None of this pomp moved the elderly Countess Beatrice and her testy spaniel. While Lady Beatrice had readily agreed to alter her mode of transport to Rome—thereby increasing her speed and comfort at no expense to herself—the Countess of Ludford seemed no more pleased than Elayne at the unexpected reversal in their positions. In spite of being on Christian pilgrimage, Lady Beatrice practiced unkindness as a virtue.
THREE
"We can only pray to God that you’re better warriors than seamen, when pirates fall upon us!" Lady Beatrice declared. She bore a close resemblance to her snub-nosed spaniel in a temper, pushing up her lower lip while her jowls quivered with disgust. "Happily the princess has chosen to dress like a miller’s wife—she, at least, may escape the notice of a pack of infidels who would relish nothing better than to abduct a Christian noblewoman such as myself!"
By this morning, five days beyond their last view of the Spanish shore, Elayne had long since discarded the elegant fur and stiff layers of clothing that swathed the countess. In the sweltering heat of the Middle Sea, she wore the simplest gray smock that she could uncover from her chests, with only a scarf thrown over her head and shoulders for modesty.
The Hospitallers sweated in their black robes sewn with white crosses, tasseled rosaries clashing lightly against their swords with each roll of the waves. The crusading Knights of Saint John were celebrated as the greatest fighting sailors on the Middle Sea. A militant order they might be, but they were no match for Countess Beatrice. The knights stood just inside the stern castle, bearing the countess’s tirade with perspiring fortitude and a few scattered apologies. Elayne thought there was a little shame in the glance that passed between them. As well there might be, since this dawn had discovered the ship alone on the empty Middle Sea, with no sign of the convoy’s sails in sight.
Or it might have been amusement at the idea that any pirate could be unwise enough to abduct Lady Beatrice. Elayne gave them a sympathetic nod. She was in no haste to rejoin the convoy. If she could have an answer to her prayers, they would toss the compass overboard and miss her destination entirely.
* * *
There was a sail on the horizon. Elayne looked up as the first loud cry sounded overhead. The sound of sailors’ feet thudded outside.
The deck tilted. Lady Beatrice screamed as the ship lumbered into a sharp turn, wallowing down with a force that threw them flat to the floorboards. Elayne lay stunned for a moment amid a pile of carpet and bedding as the cry of "Pirate!" ran through the ship.
The countess began shrieking orders. The spaniel yapped. Elayne scrambled over the heavy chaos of baggage, craning out the stern castle door. She could hear distant chanting across the waves, a low hollow sound that was terrifying in its regular deep timbre, as if fiends hooted their displeasure up from Hell.
A galley sped toward them, great oars flashing, throwing a white spew of foam before it. As it rose on a swell, the apex of a vicious bow-ram split the air and then ripped through the water again, throwing spray aside like a racing sea monster. Aboard her own vessel, the crew and men-at-arms lined the sides of the ship, crossbows and spears at ready.
As if in a dream, she watched helplessly, the sound of the chants filling her ears as the pirates came at them. She stared at the painted bowsprit above the ram, at the crossbows raised, at the ferocious bearded faces under infidel turbans—each instant seemed to unfold with a crystalline slowness; each second caught in suspension before the galley’s strike.
At one and the same moment, roars of command issued from above her on the stern castle and from the deck of the pirate galley. The oars on the galley swept upward as one unit, pointing toward the sky.
Elayne broke from her trance. "Help me!" she screamed to Lady Beatrice. The old lady for once seemed to pay attention: she sprang with a startling energy to push one of their chests against the door. Elayne grabbed the other end as the spaniel scrambled aside. Together they hauled the heavy wood against the entry and gasped and heaved and flung the other baggage on top.
Elayne sat against it, her back to the muffled sounds outside. She’d braced for a horrible impact, a great sound, but it seemed that somehow the galley hadn’t struck their ship. The two of them huddled down behind the barricade, waiting in the suffocating heat. Even the spaniel was quiet, panting from its hole under the sleeping berth.
