The Medieval Hearts Series

by Laura Kinsale

  He took courage from it as he rode into the open air of the piazza. From the other direction, in a stir of motion, a troop led Franco Pietro into the square. The mass of the duomo came wholly into view, dwarfing the horses and people, the great steps rising to a gigantic bronze door. The beautiful bands of green and white stone were like bannered stripes painted all the way around the walls, one atop the other. The sun struck full on the great mosaic of the Annunciation, a glitter of gold and turquoise and scarlet arched above the door. Allegreto knew every detail of it without turning his face, as he knew without looking directly at her that Elena stood beneath it at the top of the stairs.

  The crowd began to rumble now. Next to the princess stood the bishop, and behind her a line of men. Allegreto knew only some of them; he recognized merchants and councilors, others who carried the badges of Venice and Milan and Ferrara. Near to her elbow stood a handsome peacock in parti-colored red-and-blue, his tunic adorned by white fleur-de-lis. Allegreto remembered the English insignia with clarity. He stared with cold venom at Raymond de Clare. It spared him looking at Elena, or knowing if she looked at him.

  The Englishman paid him no heed. He seemed more interested in Franco Pietro, watching with a solemn look as the Riata was led to the foot of the steps. Allegreto dismounted under the rough command of soldiers. He saw no sign of preparations for an execution. He hoped then that she intended to pass sentence here before the church and withdraw to let her soldiers carry it out elsewhere. The noise of the people grew louder, anticipating.

  Escorted by the guards, he climbed the steps with Franco. He would have thought to feel humiliation, but instead a sense of bitter victory filled him to see the Riata share his fate. She gave him that much at least, that there was some ultimate purpose and aim in the end. There was Ligurio’s peace, this mad marvel of an idea she meant to make real, and a white blaze of hate for Franco Pietro that almost blinded Allegreto as he stood before the crowd. He closed his eyes. He did not need to see or hear; for once he needed no caution or defense. Vaguely he was aware that the noise of the assembly began to rise to a roar. The tight grip on his arms loosened and left him.

  He felt a cool touch lift his hands. The contact startled him. He opened his eyes in a sea of sound, the bellow of the crowd echoing and washing in thunderous waves from the walls of the duomo to the towers and back.

  Elena stood before him. She was looking down at his hands, inserting a key into the manacles. He could hear nothing but the roar; see nothing but the heavy gold circle of her crown over the black braids coiled about her head. The chains fell away and struck the ground, the sound of it lost in the clamor. She turned to Franco Pietro beside him and did the same.

  The noise of the crowd rose to a deafening pitch, a note of confusion and ferment and outrage. They had expected what Allegreto had expected. Not this. As he stood in disbelief, she raised her hand high, holding the keys.

  Sudden silence rolled outward from where they stood, the crowd-sound falling away into the streets and the distance like something living that ran away.

  "We are all Monteverde!" she called, her voice loud and strong. "All of us." She lifted her eyes to Franco, and then to Allegreto. She held his gaze for an instant, that open level look, the violet-blue depths of the lake. In the quiet she tossed the keys down onto the stairs, a faint clatter in the sudden immense stillness. "You are free. Do what you will."

  He was aware of Franco looking toward him, half-turned to see from his good eye. Allegreto looked back, confounded. He saw Franco unbound—a thousand possibilities seemed to threaten on the instant. There were arms, men, riots; she was overwhelmed and taken down in a flood of combat; Franco declared himself in control; Riata took the streets and the citadel...

  Neither of them moved. They both stood as if some sorcery held them in suspended motion while Elena and the crowd waited.

  The silence stretched.

  The guards had their weapon hands at ready. Allegreto saw that he could not kill Franco, not without ending in both of them slaughtered on the steps before her eyes. He thought it—saw Franco think it. Allegreto was willing to die, but he did not believe Franco was. Nay, the Riata had only to step back, avoid a blow, and watch Allegreto be cut down for trying.

  He would not leave her that way, in the midst of an attempt at murder. He glared at Franco in defiance. It would be both of them or neither.

