Elayne sat up. She knew it instantly. She had never held a clear memory, never been able to conjure it in her mind, but the sight of Monteverde was like a dream she had dreamed all her life.
In the midst of the towers rose an imperious rock, a high sharp promontory walled all around, crowned by a citadel that ruled the structures below. But the lower city pushed up toward it in proud challenge, a forest of towers reaching skyward, stone fortresses tinted in rose and cream and ochre with banners flying from their rooftops. Behind it the blue mountains lay in a circle of massive defense, cradling the smooth rich valley at the head of the lake.
Allegreto sat back on his oars. He glanced over his shoulder toward the city. Then he turned a sidelong look to her from under his hood, watching her face.
Elayne put her fingers over her mouth. She felt startled and confused, almost mortified by wonderment. She shook her head a little, as if she declined some spoken invitation.
He smiled. "Not yet," he said, like a soft promise.
Never, she thought—but it was only an echo of an idea, a distant sense of trepidation. She was fallen in love. Directly and straightaway in love with a place, with the reality of it as it lay before her, lit by sun-shafts that toyed with the citadel and the towers, sparkled on the lake and vanished in cloud-shadow.
She huddled in consternation at this unforeseen sensation, watching as Gerolamo let the boat drift and Allegreto worked with him to throw out a net. As the sun angled lower, the light breeze carried them slowly toward the wild headland, as if they were only casting for fish along the shore.
Elayne still stared across the bay. It was as unexpected as his laughter, this dazzling city. Hidden by mountains, guarded by cliffs and fathomless water. Another castle held the precipice above them, overlooking the narrows from the headland. Elayne could see a colossal chain that bowed down into the water, stretching from the rocks below the fortress across the throat of the bay, marked by floating fetters. She could barely discern the other end where the cable rose again from the water below a stronghold on the far cliffs.
Tiny boats such as theirs sailed across the boundary without pause. But the laden barges and bright-painted galliots seemed to be required to pass at the center, where a pair of sturdy guard ships awaited them. A warlike galley lay in wait beyond, the oars flashing as it made a leisurely circuit of the bay.
She thought suddenly of the fleet and army of men he had lost; realizing for the first time the magnitude of that attempt. To bring such a force—from the sea—up the lake or over the mountains, or both; what devices and plans he must have had, strategies laid out like the plays in a game of chess. Five years, he said, that he had worked for it.
She thought, too, of the way her journey might have gone. Should have gone. A regal procession; a cavalcade with the green-and-silver banner overhead and a man she had never yet seen to be her bridegroom. Or perchance she would have arrived by water, in one of the glittering galliots, these pretty replicas of seagoing galleys made to ply the lake.
She felt very small, staring across to the walled towers. Someone else held it, Monteverde. Someone who could not be weak-willed or defenseless to rule this place. The citadel rose in unyielding splendor, a fortress within a fortified city. The very idea that from this little boat there could be any chance of unseating the possessor of that power was beyond her imagination.
"His ensigns fly at the water gates," Allegreto said quietly, standing beside her, his legs braced against the sway. "He means to conceal that he’s left the city."
Elayne did not have to ask who he meant. "He’s left?" she said under her breath. "Can you be sure?"
He gave a slight nod toward the distant walls. "The last standard by the western quay."
She squinted. The green-and-silver banners rose and unfurled in lazy waves in the fitful breeze. The last one seemed as the others. She glanced again along the line of banner staves that marked each quay, and only then perceived that the westernmost flag was not quite raised to the full height of its pole. The difference was so subtle that she would never have noticed if he had not told her where to look.
She released a breath and glanced up at Allegreto.
"One banner only," he said softly. "He left this day, by the western gate." He turned his bruised face toward the city, his teeth showing in a faint smile of mockery. "I knew he could not forgo to be in at the kill."
Gerolamo made a wordless grunt and jerked his chin toward the great chain.
"Aye, ’tis as Morosini told," Allegreto said. "He’s beset with rumors. Full prepared for attack. I count at least two dozen masts inside the harbor walls. I want the number of his hired companies, and who leads them, and what he’s contracted to pay—have our blessed saint send me certain word of it by way of the lamb."
