Elena did not 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 circumstance. 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.
Lady Melanthe beckoned him, offering reprieve and excuse with a knowing smile. He returned a nod, relieved to attend her. Melanthe understood him well.
She extended her hand as he went to his knee before her. He touched his lips to her fingers, the gesture and the scent of her so familiar that he could almost imagine his father standing by them, feel again the terror of discovery if Gian should guess how they had cheated him of all his aims.
Long ago now, that moment when both of their futures had dangled on a sheer thread of lies and fear. But Melanthe had never faltered in her nerve. Not once. Allegreto rose, meeting her eyes. She seemed smaller, even with her proud bearing and tall headpiece. He had to look down at her, something he never recalled before.
"My lady," he said coolly, exposing nothing of the unexpected emotion that rose in him. "Your husband is well?"
"Lord Ruadrik is well, God be praised. And my son and daughter." Abruptly she held his hand so hard that her rings cut into his fingers. "I wish the same blessings for you, Allegreto."
"Blessings." He gave a slight laugh as he looked away from her, out toward the lake. "That is a strange thought."
"It will soon feel more familiar," she said. "I pray so. For my Ellie’s sake."
He looked back at her and tilted his head. "Do you care so much? I’ve wondered at the incompetence of those knights you chose for her protection."
"The Hospitallars? Ah. Yes, hopeless fools, indeed." She watched Elena laugh as Matteo and Nim cavorted before the crowd, then added softly, "Are all accounts in balance between us now?"
"Damn you, my lady," he murmured. "What a risk it was."
She gave a small shrug. "A chance. When there was no other. Elena was equal to it."
"Aye, she is worse than you in her daring, God defend me."
Lady Melanthe smiled, still watching Elena. "And are we even now, Allegreto?"
"We are, my lady," he said.
"Take care of her," the countess said fiercely. Her rings glittered as she pushed a silken veil back from her shoulder. "There is no other I would trust as you to do it." She turned away, leaving him standing alone amid the gay assembly.
* * *
In Gian’s tower Elena held open the shutters and looked out at the sunset over the lake. The chamber was cleaned and refurbished, draped in white Damascene silk with red roses woven through it. Nothing was the same—all of Gian’s furnishings were gone. Even the bed had been replaced, and the floor covered over in soft rush mat. But the clear rain-washed air and the mountains looming far across the water were still bathed in pink and gold like a vision of eternity.
She wore a loose robe. She had not allowed Margaret or even Cara to attend her in the tower. She felt fortunate that the whole of the council had not decided to lend their dignified presences to the bedding. But they seemed content to confine themselves to rowdy song and the clatter of metal pots and spoons in the courtyard below. Even in the tower, she could hear Nim’s barking and Matteo’s excited voice among the others. It was the first wedding he had attended, and he found the gay feast and noisy mattinata much to his liking.
Allegreto did not. By the time he came into the chamber, still dressed in his wedding clothes, breathing deeply from the steep flight of stairs, he leaned back on the door and glared at her bale-fully. "God spare us," he muttered. "When did your sister learn to become amorous in her cups?"
"Oh, was she?" Elena asked airily. "I did not notice."
"Only because I would not allow her to sit in my lap." He pushed off from the door, looking at Elena as if she were to blame.
"I think she was a little—nervous."
"No doubt she thought I would poison her wine. Although that did not prevent her from drinking a vat of it."
Elena clasped her hands. "So you did not find your love for her revived?"
"Hell-cat," he said darkly, "I will poison her wine, if she does not comport herself with better modesty."
Elena pressed a smile from her lips. "I know you prefer modest females."
He stalked to the big traveling chest that held her clothing and sat down on the game boards painted on the top. He pulled off his soft ankle boots. Then he sat up, keeping his gaze averted from her. He seemed to find the black-and-white dagger points on the playing table to be of great interest.
She kept her hands clasped together. "I thank you for the vow you made. With Franco."
"It was my penance from the priest." He lifted his head, his look traveling from her toes up to her face. "It was that or walk barefoot to Jerusalem, so..." He shrugged.
Silence prevailed between them. Elena stood by the window, her hair all down about her like a virgin maid’s, her chin lowered a little. From under her lashes, she looked at his feet clad in the silvery-white hose.
"You are not trying to appear modest, are you?" he asked suspiciously.
Elena blinked, her eyes wide.
He rose with an easy move. She lowered her face even more as he walked across the chamber to her, until she could only see his belt and daggers hung low on his hips, and his feet set apart as he stood before her. She kept her fingers clasped and her eyes down as he lifted her chin on his thumb.
"Mary!" he growled. "Have me thrown in some dungeon, before I suppose I’ve wed the wrong bride."
She ran her tongue over her upper lip. "You would like that?"
"Oh, yes." He lowered his mouth to hers, barely touching. "If you will come and torment me there."
"Allegreto," she whispered, looking up into his dark eyes. "I love you."