She could hear the infidels’ urgent shouts, and a renewed roar of command from directly above them. Splashes and thumps and incomprehensible cries followed.
Lady Beatrice reached out and took her hand. The countess’s fingers were trembling, but she gave Elayne a hard squeeze. In her other hand, she held up a tiny dagger, one of the pretty jeweled toys that court ladies wore on their girdles. With a grim look, the old lady made a thrust in the air, as if plunging the knife into an attacker, and then pressed it into Elayne’s hand. "Don’t tell them who you are, girl," she whispered harshly.
Elayne accepted the dagger soberly. Crossing herself, she sent a prayer to her enigmatic guardian angel, begging that he not desert her now.
The ship shuddered, a deep thump as the other vessel came alongside. Elayne and Lady Beatrice stared at one another.
Then, unmistakably, Elayne heard a voice shout, "Pax!"
She could not make out the exchange that followed, only that they all now sounded quite calm. Even convivial. Elayne began to breathe again.
"Madam?" One of the knights finally addressed them in a loud voice, to the sounds of shoving and pressing upon the door. "Madam, we’re in no danger, God be praised."
Lady Beatrice did not answer. But she took care, with Elayne’s aid, that she was standing proudly, leaning upon her cane with her chin up and her wimple in good order, as if nothing had disturbed her. The Hospitaller pushed past their barricade without much effort, glancing down at the chests and bags. He looked up. "Ladies, you are unharmed?"
"Who is this varlet?" Lady Beatrice demanded, staring with a stern distaste at the richly dressed stranger waiting behind their escorts.
"Captain Juan de Amposta, madam. He brings news." The knight bowed solemnly. "He respectfully wishes to make known to madam that the Moorish pirates in the Middle Sea have become abundant and incorrigible."
The captain moved into the cabin and went to his knee with a lavish greeting. "Forgive my impudence, that I wish to serve a lady of your grace and gentleness! I’m here to offer you armed and Christian escort, if it please you."
"I have armed and Christian escort," the countess said, flicking her hand disdainfully toward the knight. "Such as it may be."
"My lady, it’s my galley that I offer, to shepherd these slow-sailing craft. She’s swift and well-equipped, to prevent a corsair from boarding you."
"You must be more fearsome than our fine brethren of Saint John, then," she snapped, glaring at the Hospitaller. The knight narrowed his eyes slightly, but made no reply.
"Madam, your pardon," Amposta said courteously. "It’s impossible to defend a round ship such as this from galleys. Your commander tells me that you’ve lost your convoy. It’s by God’s grace that we came upon you when we did, or—" He glanced toward Elayne, then shook his head. "I don’t like to think of the consequence."
"And what is your proposal, Captain?" Lady Beatrice asked peremptorily.
"I offer protection, my lady. We can accompany your ship into safe waters, unless we discover your convoy again."
"Fortune indeed, that you came upon us!" Lady Beatrice said. "After these fellows from Rhodes have made such a ruin of the thing."
The captain smiled and glanced at the dour Hospitaller. "God bless them. We are fast friends of the Holy Order of Saint John."
The knight inclined his head, but did not return the tribute. He seemed to have little to say—Elayne feared that the weeks of humiliation by the countess and now disgrace over their navigational blunder had rendered the knight-brethren somewhat disenchanted with their service.
Amposta lowered his voice. "I wouldn’t propose such an invitat
ion to any common wool monger, madam, but if my lady and her maid should wish to sail aboard my vessel, as a part of the pact, I make you free of her, and with honor. The accommodation is…" He shrugged and smiled. "Perhaps it would be a degree more to Your Ladyship’s taste."
"Countess!" the Hospitaller said sharply. "I cannot advise it."
Elayne might have thought that the Knights of Saint John would have learned something in their dealings with Lady Beatrice by now—the moment he stated a conviction, her decision to do the opposite was a foregone conclusion.
"An admirable proposal, Captain," the countess said, thumping her cane on the deck. "See to the removal of our baggage."
