As he came into the bedchamber, Nimue lifted her head, a pale outline in the dark. She knew better than to bark at him—from the time she was a pup, she’d learned to give silent greetings to Allegreto or Zafer. Allegreto stood still as the dog rose and padded to him, sniffing and pressing against his legs. He rubbed her ears and scratched the place under her collar that she liked. Together they moved across the chamber to the window embrasure where Allegreto had always slept when Melanthe ordered him out of her bed.
He was taller now, and the stone had no pillows or cushion on it. He drew up one leg and let the other hang over the edge, resting his foot on Nimue’s warm coat. From the bed came a faint, steady sound of sleep. He laid his head back against the window and kept his vigil, as he always had.
* * *
Elena stared through the crack in the bed-curtains. She lay tense, telling herself there was no one there. She did not rest well; any small sound could have woken her from the first light drowse of sleep. Matteo was breathing steadily, a child’s soft comforting snores. Nimue drew a great breath and let go a sigh from somewhere by the window.
There was no one. The outer door was under guard all night. The dog would not have suffered any intruder. But she sat up, trying to see into darkness.
The attack on Raymond had unnerved her. She chose to believe Allegreto, but if he had not done it, then someone else had. Monteverde had its boisterous youths and a few street thieves, but they did not wear Riata’s colors.
Nim sighed again, her toenails scraping wood as she turned on the floor and resettled herself. Elena tried to calm her thumping heart. She caught the edge of the curtain and drew it open as silently as she could.
She distinguished Nim’s white shape beneath the window. And a shock of fear flashed through her to see the shape of a man against the glass.
"Do not fear, Elena," he said softly.
She made a faint sound, holding her hand over the pulse pounding in her throat. "Allegreto?" she whispered.
"Aye."
She let go a great breath of relief. For a moment she sat propped on her hand, trying to gather her wits. Then she carefully laid back the sheets and slipped from the bed.
She wore only a light shift. The night air outside the curtains was cool, the Turkey carpet soft against her feet. She did not know where the maid had laid her robe, but it was dark. Nim scrambled up as Elena drew near the window. She saw Allegreto rise, a black silhouette against the round panes of glass.
"What is it?" she asked, a bare whisper.
"Franco is at liberty," he said, so low she could hardly catch it. He shrugged. "So I am here. Gardi li mo."
"You can’t stay here." She could not judge the distance in the dark, and her leg touched him. She felt his hand on her arm.
He made a faint sound, like a slow moan in his throat, moving his hand up her shoulder. "I should not."
Her body took instant flame at his touch. He pulled her against him, enfolding her in his arms, crushing her to velvet and silk and his solid shape.
Elena allowed it, going pliant in response. Her head fell back as he kissed her, his hands sliding down her back, tangling in her loose hair; heat and desire like smoke rising through her brain.
He broke away, breathing deeply. "Elena," he whispered beside her ear. "You have driven me mad. I know not what I do anymore."
Matteo turned and shifted in his sleep, causing the bed to creak. Elena slid her fingers into Allegreto’s hair. She held him close, tracing her lips over his jaw, barely touching. She could feel him restrain himself, his breath caught, his hands motionless, pressing into her skin.
Suddenly a shudder ran through him. He gripped her close, bending to her throat. "Come up the stairs." His whisper was hoarse against her skin.
She nodded, her spirits lifting with reckless joy. It was madness, after all. He twined his fingers with hers and led her. Her bare feet found cold stone at the step through the door. He closed the door behind them, leaving an inquisitive Nim in the bedchamber with Matteo.
Elena ran lightly up the chilly stairs. She felt enlivened, almost weightless without the crown and the furs and the heavy robes of office. It was a secret thing, a mystery between them. She turned at the top, shivering. He caught her in his arms and spun her, drew her unerring to the bed alcove in the dark.
She fell upon it with a sound of delight, stifling her hand over her mouth like a silly child in mischief. All fear and care and worry fell away from her as he came over her, pulling the shift over her head, kissing her throat and her breasts. He tore back the sheets and turned her with him into the depths of the bed.