  The Riata’s lip twisted in disdain. He turned back to the princess as if Allegreto were some mongrel growling from the gutter. With a sudden intake of breath, Franco raised his fist and shouted, "Monteverde!" His voice echoed off the wall of the duomo as he went to his knee before Elena, bowing his head down in a clear act of submission.

  The crowd broke into an uproar. Allegreto found Elena turned to him, looking at him steadily—expectantly. Don’t believe him. He stared back at her, willing her to see through this mockery. It’s a ruse. It’s a lie.

  But she gave him no choice. She made it impossible to reason. He could not refuse in public to give the same that Franco claimed to offer. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head amid the sheet of sound that broke over him. The hard stone pressed into his joints. He stared at her hem, the pointed toes of her green slippers peeking from under a heavy embroidery of gold and silver thread. He said nothing, shouted no declaration of loyalty to please the crowd. She had bound him long past.

  After a moment she offered her hand. He took it and pressed it to his lips and forehead.

  "Gardi li mo," he said against her skin, as if she could hear him. "You know I am yours."

  She curled her hand into a fist and drew it away, touching his shoulder, bidding him rise.

  It was like a dream as she leaned up to him and pressed her cheek to his. He would not look at her. He could not. He made her a stranger in his mind, the warmth of her skin a formal touch, the flash of gold and gems from her crown a barrier. He bore it as she let Franco kiss her hand and rise and press his scarred cheek to hers. Allegreto was ready to kill if the Riata made any deceptive move, any hint of a threat. But the soldiers, too, were ready, and the crowd roaring its approval was another safeguard. At their displeasure he and Franco would be torn apart.

  She outwitted them all with this unexpected play. He felt a flash of admiration for the pure foolish boldness of it, and a profound desire to gut the smug Englishman who stood grinning behind her as if someone had just handed him the keys to the mint. When she turned away from Franco and gave Raymond de Clare a shy, conscious smile in return, Allegreto nearly lost his rule over himself.

  Only for a moment did she glance at the English pig. But it was enough. Allegreto felt his mind and heart vanish down a black well, a darkness that finally swallowed him whole.

  * * *

  Elena went through the processions and celebrations of the first day in a haze of dread. She had designed the list of events to keep Franco and Allegreto well-occupied and within sight of one another—and never beyond her view or Dario’s. She made sure they had no time to make connection with any of their followers. She might have freed them, but she was not so rash as to give them easy opportunities.

  Only Raymond had known of her plan. She feared that she was unjust to him, using his devotion to sustain her courage when both of them knew his love had no future. But he did not falter or turn away. He found reasons to linger in Monteverde. Philip and Dario were staunch friends, but their understanding was not wide. Philip was a soldier, and Dario a watchdog to his bones—they could not see beyond their concerns to the greater scope of affairs. They were horrified at what she had done by freeing her prisoners. But Raymond understood. He comprehended Prince Ligurio’s words. Milan threatened, and they must—they must—all stand together.

  But she thought of the look on Allegreto’s face as he rose on the steps of the duomo, and her blood chilled. She had hoped that when they understood the danger, he and Franco would relinquish their enmity and work with her to form a defense. She had discussed it long with Raymond, and he h
ad agreed that only a daring stroke could break the impasse. But now she was not sure.

  A maid made a final adjustment to the net that held her hair and replaced the heavy crown. Elena was sick of it, of holding herself straight and unbending under the weight. She drew a breath and lifted her head, signaling the guard to open the doors. The chamberlain announced her grandly—the Magnificent, the Prima Elect, the Principessa Elena di Monteverde. She walked from her privy chamber to the presence-room, where Dario waited with Franco and Allegreto.

  Franco bowed immediately, a smooth flourish, withholding nothing. Allegreto looked directly at Elena, his face calm. But she saw death in his eyes, cold and certain.

  He made a mocking bow, not quite complete. In the failing light from the open windows, it seemed to Elena that they were all a set of gorgeously dressed puppets on a rich stage, surrounded by frescoed walls and tapestries, going through motions set by some unseen master. She gave them each a nod of recognition, equally courteous. But her heart was shrinking in her chest. She felt a girl-child among men, as if it were an effrontery even to stand in this room and claim authority over them.