The man assented, as if orders to saints and livestock were common things. The boat rocked as the two of them hauled in the empty net. With the push of an oar, they drifted into the deep shadow below the headland. Their small vessel rode up onto a tiny space of sand under the cliff. Allegreto leaped lightly ashore and turned, reaching for the bundles and staves that Gerolamo was already handing off.
Elayne rose, grabbing Gerolamo’s shoulder, comprehending their haste to be out of plain sight of the city walls. She made the jump, propelled by Allegreto’s hand toward an overhang of rock that was covered in brush. He came after, crowding close behind her under the thorny branches. When she glanced back through the leaves, she could see Gerolamo casting the fishing net again, the boat drifting slowly away from the shore.
* * *
"Sleep." The bushes shielded him as he sat on his heels, overlooking the lake and the tiny path they had ascended.
Elayne huddled back in the recess under an overhanging rock, where there was a flat space of ground and odd bits of rubbish, a wax stub and the torn and dirtied sleeve of an old chemise amid the litter of leaves. She had never felt more awake. "Sleep!" she whispered, as low as he had spoken. "I cannot."
He cast her a look from under the gray hood. There was a hardness about his face that she had not seen since the island storm. "Are you frightened?"
This cliff seemed wholly exposed, almost facing the city, with the castle directly above them so close that she could hear the sentries call their stations. "Yes!"
He nodded. "We will move after dark. I must see the sign that Gerolamo has entered the gates."
"Into the city?" she asked anxiously.
"Aye." He turned back, surveying the bay "Try to sleep," he said to the lake. "I will not fail you."
* * *
She sat with her eyes closed. She had not slept an instant, vexed by nerves and the stony ground and the prickle of dry leaves no matter how she tried to shift and sweep at the debris. It seemed that hours passed. Each time she looked through her lashes, the mountains were only a little darker, the clouds somewhat thicker, the sun rays fading slowly into a broad evening gloom.
He knelt a few feet from her in the drab gray clothes of a common man. The pointed hood had fallen back. She realized for the first time that his hair was now cut, rough curls hacked and twisting below the nape of his neck, a loose strand hanging down across his face. The colors about his eye had been fading slowly from their virulent purple to ugly shades of green. Even so, he was striking—not all of the unsightly elements together could conceal his rare looks.
In the silence of twilight the wind had gone to nothing. A deep chill descended with the shadows. From below, the lake made small clear sounds, water washing gently on the shore.
He turned his head abruptly. Elayne heard it at the same time—the slide and crunch of footsteps descending the path above them.
Thick brush covered their position from any view from the lake, but there was only a thin screen of thorn branches to shield them from the path itself. They were easily visible. As the descending intruder began to whistle an aimless tune, Allegreto moved back. He grabbed Elayne and pushed her down, his full length sprawled atop her.
Before she kn
ew what he was doing, he had pulled up her skirts to her hip, exposing her hose and bare leg. He covered her mouth in a grinding kiss, tearing at her clothes. With a fully audible groan he dragged the gown off her shoulder and plunged his hand up her skirt. Elayne made a gasping squeal of surprise.
The whistling stopped. Allegreto nipped her earlobe hard. "Hush!" he whispered, quite loud enough for anyone nearby to hear.
She gave a scared giggle. He lifted his head, his hair falling down over his eyes as he looked toward the path. He reached up and put his arm and elbow at the side of her head, blocking her from any sight of the intruder, but she knew her naked leg and shoulder must be in full view. She could feel his other hand hover near his poison dagger.
"Pleasant eve," said a man’s voice, with a hint of amusement. "Are you well?"
There was a moment of silence but for Allegreto’s harsh breath. He looked out with a malevolent glare. "Well enough for my business," he said caustically, "if you will leave me to it."
The other man chuckled. "You need no aid?"
"And bugger you!" Allegreto hissed.