She quivered, cold and heat and his touch pouring like light through every limb. She sought eagerly for his lips, drawing him close, naked beneath his weight.
There was more moonlight here. When he pulled back, leaning over her on his arms, she could see his face and the gleam of silver threads on the collar of his tunic. His beauty yet stunned her, even more now, when she had not seen him for months gone.
"How I love you," she whispered, touching his face.
He groaned and kissed her palm. Then he rolled away from her, casting a glance about the silent chamber. "It is folly. God shield us, this is folly."
She knew it was. She did not care. She caught the folds of his tunic and worked at the light belt that crossed his hips. He looked down at her as she did it, watching her as if he were bespelled.
The belt came free. Elena leaned and drew the velvet upward. He sat upright suddenly and tore it over his head, taking his shirt with it. She pulled him to her, kissing his chest, running her fingers along the fine shape of his collarbone and shoulder.
On a loop about his neck hung a ring, a soft flash of gold. She caught it in her fist and held it to her lips. Then she flung her arms about him and drew her teeth over his nipple.
He gripped her hair, his body going still. "Don’t," he whispered hoarsely. "Have mercy."
She would not. She twined her leg with his, pressing up against him, opening her body for him as she closed her teeth.
He gasped for air, holding her head against his chest. Elena slid her hands down and dragged at the ties on his hose. She slipped her fingers beneath into the hot gap, seeking the heavy shape of his manhood. She did not hurt him, but caressed the tip gently while his mouth pressed hard into her hair.
He made sounds of desperation, holding himself taut. He shivered as she ran her hand down the length of him. Then he wrenched away, pulling her upright. "Turn over," he hissed, rising. He made her roll away from him, quick and brutal, dragging her up by the waist and shoving his cock between her legs from behind.
Elena knelt, eager to be penetrated. But it was his hand that found her place, sliding over her, partly inside, sending waves of pleasure through her body. She arched against it, closing her legs on his shaft. He began to move hard against her, thrusting against her buttocks, sliding on the exquisite wetness between her thighs.
She pressed her face into a velvet pillow, panting, swallowing the whimpering cry that rose in her throat. She bent down before him, her hair falling around her, taking his thrusts, each pressure of his hand carrying her closer to ecstasy. When it came, it burst over her, a throbbing rupture that seized her limbs and made her cry out into the pillow. He held her hips and made a stifled groan, a sound deep in his chest as he arched, his body surging against her. Warmth flooded her belly, his seed spilling free as he gave a hoarse sob.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her up against him. They knelt together in the bed, the last tremors of his climax still flowing through him. Elena leaned her forehead on the pillow, all her strength gone. She breathed deeply and pressed back up against him for the lingering pleasure of it.
For a long time he held her under him, his shaft growing soft. The wet sign of his completion slid and tickled between her thighs. He exhaled in a harsh breath, a warm flow over her back and her hair, and pushed himself upright.
Elena turned over on her side. The
scent of him covered her. He pulled her back against him, lying close.
"Christ, we are fools," he whispered. "I will have to go away."
She caught his hands and gripped them against her. "No."
"I cannot endure it," he said, pushing up, pulling free of her hold. "I can’t leave you to Franco. But I can’t stay by you, or we’ll..." He looked about at the disarrayed sheets like a man who had just woken from a nightmare. "This is too great a hazard. Someone will discover it."
His seed had stained the bed; even in the dimness Elena could see it, and feel it spread slick on her belly and thighs. The musky perfume of coupling was strong. But she turned over and pulled him down again, holding him to her, drowning in the feel of his skin and the heavy heat of his body on hers.
He kissed her open-mouthed, resisting her pull even as his tongue searched deep. He wrenched free and rolled over, rising from the bed. As he grabbed his shirt and tunic, he murmured, "Wait here."
Elena watched him vanish through the dark mass of a doorway. She lay among the tousled sheets and breathed the scent of what they had done. She thought of the rest of her life without this, the rest of her life as the past year had been; a cold pretense of power, uneasy vigilance, never allowing what she felt to show. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned into the pillow.
