Shadowheart

  What mortal sins and murders that he heard, what of vengeance and wrath and hatred, it caused no horror or despair on his face. The confession fell in uneven torrents, like a storm beating against an enduring wall, words and hesitations and outbursts. Elena felt love and grief rise up in her until it spilled over into tears and she could not see either of them clearly anymore. Only light and shadow.

  She didn’t know how long it lasted. Finally the broken sound of Allegreto’s voice drifted to a whisper, and then to silence.

  The priest said nothing for a long time. Elena blinked and cleared her eyes. Allegreto sat on his knees, leaning his mouth on his locked hands, rocking himself a little.

  Then, with amazement, Elena watched the old man do something that she had never seen any priest do before. He knelt down onto the floor and took Allegreto’s face between his hands, speaking earnestly close to his ear.

  Allegreto listened. He nodded, and then nodded again as the cleric murmured to him. When the priest let him go, he caught the old man’s knotty fingers and kissed them reverently.

  With an effort, holding to the rail, the pastor rose to his feet. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," he intoned in Latin, making the sign of the cross over Allegreto’s bowed head. "I forgive you."

  Elena murmured amen along with them. Allegreto rose and turned toward the door. He looked as if he did not know himself. He came down the nave, walking with his graceful stride, dangerous and tear-stained.

  He stopped beside Elena. She gave him a tentative smile.

  He caught her arm hard, pulling her near. "You’d best have yourself shriven quickly now," he said hoarsely. "I’m not going to Heaven without you, hell-cat."

  SIXTEEN

  One tiny miracle took place at Elena’s wedding.

  She wore a garland of flowers for her headpiece, and the fine gown of blue damask that she’d brought for her audience with the Pope. A brisk spring breeze lifted her loose hair from her shoulders and her long train dragged over weeds and uneven pavement as she walked with Margaret toward the church. The day could not determine if it wished to storm or shine; blue-black clouds rolled over the mountaintops, but the lake gleamed under brilliant shafts of sun. Far out on the silvered surface, the oars of a bright-painted galliot flashed, conveying some rich merchant to the south.

  Every Holy Day for three weeks, the Navona priest had given his sermon to a few shepherds and a fisherman’s wife, and then in his quavering old voice intoned the names of Allegreto della Navona and Elena Rosafina di Monteverde and asked if there were any impediments to the marriage.

  No one in the tiny congregation had any objection. Elena didn’t think they had any notion of who she might be—a humbling discovery, when her every word and breath had been the subject of such intense import in the city. But she wanted the banns read and their names recorded. She didn’t intend to keep her marriage a secret, or allow anything that might put it into question.

  She and Allegreto hadn’t spoken of where they would go when they were wed, but it could not be anywhere in Monteverde. She’d rejected her office, but married to the head of Navona she would still seem a dire threat to any new authority.

  They couldn’t remain here. It was her only sorrow. She’d never thought she would love the land that her sister feared and despised. But like a swan compelled by her blood to this lake, these drifting clouds and blue mountain cliffs, to the towered city and bright-colored banners, she understood now what had driven Allegreto any length to return to Monteverde. It would be exile, in truth, but she did not know where.

  Already the citadel seemed far away. Like a peasant maid, Elena came with Margaret as her only attendant, with no white palfreys or canopies of golden cloth in her array.

  Zafer waited a little distance from the church, dressed in oriental finery, a coat of scarlet and heavy gold such as Elena had never seen him wear before. He held Margaret’s boy by one grubby little hand, preventing the child from sitting down in the dirt while wearing his best Sunday smock. Elena glanced at Margaret. But the English girl had her gaze on Zafer, a look of shy and smiling wonder.

  Elena thought Margaret showed a little rounder in her cheeks and waist than she had used to. She caught the maid’s hand and pressed it.

  Margaret gave her a conscious look, heat rising in her freckled face.

  "Zafer is most handsome today," Elena said. "And he’s kind to take charge of your son."

  "Oh, my lady!" Margaret stopped, "I should—" She bit her lip, and burst out suddenly, "We’ve done a dreadful thing! I can’t—I couldn’t—" She bowed her head. "I couldn’t bring myself to tell you."