The Hospitaller’s mouth twitched once. He bowed deeply and stepped back, giving way to the captain. It was possible, Elayne thought then, that he had learned something of Lady Beatrice after all.
* * *
A number of uneasy prospects passed through Elayne’s mind as they went aboard Captain Amposta’s galley. She had heard of seraglios and slaves, and this captain had a dark Saracen look about him, even if he wore a Christian cross at his throat. The galley was so swift that it could circle the sailing ship as it lumbered along like a greyhound could range about a plodding ox. But Amposta made no attempt to seize or disturb their rich cargo.
No one mentioned Elayne’s rank or destination to these strangers—an omission that suggested the countess might not be entirely convinced of Amposta’s good offices. Elayne was perfectly content to be regarded as a simple handmaid. The oars pulled with such steady vigor that she could even walk about on deck while the galley cut smartly through waves that had tossed and rolled the sailing ship.
"Is that the coast?" she asked on their third day aboard, pointing to a faint smudge of grayish-white on the blue skyline.
"You have excellent eyesight!" the captain said approvingly. "No, not yet. That’s the isle of Il Corvo, the Raven. A beautiful place, and well-protected. Inform your mistress—if Her Ladyship the countess wishes to rest there for a day, we will put in and refresh our water."
The thought of standing upon dry land, even for only a day, was blessed. Elayne hurried to inform the countess.
* * *
"God’s toes, why should I toil any further up this cliff to honor some foreign rubbish!" Lady Beatrice exclaimed. She leaned upon her cane, breathing heavily, and glared about the empty tower room. They had come to be presented to the lord of Il Corvo, climbing a steep narrow stair, escorted by Captain Amposta in the lead and an armed guard behind. "Let him wait upon me. Come, girl!"
The captain reached out and caught her arm as she turned. "I think not, madam."
"You wretched devil!" Lady Beatrice hissed, jerking away. "Unhand me! Are you possessed by the Fiend Himself?"
His lively demeanor had changed. "You may find that you fancy the Fiend better than my master."
The countess ignored him, limping with quick conviction toward the tower door. When the guard moved his pike, barring the stairs, Lady Beatrice shoved her cane into his belly-plate. "Stand aside!" she declared, her voice ringing off the rough walls.
Elayne stood silently, watching. The understanding slowly bore in upon her that they were made prisoners.
"Remove the weapon, varlet," Lady Beatrice ordered, flipping her famous reed cane under the man’s helmeted chin, pushing his head up and back. Elayne well knew that murderous tone of voice: it had reduced dukes and archbishops to quailing pageboys.
But the guard stood his ground. He merely looked over his nose at the captain, who laughed and shook his head.
Lady Beatrice’s translucent skin flushed with rage. She whirled about quickly, belying her fragile figure. She was three hands-breadth smaller than Amposta, and had not a single means to enforce her command, but her lip curled and her back arched as she spat, "You insolent harlot!" Her cane sliced the air, a supple snap of her wrist. The captain had not the reflexes of Lady Beatrice’s servants, or perchance he hadn’t thought she would dare—his hand came up too late and the blow caught him smartly on the ear, a resounding smack that sent him recoiling, his shoulder colliding with the stone wall as he bent over himself.
The captain straightened, sucking air between his teeth. For an instant, Elayne thought he would leap at Lady Beatrice like a wild animal.
But a calm voice came unexpectedly, a shock in the small tower room. "I give you pleasant welcome to Il Corvo, madam."
Elayne saw the captain’s face change—beneath the vivid red mark across his cheek, his skin drained stark white.
She turned about. There had been only the four of them present. Now, though the guard beside the door had never moved, there was a fifth.
He stood tall and still, watching them—arriving from nowhere, as if he had created himself out of the ether. Jet-dyed folds of silk fell from his shoulders. Beneath the dark cloak he wore silver, a tunic fitted perfectly to his body. His hair was black; the color of fathomless night, tied back at the nape of his neck. He was like a statue of pure metal—inhuman—elegant and fantastic. Elayne wasn’t even certain for a moment if he were real or a marble figure come to sudden life, but dark as sin, as gorgeous and corrupt as Lucifer himself.