"My heart is in chains, hell-cat," he said. He pulled her close, his hands in a merciless tangle in her hair. "If I had one."
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many of you know that for a time, it was quite a struggle for me to finish Shadowheart. I owe thanks to a number of people for helping me make it through when my fickle muse went on strike. The patience and support I received from my agent, Richard Curtis, and Leslie Gelbman, president and publisher of Berkley Books, were invaluable and went far beyond anything I deserved. To all the online chat "regulars" at Holly Lisle’s Forward Motion Writers’ Community, my deepest appreciation for word wars and brainstorms and helping me realize that writing was fun again. In particular, June Drexler Robertson, Andi Ward, and Sheila Kelly were my enthusiastic partners in plotting twists and encouraging me to keep at it when I faltered. Charles R. Rutledge, my "fight man," generously offered his expertise in choreographing all that good violence and assassin stuff. My thanks also to Hol
ly for creating such a wonderful resource and support system for writers on the Internet, and to my volunteer "checkers" who helped me catch errors in the manuscript.
And as always...I owe the most to David, who said it didn’t matter either way, writing or no writing, we’d be okay.
Thank you.
Find out more about my books at www.laurakinsale.com
SHADOWHEART:
New Condensed Version
ONE
Forest of Savernake,
in the fifth year of the reign
of King Richard II
On Plow Monday, all the chickens died.
Elayne knew she shouldn’t have tried to substitute a chicken feather for the quill from a magical hoopoe bird. But Savernake Forest did not harbor hoopoe birds. In truth Elayne had no notion what a hoopoe bird looked like—the only place she had ever seen the name of the creature was in the handbook of charms and experiments that contained her formula.
Elayne felt that it was hardly certain her small attempt at a love spell had caused the complete demise of the Savernake poultry. But Cara’s suspicion would fall on Elayne. Cara’s suspicion always fell on Elayne. It could not be hoped that her older sister would overlook the sudden termination of every fowl in town.
Elayne pulled her mantle close, striding over the frozen ground away from the village. She could feel the black feather and small waxen figure hidden beneath her chemise, tickling her skin like a finger of guilt.
As she neared the abandoned mill, a small herd of the king’s deer looked up from browsing at a frost-rimed thicket. They bounded away as Raymond stepped out from behind the great mill wheel. He held out his gloved hands to her, but Elayne turned her face away, suddenly shy. She thought him the handsomest man in Christendom, but in her agitation and guilt, she could not quite look at him just then.
"No welcome for me?" he asked, amusement in his voice.
"Yes," Elayne said. The word came out a breathless squeak, barely audible. She forced herself to raise her eyes, assuming worldliness and experience with a lift of her chin, and made a little courtesy. "Kind greeting, Sir Knight."
"Oh, we’re on ceremony, then," he said, grinning. He gave a bow worthy of the king’s court—not that Elayne had ever been within a week’s ride of the king’s court, but she felt certain that Raymond’s great sweep, showing the red-and-black slashed sleeves of his doublet under his fine scarlet cloak, must be admirably suited to it.
She evaded his gaze as he straightened, feeling that if she could not touch his face—only touch his face, or take a loop of his thick chestnut hair about her finger—that she would die of unrequited love before the night was gone. Instead she put her foot onto the frozen millrace. Eluding his offered hand, she jumped over the icy channel and started to walk past him. He turned as she did and walked with her, brushing her shoulder. Elayne made a skip, moving ahead of him, pushing aside a bare branch that overhung the doorway of the old mill.
He laughed and flicked her cheek. "You’re avoiding me, little cat."
She said lightly, "It’s a favor to you. In faith, sir, you can’t wish to dally with such a rustic as I!"
He caught her shoulder, turning her to face him. For an instant he looked down into her eyes—she felt his hand, his fingers pressing her through the thick gray wool of her cote-hardie. "No, how could I not?" he asked softly. "How could I find a sparkling diamond at my feet and fail to pick it up?"
Elayne stared at his mouth as if she were the one bewitched. He leaned his hand against her, gently pushing her against the wall. The stone pressed hard into her shoulder blades. She glanced aside, afraid they might be discovered. Branches cast a wavering light in the doorway, but the old mill was empty and silent. She put her palms against his chest, as if to hold him off, but inside she was praying that he would kiss her, that at last, after weeks of this dangerous play and ferment between them, she would know what it was like. She was seventeen, and she had never been in love, never even been courted. She had not known that a man who stole her sleep and dashed her prudence, a man like Raymond, could exist.
"I’m only another lady, like the rest," she whispered, her heart beating against his hand. "Perhaps not so meek as some."
"You, my love, are an extraordinary woman." He bent his head close. Elayne drew in a quick breath. His lips touched hers, warm and soft in the crisp winter air, softer than she had expected. He tasted of mead, very strong and wet—not completely to her relish. As his tongue probed between her lips, he breathed heavily into her mouth. In confusion and a sudden distaste, she pushed him away so quickly that he had to put out a hand to the wall to catch himself.
