Shadowheart

  "The condottiere?"

  She gave him a level glance. "I’ve felt I must keep the mercenaries close."

  She didn’t 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’s needed for defense, they’ll pay."

  "We’ll all pay if I hire more," she said bluntly. "But I’ve decided not to use outsiders for our further defense." 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. "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’ve no intention to steal it again, why should it offend you if I garrison my own property?"

  "You devil spawn! If she’s fool enough to trust you, I’m 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 wasn’t sorry to suspend the talk. She glanced at the guard, bidding him to open. There was a commotion as the arched doors swung wide. 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’s happened?" Elena hurried forward.

  "He was attacked on the way into the citadel, Your Grace," the man said. "Half-killed him, but he’d have us carry him straight to you with the news."

  "She must know," Raymond gasped, 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.

  "That’s a lie!" Franco exclaimed. He pushed himself from the window.

  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, terrified. 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’d already thought the same. Her lip quivered with a sudden dreadful weakness. She didn’t 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 Allegreto lifted his eyes and met hers, a subtle change came into his face, a defiance. He didn’t 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’m 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’s not breathing his last," Allegreto said with contempt. "More’s the pity."

  The surgeon looked up from where Raymond lay stretched on the hurdle. "Take this man to the surgery. This is no fit place to examine him."

  To see Raymond carried out still and bloody wrenched her with guilt. She should never have allowed him near to her, never permitted friendship or intimacy. She’d feared that she’d been unjust to him, using his devotion to sustain her courage when both of them knew his love had no future. But he’d found reasons to linger in Monteverde, and this was the price.

  "Send me news instantly," she ordered the surgeon. "No one is to speak abroad of this."

  "As you command, Your Grace!" He bowed, 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’ll swear on God’s holy writ that I didn’t 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 in her hair. "Someday I may find this Raymond, and kill him," he whispered in her memory.

  She felt him now without looking at him, felt his dark, still presence. She hugged her arms around herself.

  Allegreto offered no oath of innocence. 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.

  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 didn’t care what she did to him.

  "Allegreto," she asked, "you didn’t cause it?"

  "I did not." His voice seemed oddly helpless. "If I’d aimed to kill him, he would be dead."

  She knew that for a certain truth. Yet she hadn’t seen Zafer since the morning; he’d vanished among the crowds before the duomo. She hardly trusted herself or her own judgment. She bent her head, feeling the crown weight it forward.

  It was beyond forgiveness, the way 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 hadn’t 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’ll 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." r />
  The Riata scowled at her, his eye-patch a black disfigurement across his face. But he said nothing. Allegreto stood uncertainly, his defiance suddenly vanished, as if he wasn’t sure what she meant.

  From outside the window came the sound of church bells tolling evensong. "Let us proceed to the banquet," she said. "The surgeon can attend me there with news."

  * * *

  Allegreto sat next to a young councilman whose father had been tortured once by Gian. They were courteous to one another, having no weapons at hand. Elena used that much sense at least: Dario’s men had searched every guest at the gate for any blade or means of mayhem.

  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 windows cut into walls that had seen no light through them for centuries. From where Allegreto was seated at the high table, he could see the long line of frescoed drapes that ended abruptly when the painters had put away their brushes on the day of Prince Ligurio’s death.

  He was yet benumbed by what she had done. Even now, even here—especially here—he couldn’t 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 wasn’t tyranny and fear that ruled. He loved the fragile concord that she held together by sheer will and faith and stubborn idiocy. If he’d 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 didn’t know if she believed him or not, that he hadn’t 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.

  There were murmurs from 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—Riata and Navona came away with more credit than either deserved. He supposed that the princess had made her wishes clear. She’d been utterly determined to drag him and Franco Pietro to seats at the high table.

  Raymond de Clare would live. She’d had word of that before the first courses began. Allegreto had seen the relief in her face when the steward came 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. 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’d 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. Allegreto drew the platter toward him, lifting it just enough to feel the slip of paper beneath. He pulled the trencher slightly over the edge of the table, and gave his neighbor a wry smile for his clumsiness as the message slipped unseen into his lap.

  * * *

  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. 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, 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 hadn’t expected that Matteo would have some truly serious message for him, but he wasn’t 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 hadn’t 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’s 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 hadn’t 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?"

  "No. 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 didn’t 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.

  * * *

  He couldn’t breach the citadel from outside, but once he was within the gates, Allegreto knew how to move through every corner and stone of it. He 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’d spoken of science and history and politics. They’d even argued sometimes, a thing Allegreto would never have dared with Gian.