For he was corrupt—and the master of this place—no one need bow to make that evident, although both the captain and the guard fell to their knees with haste. Elayne dipped into a reverence, keeping her head lowered, though she watched him from under her lashes. She could not tear her eyes away. Even Lady Beatrice leaned upon her cane and made a brief courtesy.
He smiled. "My lady, you must not bow to me. I don’t require it." Though his words were deferential, though he smiled, it seemed less a courtesy than a mandate. "You’ve been served ill, I fear, to be asked to climb so far. My regrets. You may beat the man senseless if you like."
"And who might you be?" Lady Beatrice demanded—with considerable audacity, Elayne thought.
"Alas, I have no noble titles, my lady. They call me only Raven, after the name of this island—Il Corvo."
He might have no title, but he carried himself as if he were a prince. His cloak sighed and stirred like something living, light woven into black.
"Humph," Lady Beatrice said. "A graceless cur, I think. I’m the Countess of Ludford, on Christian pilgrimage, fellow!"
He studied her, and then his glance drifted to Elayne. She wanted very badly to lower her face, but it was as if a viper had her for its mark, his black eyes glittering with that subtle smile. She did not dare to look away.
"Perhaps you’ll muster the patience to enjoy my home and table, my lady Countess," he said, still watching Elayne. "My port-master tells me that your ship is in need of some repair—I hardly think it safe for you to venture forth in a leaking vessel."
"Trumpery!" Lady Beatrice exclaimed. "Don’t suppose I’m any such fool as sails into your harbor every day! That ship is sound enough. We shan’t impose upon your idea of hospitality a day longer."
"I believe you will," he said softly. He wore no ring or jewelry, but on the shimmering black robe there was a strange emblem embroidered in silver, not a coat of arms, but some entwined letters or symbols, like an astrological sign. "But Your Ladyship will like us better after I have Amposta here tossed onto the rocks below."
The captain made a dreadful sound, as if a protest had been choked to a gurgle in his throat. The man called the Raven looked toward him. Elayne could see Amposta freeze under that faint smile just as she had.
"A poor jest," the Raven said. "Forgive my impudent humor."
The captain grinned, baring his teeth, the red mark on his cheek burning.
* * *
"So we are hostage," Lady Beatrice snarled, pounding her cane on the tiled floor. "Sold like sheep! Those treacherous bastards of Saint John sold us!"
Elayne sat down on a bench at the foot of the bed, saying nothing. The spell of the Raven’s presence still seemed to hover about her, strange and somehow familiar at once. Besides, the countess wouldn’t like to be reminded that it
was she herself who had chosen to go aboard the captain’s galley.
The chamber was richly furnished, covered with eastern rugs and silken hangings, lit by enameled oil lamps that burned without smoke. But the arrow-slit windows looked out on a moonlit sea lying so far below that Elayne could not even see the shoreline. The tower wall and cliff beneath were invisible to her, as if the room floated high above the water by sorcery.
A servant had come, a Moorish girl who seemed to speak no language that Elayne knew, but only brought a tray and then vanished silently. Elayne served Lady Beatrice, who never ceased railing against the Knights-Hospitallers as she ate. But the countess grew weary at length, and willing to lie down on the feather mattress. Elayne drew the bed hangings and heard the countess snoring before she had even shielded the lamps.
This Raven was a pirate, of course. They were his prisoners, had walked open-eyed and guileless into an elegant snare. She could not seem to quite apprehend it. She licked at the syrup on a fig and took a very small bite. Eating was still a burden to her. On Lady Melanthe’s strict injunction, she took enough to keep herself from wasting, but had no enjoyment in it. She lifted a section of orange, and then ate it. Her fingers grew sticky. She dipped them in the little bowl of water on the tray.
When she looked up from drying them, Elayne started so that she upset the water as she came to her feet. "Sir!" she murmured, staring at the dark lord of the place as he stood in shadow not two yards length from her.
The Medieval Hearts Series Page 147