  "I will not delay us long before the banquet." She had to force herself to speak. "I called upon you to come so that I might explain what I’ve done. I can wait no longer for you to agree to peace between yourselves. There is word that Milan may make an attempt against us. I require the complete loyalty of your houses to Monteverde above all. Do I have it?"

  "Certainly, Princess," Franco said. "Do you wish us to take an oath before God?"

  Allegreto’s mouth curled as he glanced at Franco Pietro. "I cannot take any oath before God, for the Pope says my face offends Him." He lifted his dark lashes and looked at Elena. "You know well enough where my loyalty lies."

  For one moment she thought of the room in his father’s tower, the brief days of love and pain. But she put it away from her; she could not bear it and find words to speak at the same time. "I do not require an oath." She lifted her eyes to Allegreto. "Someone once said to me that they are easily made and easily broken. But I do not think either of you wishes for us to fall before Milan, and as long as we are divided, we are in great danger. So I ask you to consider that, and restrain from creating discord and insecurity among the people."

  "I understand, Princess," Franco said. His scarred face was reddened with some emotion, but she did not know him well enough to guess what he truly felt. This sermon on loyalty from the young maid who had overthrown him could hardly be sweet to his ears. But she hoped. She hoped. The meetings with Matteo had gone better.

  She looked to Allegreto. "Will you hold your house in check?"

  He did not reply, but watched Franco Pietro with a shadowed study, that steady, lethal contemplation like a wild creature hidden in the trees. Then, with a soft laugh, he glanced at Elena. "I have played this game with you so far, have I not? Princess."

  The title hung in the room, a mockery. She knew she would get no clearer answer from him.

  Franco gave him a glowering look from his one eye, his hand at his girdle, as if he wore a sword. Then he turned back to Elena. "What word do you have of this offense from Milan?"

  "I mean for Philip to advise you both of all we have heard. The ambassador says it is not so, of course, but there is some possibility that they intend to use the lake for an attack from the south. It is well that we’ve repaired the castles there, but they have little yet to garrison them."

  "The condottiere?"

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

  She did not 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 is needed for defense, they will pay."

  "We will all pay if I hire more," she said bluntly. "I will not tax the merchants alone for it."

  Franco gave a shrug. "What you will, Princess."

  "I have decided not to use outsiders for our further defense," she said. 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. "Nay, 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 have no intention to steal it again, why should it offend you if I garrison my own property?"

  "You devil spawn! If she is fool enough to trust you, I am 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 was not sorry to suspend the talk. She glanced at the guard, bidding him to open. There was a commotion as the arched doors swung wide, voices...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 has happened?" Elena hurried forward, reaching for Raymond to help steady him, but he pushed her away feebly.

  "He was attacked on the way into the citadel, Your Grace," the man said. "Half-killed him, but he wouldn’t have us do aught but carry him straight to you with the news."

  "She must know," Raymond muttered, 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.

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

  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. She could not tell if he had been stabbed as well as beaten, but there was enough blood to terrify her. 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 had already thought the same. Her lip quivered with a sudden dreadful weakness. She did not 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 did not 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!"

&nb
sp; "And I am 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 is not breathing his last," Allegreto said with contempt. "More’s the pity."

  The surgeon came running into the chamber. He halted, as if it startled him to see Elena and the others there, and fell into a deep bow. "Your Grace! I beg your pardon! I was called here." He glanced at Raymond where he lay stretched on the hurdle, his face pale and strained. The surgeon bent to his knee, started to pull the torn doublet open, and then looked up. "Sirs! Take this man to the surgery. This is no fit place to examine him."

  Elena stood back as the guards and Philip’s men gathered around to lift the hurdle. To see Raymond lying still and bloody wrenched her with guilt. She should never have allowed him so near to her, never permitted friendship or intimacy, even as careful as she had been to make certain they were always in view of company. "Send me news instantly. No one is to speak abroad of this."

  "As you command, Your Grace!" He bowed again, 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 will swear on God’s holy writ that I did not 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 at her cheeks, pulling her hood close. "Only me," he whispered in her memory. "Unless you care to leave a trail of dead men in your wake."

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