  Elena stopped, turning. "Perhaps I can guess."

  "We’re handfasted," Margaret barely whispered, her head lowered in shame.

  "He loves you greatly, I think," Elena said.

  "But he will not convert," she said miserably. "I’ve begged him and begged him."

  Elena looked down at the maid’s bowed head. There would be no wedding blessed by the church for Margaret, or any charity for her true heart and Zafer’s. "You can stay with us," she said. It was all that she could offer. "Both of you. Allegreto will allow no one to part you."

  "Thank you, Your Grace." Margaret lifted her face. "Thank you. I’m weak. I can’t find the strength to go away from him."

  "It’s not weakness," Elena said softly. "It is love. I can’t think that God condemns it, even if the world does."

  Margaret’s lip quivered. "Do you think so, my lady?" She looked over at Zafer. Her son was laughing, dangling from his hold, grabbing at the horn of a grazing goat. "I can’t leave him," she whispered. "Not even for the sake of my mortal soul."

  "I know," Elena said.

  Margaret nodded. She returned the pressure on Elena’s hands. "God grant you and my lord mercy, my lady."

  Together they walked across the piazza, passing beneath the huge olive tree, among cloud-shadows racing across the weed-grown pavement. Elena kept her eyes lowered. She didn’t lift them until she saw the steps of the church before her.

  Allegreto and Dario stood with the priest at the door. Dario wore the green-and-silver of Monteverde, but Allegreto wore silver only, the glittering tunic of the first time she’d ever seen him, when she’d wondered if he were a demon or an angel or a man. His hair was uncovered, tied back, a black fall over the silvery cloth. He hardly looked like a man cleansed of all sin—he looked as if he were sin itself, pagan, everything of earthly life and beauty come together in pure temptation.

  Margaret lifted Elena’s train as she mounted the steps. The priest smiled at her, no beatific beam but a mischievous, knowing smile, like an old gnome grinning over his newfound hoard. She could hardly help from smirking back at him, as if they were childish conspirators who had succeeded in some clever game.

  It all passed quickly then. The priest asked them for their free consent, and assisted them to say the proper vows. Elena had the words ready, but Allegreto seemed to forget them and had to be led through line-by-line. He looked at her, a dark look from beneath his lashes, and then glanced away, frowning out toward the lake and back again.

  It was as the priest took Elena’s hand and drew it to her bridegroom that her small miracle occurred.

  The day before, she’d forced the Navona ring from her finger, with great pain and effort, and given it to the priest. Now the old man blessed it and handed it again to Allegreto, jostling him a little to attract his attention away from the lake.

  Twice before, she’d put on the same ring, and each time it had been a struggle to make it fit. She held her hand stiff, expecting a difficult moment. Allegreto closed his hand over hers. "With this ring I wed thee," he said hastily. The ring slipped onto her finger without effort, as smoothly as if it had been made for her. "With my body I worship thee."

  Elena looked up in amazement. Allegreto seemed not to notice, still glancing in distraction toward the water. The old priest nodded benignly. He smiled at her.

  Sudden
ly Zafer made a low shout from his position a little distance from the church—and it was not celebration.

  Elena finally turned to see what it was on the lake of such palpable interest. She gripped Allegreto’s hand.

  A painted galliot came rushing into shore, the oars backing water and the scarlet canopy rippling as it swung around for landing. Another was behind it, holding off. She could see a crowd of passengers under the shade. The delicate arched prow rode down the reeds and the oars pitched upward smartly as the first vessel came to rest against the abandoned quay.

  "Do not offer violence," the priest said quietly.

  She realized that Allegreto and Dario and Zafer all had their hands ready to draw weapons.

  It was Matteo who first bounded off the galley, even before the plank was laid. Nimue hesitated, her paws and white head hanging over the side, and then came in a great leap after him, racing across the piazza.

  Elena turned as the eager dog bounded up the steps and pressed against her skirts. She looked toward the priest. "It’s done?" she exclaimed anxiously. "We are wed?"

  He made a calm nod. "In the eyes of God and the holy church, your union is established and sanctified."