She understood Cara’s fears for her now. She knew why her sister had wept and turned away, as if Elena were already lost to life. And yet each day that she looked out of her grandfather’s window over the city and the lake, she felt an ache in her, a love for the stern beauty of the stone towers, for the people crowding in the narrow streets below, the chaos of color and sound as the merchants shouted and donkeys brayed. The common people were like children, living each moment readily; quick to laugh and argue, to drop their work to gather and cheer whenever Elena showed herself in the city. The nobles and merchants of high family had more reserve, but they too lived with vigor, with a delight in paintings and gorgeous clothes and the eternal competition to build the most impressive tower. She had met men of education who spoke to her with respect, and talked to her of books as if she were a man able to have judgments of her own.
She did not hate Monteverde. She could not. It was hers. Her home and her own people, and the very thought of Milan ruling over them made her sick and angry.
She hugged the pillow to her breast, feeling the gold embroidery scratch her skin. When he said he would go away, she knew where he would go. Into exile again. Il Corvo and the black castle. Exile. As long as she had been able to look out the window, across the lake, and know that he was there, she could endure it. If he went beyond where she could see, she did not think she had the power to go on.
She could turn away from all of it. She thought of it sometimes in the dark, hearing the guard change outside her door. She thought of it now.
His silent silhouette passed from the door and moved across the chamber, returning. "Bathe with this," he said softly, passing her a dampened towel. "Then you must go. I’ll do what I can to arrange the bedsheets."
Elena used the towel to wash herself. She sat up, cleansing away the traces as she could, and stood. "You will not go now," she said anxiously, holding his arms.
"Not yet." He brushed his lips to her forehead. "There is Franco. And—something else." He paused. He held her cheeks between his palms, frowning down at her. "For the love of God, be wary, Elena! Let me send Zafer to you."
She stood in his hold. "I have Dario."
"Dario is too trusting," he said. He gave a dry laugh under his breath. "He even trusts me. If Zafer were with you, I would never have been able to reach your bedchamber."
She swallowed. "Do not send Zafer, then."
He clasped her tightly to him, pressing his lips to her hair. Elena stood holding him hard, trying not to believe that she might never have this moment again.
"You must return," he said. "We’ve been too long here."
"Allegreto." She lifted her head. "Let us go back." She wrapped her fingers around his arms. "Back to the island. We can go together, and leave all of this."
His body grew still. He pushed her away, looking down at her face.
"We would be safe there," she said. "I could be with you."
He tilted his head a little, gazing down at her as if he looked at something far away and lost. "There is safety there no longer, Elena. There never was." He traced his finger down her cheek. "Wherever I am is hazard for you."
"I do not care," she said desperately. "Am I safe here without you? Nay—it is as you said—there is no place in the world without jeopardy."
He closed his eyes. His black lashes rested on his skin. "Elena, you tear my heart. And I do not have one."
"You do," she whispered. "You gave it to me to guard." She made a small sad sound, pressing her hand to the shape of the ring beneath his tunic. "I have done poor work of it."
He shook his head, lowering his forehead to hers. "My only queen." He took her chin and kissed her gently. "You are all that I will ever love, in this life and beyond."
She clutched the loose folds of his unbelted tunic in her fists, leaning to him, burying her face against him. "Do not desert me," she breathed.
"I will be here." He set her away, pushing her chin up with his thumbs. "Even if you cannot see me. Now you must go down, before Matteo discovers you gone."
TWENTY-EIGHT
Allegreto scorned tournaments and the ignorant blocks who galloped about on horses, knocking their heads together for the joy of it. Franco Pietro had accepted the princess’s invitation to participate; he was striding around dressed in full armor, braying to his men like a heroic donkey. Allegreto did not know if it was the princess or Matteo that the Riata was so stirred to impress, or both, perchance, for he made great show of kneeling before the dais where they sat, his black armor gleaming dully under the blue shield painted with Riata’s dragon badge.