"I pray you!" the interloper said wickedly. "Spare the lady’s ears!"
She felt Allegreto’s hand close on the dagger hilt. Quickly she reached up and grabbed his face between her hands and pulled him down to kiss her. She made a moan and writhed against him. His whole body went rigid. He broke away, pushing her face toward the wall.
"But she is not discontented, I see," the man said. "I will leave you to your task, then. Take care on this path after dark!"
The lazy sound of footsteps receded upward. Allegreto lay over her, looking out, until they were vanished. Then he sat back, pulling her skirt down with a snap. "Dirty goat," he muttered.
Elayne rearranged her gown and brushed small pebbles from her sleeves as she sat up. Her fear had altered to something else. She felt mortified and breathless, a peculiar exhilaration. "He seemed harmless enough," she whispered. "I’m glad you did not kill him."
"I should have." Allegreto sent a dark murderous stare after the intruder. "He knows this is a trysting place. He should have turned back without speaking."
"You know him?"
"Nay, I don’t know him. It is some lackey from the castle above, no doubt come down to do himself—" He stopped, looking conscious. "I pray your pardon. But he knows well enough. Everyone does."
Elayne looked at the torn sleeve among the leaves. She felt a mix of aversion and excitement. A sharp memory of her meeting with Raymond at the mill came to her. There was something deeply disturbing about the chance of discovery at wanton play in such a place, stirring and embarrassing at once. Allegreto’s indignation only made her want to take him around the shoulders and thrust her fingers into his rough-cut hair and pull him back down to the ground.
Their eyes met as she thought it. At once his face grew stone and cold, as if he saw into her mind and rejected such things instantly. He sprang lightly to his feet. "Did you rest?" he asked.
"A little." She watched him walk to the edge of the cliff, a figure half-lost in the growing darkness.
"We should go," he said, "before he steals back to peer again, the harlot."
Elayne rose, shaking out her skirts. "Did you ever...make a tryst here yourself?" she asked, without looking at him.
"No," he said bluntly.
She took the stave he handed to her and slanted him a smile. "Good."
He put his hands to her shoulders. For a moment she thought he might kiss her, but instead he yanked her mantle up over her head and close to her face. "Keep your eyes down, and try to walk like a modest woman," he said, holding it together under her chin. "I don’t want him supposing you will lie in the dirt and giggle for any yokel who passes by."
"Only you!" She smirked at him, tapping the side of his boot with her stave.
"Only me," he said. "Unless you care to leave a trail of dead men in your wake."
* * *
Elayne was the straggler of the party. She sat with her head down, hardly able to distinguish the sound of a pouring waterfall from the ringing in her ears. The steep paths had become agony for her; she could not seem to find enough breath to fill her lungs. Her legs burned with exhaustion. She rested on a boulder beside the misting waterfall, panting, with sweat trickling down her neck and back and soaking her chemise. If not for the vision of Margaret and Zafer in the hands of Franco Pietro’s men, there was nothing that would have made her stand up again.
What easy ground there was, they had covered in the night, under cloud-glow and a fading moon. A few hours of sleep in a thatched shed and then just before dawn the young shepherd woman had come to lead them. They climbed with a little flock of four ewes and a late-born lamb, taking paths that led upward, up and up past the vineyards and apple orchards into the fir trees, up until fingers of mist clothed the tall trunks in gray, up until Elayne’s head was pounding and she could think of nothing but how to lift one foot in front of the other. A pair of the white guardian dogs ranged alongside, loping through the pine trees and up the rocky slopes, trotting ahead and returning like pale shadows in the woods.
Allegreto had long since thrown off the gray cape and hood. Though his hair clung to his neck and he had tied a band of cloth around his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes, he did not seem to suffer from the wobbly legs and weakness that made every step a torture for Elayne. Their guide sat serenely, no more winded than the dogs. She was a lovely girl, with soft eyes and cheeks delicately touched with rose from the climb. She held the lamb in her lap, gazing up at Allegreto as if he were the angel Gabriel and she some haloed Madonna in an altarpiece. Elayne hated her.