  She could see the eldest councilor of Monteverde being helped ashore. There were others standing, preparing to disembark; she couldn’t make out their faces in the shadow under the canopy, but she thought Franco Pietro was there. The law against her marriage to Riata or Navona rang in her head. Thoughts flew into arguments she might use: it was an edict meant only for the Prima, and she had resigned that office. It was a civil motion, and could not be held above the rule of the church. It was complete, and there was no way they could prevent it now. There were witnesses, Margaret and Dario and the priest, who would vouch for the certain truth of it.

  The penalty was death or exile—not for her, but for the man she married.

  Allegreto strode down the steps without a word. He and Dario and Zafer made a line, a waiting defense, though they did not bare their blades.

  The old councilman seemed to be in no hurry to come nearer. He straightened his robes and looked back as the other passengers were helped down the plank by servants.

  "It’s Lady Melanthe!" Elena gasped.

  She gathered her skirt and train and ran down the steps to Allegreto, with Nim cavorting at her heels.

  "It’s Lady Melanthe!" she squealed, grabbing his hands. She dropped them and rushed to the landing. She came to where her godmother was just setting foot on the stone and fell into a deep curtsey. "Oh, madam!" she exclaimed. "Oh, praise God!"

  "Ellie!" Her godmother leaned down and raised her. "You wayward child!"

  Elena found herself cloaked in a hard embrace. She pressed her face into her godmother’s perfumed shoulder with a sob of joy.

  Lady Melanthe patted her back and set her away. "Pray don’t weep all over my wedding clothes. I’m not the only one who comes to see what mischief you’ve made here."

  Elena stood back, blinking. Just a few feet from the plank, with cheeks already reddened and wet with tears, her sister waited uncertainly, as if she were not quite sure what country she was in.

  "Cara," Elena whispered in wonder. "Oh, Cara!"

  Timidly Cara held out her plump hands. "I wished to see you again."

  Elena took two steps and caught her sister’s hands. And then she was locked in a deep embrace, both of them weeping like foolish maids. She could hardly see for crying when Cara finally stood back. "We shouldn’t make a spectacle," she murmured, with a little hiccough. She dabbed at her face with the swag of her sleeve. "It’s not decorous."

  Elena gave a laughing sob. "No." She reached out and squeezed her sister one more time, feeling the familiar, soft comfort of her shoulder. "But you came. Cara! You came here."

  She turned back, finding she was surrounded by a crowd of councilmen and attendants, all dressed in their richest robes. A little distance from her, with a space about him, Allegreto watched. He had a wary look, flanked by Dario and Zafer, the three of them standing apart.

  Elena walked to him and took his arm, looking back at the others with defiance. They seemed to be dressed for celebration, but she didn’t know why the council and Franco Pietro would have come to rejoice at her wedding.

  "Allegreto," Lady Melanthe said composedly. "Well met."

  "My lady," he said, with a slight inclination of his head.

  "As comely as ever. The years do you favor."

  His lip curled. He made a bow. "And you, my lady."

  She gave a soft laugh and a riffle of her bejeweled fingers. "Thank you for your chivalry. But has this priest done his business? Have you wed my little Ellie in truth this time? I hardly know what to think from one report to the next."

  "In truth," he said shortly, "we are wed."

  Elena closed her fingers on his arm. "I’m grieved if it displease you or the council, my lady, but—"

  Lady Melanthe smiled. "But what? You’ll put him aside if you are bid?"

  "No, I will not." She glanced at the elder councilor with determination. "Nor let him be arrested! I’m not the Prima, and I will not be bound by their decree in this."

  Lady Melanthe shook her head. "Are you certain you wish for such a meek bride, Allegreto? Depardeu, if only she would learn to speak up for herself!"

  "I have no choice, my lady." He lifted his arm slightly, with Elena’s hand still on it. "She’s abducted me."

  Lady Melanthe raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "Elena. You’re well-matched with this wicked rogue. As I thought you might be. But the good signor has a declaration to make, and then a feast awaits us on the other vessel."