He was good. It was an old thorn he had twisted often in Allegreto’s side. Gian Navona had never allowed his bastard son to participate in the lists. Allegreto had not known if it was some concern for his safety or only because a bastard was not suffered to champion Navona in such a public entertainment. But Franco had taunted him with cowardice, urging Allegreto to ignore his father and at least join the boys in their practice for the events.
Allegreto had never been such a fool as that. He would not give Franco a chance to knock him down with a blunted lance, or Gian a reason to doubt his obedience. So he had stood against the wall and watched, as he did now.
Knights from Ferrara and Tuscany and Milan fought. There were even some Germans, and a pair of Frenchmen sent to represent the condottieri. It was a hastilude, merely for pleasure, and so the weapons were dulled, but the Riata made an excellent showing by bashing several contenders off their mounts. The walls of the citadel were draped with banners and crowded with spectators who waved colorful flags, shouting wildly at each course. Above the low-pitched, eerie moan of the long mountain horns peculiar to Monteverde, the cheers rose to a passionate roar when Franco challenged the knight from Milan and rode off the field triumphant, leaving his opponent on the ground and leading away the warhorse as a prize.
Whatever bitterness they might have felt for Franco Pietro before, he was beloved of the crowd now. Even Matteo was standing, shouting with the rest as his father rode to the princess and presented the armored destrier with a bow. The boy said something eagerly to Elena, received a smiling nod, and sprang over the draped railing on the dais with a child’s carelessness. Nimue came right after him, under the rail, nearly taking down a swag of cloth as she scrambled from the dais. Elena stood and clapped while Matteo took possession of the great warhorse and led it from the lists at his father’s side.
Allegreto stood straight from the wall. He turned away.
With somewhat less than courtesy, he pushed his way through the swarm of onlookers. He found Zafer at the foot of the steep ramp that led down from the main fortress to the level of the tournamen
t yard. He exchanged a glance with the infidel youth and walked on alone up the incline.
He avoided the imposing shadow of the great tower and circled instead through the smithy, where all work was suspended, even the bellows and tools carried down to the tournament grounds to provide repairs. In the nearly deserted precincts of the upper citadel, he passed through the empty guard barracks, ducking under the low beams, and entered a small courtyard. The walls resounded with distant sound, a faint rumble in the quiet. In the afternoon light, olive trees and herbs gave off a pleasant scent.
The tourney would be over soon. The princess was to journey part of the distance to d’Avina before nightfall, in preparation for the reenactment of her first glorious procession to the gates of Monteverde. Allegreto thought it a foolish scheme, a dangerous excursion from the city. But her favorite, Raymond, had put the idea in her head, and so country maids were harvesting sunflowers and mending their best clothes all along the road from the mining town, in readiness to laud the princess as she passed.
Allegreto paused in the court, looking at the small door that led to the guards’ infirmary. It was a chamber cut into the side of the rock itself, bricked out by more stones to make a room. Broom weeds grew in the cliff beside the deep passage to the open door.
There was no sign of the surgeon. The single guard was snoring softly, propped insensible against the stone wall. Zafer had made sure of that. Allegreto moved silently into the doorway. Raymond de Clare lay on a pallet, sleeping. There was a bandage about his head, and another across his ribs.
Allegreto leaned on the crude frame of the door. The Englishman seemed to be resting easily for a man who had been almost beaten to death. Zafer had discovered from the surgeon that Clare had no bones broken, and only a few cuts across his chest. From the moment Raymond had stumbled into the presence-chamber, whining as if he were like to expire, Allegreto had been sure he was not gravely injured.
It would be easy to gravely injure him now. Easy enough to take one of the surgeon’s knives from the box by the door and slip it into the Englishman’s heart. The wound might even be overlooked—Allegreto could use the most slender pick and wipe the spot of blood on the bandages. The man died of some internal harm from the beating. And Raymond de Clare would no longer be a question, for Allegreto or anyone else.
The Medieval Hearts Series Page 136