He lifted his eyebrows at her. He stood very straight. "I do not please you, my lady?"
"No, you do!" she said quickly, patting his sleeve. She was already ashamed of herself, to be such a coward. "It’s only—if someone should see us—oh my...Raymond!" She bit her lip. "You make me so abashed!"
His stiff expression eased, for which Elayne was grateful. Raymond de Clare did not bear any affront lightly, even the smallest. But he smiled at her and brushed back her woolen hood, pulling her earlobe. "I shall not let anyone catch us."
"Let’s go to the Hall. We can walk together there, and talk."
"Among a throng of people," he said dryly. "And what do you wish to talk of, my lady?"
"You must make a poem to my hair and eyes, of course! I’ll help you."
He laughed aloud. "Indeed." He smiled down at her. "Do you suppose I need help?"
"I feel certain that any knight could profit from a lady’s fine ear for these things."
"All this reading and writing of yours. Perhaps you’ll compose my proposal of marriage also."
"Certainly, if you should require my aid," she said airily. "Mark me the bride of your choice, and I shall study upon her, to discover what will be the most persuasive words to win her hand."
"Ah, but only tell me what words would persuade you, little cat."
"La, I shall never marry!" Elayne declared, but she felt her lips curl upward to betray her. To hide her mirth, she tilted her head so that her hood fell down across her cheek as she gave him a sidelong glance.
He snorted. "What, then—will you wither into an old crone, reading books and stirring over a pot of hopeless spells?"
"Hopeless!" she exclaimed. "Mark me, such incantations aren’t so vain as you suppose!"
He nodded soberly, in just such a way that she could see that he was making a fond mock of her.
"Wella, then," she said, shrugging. "You may believe me or not. I cannot see why I should cease my learning only because I marry."
He shook his head, smiling. "Come, in serious discourse now—though I know how it pains you to speak soberly."
Elayne straightened. "I don’t tease on that point, I assure you, Raymond! Married or maid, I shall pursue my study. Lady Melanthe does the same."
"I hardly think her example is one to be followed—" He broke off as Elayne looked up quickly at him, and added, "Of course your godmother is admirable, may the Lord preserve her, but Lady Melanthe is Countess of Bowland," he said. "Her manners aren’t those of the wives of simple knights."
"Then I must take care not to marry a simple knight!" Elayne said. "It may happen that some foreign king will be looking about him for a queen."
"How sad for him if he lights upon you, my dear heart—since only a moment ago you proclaimed that you would never marry."
"No—" She made a wry face at him for catching her out. "I shall become a nun."
"You? A celibate?" He pulled off one of his gloves and leaned an elbow against the doorjamb, tracing the soft leather against her lips. "That I cannot conceive. Not while I live."
His certainty pricked her a little. "Can you not?" she replied, keeping her face solemn. "But I would rather reverence God than be subject to a husband."
"Hmmm..." He trailed his finger across her mouth. "I don’t think the church will see you casting magical spells any sooner than your h
usband will."
Elayne was breathing deeply, creating wisps of frost between them. "And how, pray, would this mythical husband prevent me?"
"My foolish darling, do you suppose I’d beat you? No, I’ll keep you warm and happy, and too busy for reading books."
Under his touch, Elayne felt that she would turn to steam and float away. But the excitement held an edge of terror. Elayne wasn’t afraid of him, oh no—and yet she was frantic.
"Still!" she exclaimed with a flurried laugh. "I shall not marry! I don’t propose to be commanded by a mortal man. I will have visions instead, and order the Pope what he ought to do."
"Little cat," he murmured. "Not commanded by your husband? What jest is this?"
"Another of my unholy fancies." She flicked her tongue at him and ducked away, catching his hand. "Come to the Hall, and I’ll tell you all about it."
But he did not let her lead him. "No. Your sister will be there, looking daggers at me." He drew her close, his hands at her waist, sliding them upward. "I have a better purpose, Elayne."
He began to walk her backward, bearing her into the darkness of the empty mill. She laughed to cover her confusion, allowing him to push her step by step into the abandoned room where old reed baskets and rotten barrel staves lay scattered.
She felt him lifting her skirts. His other glove fell to the ground. She tried to dance away, but he held her confined between his legs as he backed her into a corner. His mouth came down upon hers again. His bare hands searched into her chemise.
This was too dangerous by far. She had only meant to make him love her and wish to marry her. She gasped a protest, but he seemed deaf to it, his fingers working to unbutton her coat. He grasped her loosened gown, pulling it up, exposing all the length of her legs to the cold air.
"Raymond," she yelped as he touched her skin.
He spread his palms under her breasts. "I want you," he said huskily into her ear. "You witch, you make me mad with it!"
The Medieval Hearts Series Page 143