He turned from an outcrop that overlooked the valley below. They were still within view of the city. Elayne could see it between the trees when she found strength to lift her head, a mass of red rooftops, the towers like tiny child’s toys amid a patchwork of green. A river curved across the cultivated valley, running languidly to the silver slip of lake still visible beyond the city walls. The blue mountain crags sprang up to cloudy summits, white drifts that seemed to hang so close she could touch them if she reached up her hand.
"He’s invested the eastern pass to Venice with his troops," Allegreto said in French.
Elayne could see scraps of color strung in lines along a white strip of road. They might have been tents or crowds of people, though she could make out no individual parts from this distance. The shepherd girl had brought details of the mercenaries in Franco Pietro’s hire; fifteen company of foot soldiers and eight troops of horse—to Elayne it had sounded enough to conquer the entire north of Italy.
She tried to think through the pounding in her brain, blinking wearily at the peaks on the far side of the valley. "I should not mind to have an elephant to ride across this mountain," she said.
Allegreto leaned back against a tree trunk. "An elephant?" He frowned for a moment, and then raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You have read Titus Livy, then."
"Lady Melanthe sent it with some Latin texts by Petrarch. I liked the elephants. I was sorry Hannibal did not win." She gazed down at the city and valley laid before them like a giant map. "I suppose Franco Pietro does not study ancient history. It doesn’t seem to occur to him that you might march from the north."
He gave a short laugh. "As well you were not here to suggest it to him."
"Was it your intention?"
He glanced toward the shepherdess, who had been gazing at them uncomprehendingly while they spoke in the French tongue. "In haps," he said with a shrug. "It is little matter now. How do you fare? We will move more slowly, if you wish."
Elayne lifted her face. "We must arrive in time. I can do it."
He observed her narrowly for a long moment. "I do not want you to expend yourself too far." He made a little gesture with his chin toward the shepherdess. "You are no peasant, to labor like an ox and then give birth in the field."
" ’Tis only that I am not accustomed to climb so much," she said. "I swear there
is no air to breathe here."
"Aye, ’tis harder to fill your lungs in the mountains," he said. "We will rest more often."
"I don’t want to make us delay." She planted her staff among the fir needles and pulled herself to her feet.
"Sit down," he said.
"But—"
"Sit." He came toward her with such suddenness that she sat back on the boulder abruptly. "I wish to see you take more sustenance," he said. "You’ve eaten little." He grabbed up one of their bundles and began to pull out bread and apples.
In her exhausted state Elayne had no desire to eat. But she saw that he was determined on it. And in truth, if she was to go on, she had to find a source of vigor from somewhere. She took an apple and sank her teeth into it obediently. He laid before her bread and olives, along with a rosemary-scented sausage and cheese enough for two or three people, then knelt on one knee beside her. He examined and tasted each and cut off pieces and watched her eat until she could not take another bite. Then, when she would have risen to walk on, he bid her sit longer and rest.
She knew the source of this overbearing concern. She had seen Sir Guy insist on the same sort of indulgences to Cara when she was with child.
"Do not make foolish delay for me," she said to him. "You must be there."
"And leave you by the wayside?" He pitched an apple core into the roaring cascade.
"Aye, if you must!"
He shook his head. "There is time."
"How long?"
He looked away from her. "There is time." He tied the food bundle to the end of his stave.
"You cannot be certain," she said. "Think of Zafer and Margaret, and what you have forgotten—"
"I think of it every moment," he said curtly. "And other things, also. Waste no more of your precious breath on this, madam." He stood up over her. "Rest until I command you otherwise."
* * *
On the summit of a mountain pass they paused again at a tiny wooden shrine. They had climbed up out of the trees into blowing snow, where the only plants were grasses and lichen and a few miniature flowers clinging to the crevices of rocks, whipping in the wind. Elayne kept her head down, facing away from the gale and huddling within her mantel, holding her gloved hands under her arms. The rock she sat upon felt like a block of ice.
The Medieval Hearts Series Page 123
