin.

  "Elena," he said in a muted voice.

  "Where have you been? Why didn’t you come? Everyone thought—you made me think—"

  Her words trailed off as he drew his hands forcibly from hers. He lifted his lashes.

  "It was better so." His mouth curled into a bitter smile. "But I could not stay myself, could I? When I saw you." He shook his head and gave a laugh. "God help me, I shall have to go to the ends of the earth."

  He sat back on his knees and rose. He pushed open the ancient wooden door and shoved it behind him, leaving Elena to scramble to her feet and catch it before it slammed in her face. The bright spring sunlight washed the broad steps of the church and reflected off the lake. The mountains still held snow at their peaks, but the air was warm and fragrant as Allegreto strode across the pavement, crushing wildflowers and new weeds beneath his feet. As she watched him walk away, a wild wave of anger rose on the heels of relief.

  She ran after and caught his arm. "You do not think to leave!" she demanded. "What cruelty is this?"

  He swung around, his face dappled by the shadows of a huge olive tree. "It is not cruelty, but mercy. Take pity on me, Princess, for I love you as my life."

  She dropped her hand. "And you will go away from me?"

  He closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. "I should stay, aye. I should stay and guard you. But I have no armor left. Christ, I have no skin left! I am no use to you." He turned away again and ducked under the porch of a half-ruined house. He disappeared through the doorway, leaving Elena standing in the empty piazza.

  In a cold dread that he would vanish again, she hastened after. But he was there; he stood in the remains of what had once been a handsome chamber, though only broken pieces of the tile floor and a ceiling painted in red diamonds remained. But the room had been swept clean. A pallet lay spread in the corner, with a chipped mug and basin beside it. She had sent men to search here, and in the castle on the lake, and even to the island of Il Corvo, but they had found nothing.

  He had not wished to be found.

  "It was not your usefulness that I wept for," she said. Her voice broke. "Allegreto. It was that I thought I would never see you again in this life."

&n
bsp; He propped himself against the wall, crossing his arms. "Or the next?" he asked dryly.

  She remembered her journey, and the purpose of it. "Look!"

  She reached for the purse that hung at her girdle, where she carried the precious letters always with her. "The Pope has written! He wishes you to be absolved."

  "I know."

  She dropped the drawstrings, looking up. "Then let us go to Rome. I will go with you."

  "The holy vicar of God is in Genoa, not Rome. I have been to him there."

  "Your ban has been lifted?" she exclaimed.

  "He said the words. So I suppose that it is." Allegreto’s tone was ice cold. "He did not have much time to spare me. He had just had his cardinal priests murdered, and their bodies thrown in the bay."

  Elena blinked at him. Her lips parted. "You jest."

  Slowly he shook his head.

  "Depardeu." She swallowed and crossed herself. "May God forgive him."

  "He is out of his reason." Allegreto closed his eyes. A sudden anguish came into his face. "Elena, I don’t know if it is God or the Devil who has him. I don’t know if it is true, what he said." He gave an aching laugh. "I have been afraid to go into a church."

  She thought of him there, standing in the open door. One step inside, but he had turned and gone out again.

  "I went into the duomo," he said. "I went into the sanctuary, and then they attacked Franco, and there was blood all over the floor." He took a shuddering breath. "I should not have gone in. I’m under anathema, and blood was shed, and now it is not a true church anymore." He gave her a look of such sorrow, like a lost child, a bewildered angel that had fallen down and picked itself up and found it was a demon.

  She walked to him and caught his hands. "Franco told me what happened there. You saved his life. And many more, too, before it was done. The duomo will be consecrated anew—the bishop says by Ascension Day it will be sanctified again and the doors unlocked."

  His hands closed hard on hers. He looked down at them, his jaw taut. Outside, birds sang and chattered in the trees, but his face was set in winter cold. "Did they tell you that I killed the Englishman?"