  Elena hardly knew what to expect as the elder councilor stepped forward. He unrolled a scroll, and she hoped it might be a formal dismissal of her from the office of the Prima. But she was wrong. It wasn’t addressed to her at all, but to Allegreto. With all of the pompous words and compliments that could be crammed into every sentence, the wise and magnanimous council of Monteverde invited and urged and begged Allegreto della Navona to return with honor to his native city. On consideration of his service to Monteverde and the Prima, the resolution prohibiting her marriage to one of his distinguished house was rescinded. The council sent their effusive wishes for a long and fruitful marriage, and appointed him to the newly created office of Guardian of the Prima’s Life and Person.

  By the time the sonorous voice fell silent, Elena felt a wild urge to smile at the absurdity of this groveling declaration. Guardian of the Prima’s Life and Person! And not even a mention of her resignation—how like the council, to simply ignore what they didn’t care to acknowledge.

  But she looked up at Allegreto, and her smile faded. He had the same lost expression, the same bewildered gaze as after his confession, as if he were not sure where he should look. He seemed like a man who thought it might be some elaborate jest, and waited for the final line that would make everyone burst out in laughter at him.

  She pressed his arm, to remind him to reply.

  He glanced up, scowling. "You mock me," he said. "Or it’s a trick." He looked toward Franco Pietro. "You never agreed to this."

  The Riata narrowed his good eye. "No trick. I saw but disadvantage in the barring of our houses from marriage into the highest office of the Republic. It was a foolish act. As to the other—that you return covered in honors—" He shrugged, as if it were a trifle he disdained. "My son has asked it of me, as a boon."

  In the space between them, Matteo stood beside Nim, not looking up, stroking his hand hard through the dog’s thick fur.

  She felt Allegreto’s arm tighten and work beneath her fingers. She saw what he thought. It was a strange proclamation. A ruse, to bring him into the city where he could be arrested and even killed. This sham of celebration and feasting—they might do it; the marriage was completed, and it would be the only way to free her now for some alliance more useful to the council. It was the old way, the Monteverde that Cara had feared, that had made Allegreto what he
was, that Prince Ligurio had fought and failed to overcome. Lies and treachery and murder behind the smile—as Raymond had smiled at her.

  Allegreto stepped forward suddenly. The Riata touched the hilt of his sword; a ripple of motion and reaction that went through the men around.

  In the taut silence, wind blew a strand of Allegreto’s black hair across his face. He held out his hand. "Peace forever between our houses, Riata. I want it. Let the priest bring a Bible, and we’ll have it done this instant."

  Elena blinked. She stared at Allegreto.

  He didn’t look anywhere but at Franco Pietro. He waited, with his hand held out across a lifetime of hatred, an abyss of suspicion.

  The Riata made a sneer with his twisted lip. He reached out and gripped Allegreto. Their fists locked together. "Let it be done."

  Elena didn’t dare speak or even move, for fear of somehow altering their minds with the wrong word. But when the Bible was brought, and the priest stood between Allegreto and Franco, she found Lady Melanthe at her side. They stood and watched while Riata and Navona swore on God’s word that they were no longer enemies.

  There was a silence after they spoke. The galliots bumped with hollow wooden thuds against the quay, moved by a rising wind. A few raindrops spattered over the ground. The clouds rumbled with thunder.

  "I believe that is Prince Ligurio, looking down in wonder," Lady Melanthe said, casting an amused glance at the sky. "I hope he will not shed tears of joy all over our feast."

  Matteo suddenly made a cheer. "Bravo!" he cried in his boy’s voice. "Monteverde!"

  Elena turned and knelt down and hugged him while he leaped and danced in her arms, hardly aware of Nim’s black nose at her cheek and the voices raised in jubilance around her.

  * * *

  Allegreto kept his gaze on Elena, avoiding any other encounter, still half-lost and uncertain of his place in this new world. He watched uneasily as she received congratulations and honors and even embraces. When Prince Ligurio’s oldest councilor turned to him, reaching out to catch his shoulders, it was an effort to hold himself still and not reach for his dagger while the old man kissed both of his cheeks. But when the others seemed inclined to follow their senior’s example, Allegreto stepped back, unable even for courtesy to tolerate such close quarters.