"Ah." The guard gave a snort and waved her toward the door. "She must have been good."
* * *
Elena barely held her head erect under her heavy crown as she dined at the high board between Raymond and the Milanese ambassador. The council meeting had been a monumental conflict of wills between herself and some twenty men with no small opinion of their own judgment. She’d clung to her refusal to wed, but the only thing that truly spared her was their inability to agree on a candidate.
None had said so aloud yet, but some might think that if she wouldn’t marry at the council’s behest, perhaps her election should be overturned and a man put in her place. Or if she proved too stubborn even for that, she might be removed by a more uncomplicated and fatal stratagem.
Elena broke bread and tried to master her weariness far enough for courtesy. Dario kept a stony eye on the signor from Milan, but the plump representative of the Visconti seemed less inclined to poison Elena than to chide her incessantly. He reminded her of Cara, reproving Elena for her reluctance to agree to his political proposals and insisting that Monteverde and Milan had always been friends and staunch allies.
This wasn’t what she’d read in her grandfather’s history. She’d taken Philip’s advice and paid handsomely from the treasury for a secret added protection if Milan should prove a true enemy.
She hadn’t spoken to the council about it, for fear of spies, but hidden the sum in the expense of renovations to her chambers. The money went to another free company of soldiers who ranged in the mountains to the north and held the passes open for commerce. Elena remembered Hannibal, and thought it worthwhile to live with the same bed-hangings that had graced her chamber in Lady Melanthe’s day.
The ambassador launched into a discourse on the ultimate futility of republican institutions. Elena wasn’t overly pleased with the council herself at the moment, but his criticisms provoked her, as she knew they were meant to do. Before she could form a suitably polite and clever way to undercut him, she was astonished to hear Raymond speak loudly in French.
"No, my lord, have you read Prince Ligurio’s book on the subject?" he asked, leaning to look past her. "I’ve just finished it, and it’s worthy of consideration by kings."
Elena looked at him, half-expecting him to grin and wink as if he made a jest. Raymond was no proponent of civil rule that she ever knew. But his face was serious as he took up a sharp defense of her grandfather’s ideas, countering the ambassador’s objections with quotes from the Latin and even Greek.
Elena stared at him in amazement. She had to be courteous herself, but Raymond grew quite heated on the subject, saying that he’d spent the past fortnight in Monteverde in talking to people of all orders, taking note of how they loved their elected princess. They were pleased with the new laws and just administration. A fisherman could expect that he would receive treatment under the judges equal to that of any lordling.
The ambassador mumbled about the disintegration of order, but Raymond said stridently that any bloodthirsty tyrant could keep order by spreading fear. This was so near a direct insult to the merciless methods of the Visconti that Elena intervened before the ambassador’s color rose too high. She turned the talk to the upcoming days of country festivals once the grape harvest was gathered in.
"Your Grace," Raymond said suddenly, turning to her with a smile. "May I lay an idea before you? Let us have a celebration in Monteverde to mark the first year of your reign. It’s been near a year now, has it not?"
She blinked at the notion. It hardly seemed a thing to celebrate—it had been a year of strain and misery and loneliness in her mind. But Raymond gave her a warm look, leaning near. He raised his eyebrow toward the ambassador and lowered his voice, changing to English.
"It would be a sign to doubters that all is going well," he murmured. "Arrange some processions and feasting. People always love display." He offered her a sip of wine from his goblet. "Distribute largesse, release some prisoners." He shrugged, giving her a sideways glance. "Invent some cheer, Your Grace. Perhaps if I’m fortunate, it will make you smile again."
THIRTEEN
On a morning in late October they came for Allegreto. The splotches of colored banners, the movement of a troop—he’d seen them marching also on the fortress across the lake where Franco Pietro lay.
The whole chaotic plan for celebration made Allegreto uneasy. He didn’t approve of opening the citadel to crowds, or of the princess exposing herself at the head of a procession that would begin at Val d’Avina and advance to the city. He’d even sent messages to tell her so. But his cautions seemed to fall unheard. Word came that it was her favorite, the Englishman, who promoted the festivities. Whatever delight he suggested, the princess granted willingly.
So when the soldiers came without warning on the first day of the event, he understood instantly. If she meant to have an execution as the centerpiece of her entertainment, ridding herself of Navona and Riata at one brilliant blow, he could only admire the drama of it. Such a thing would impress the people beyond measure. She had offered mercy and urged peace—Allegreto and Franco had refused it. So everything came to its preordained end, and this was the perfect time to make it count.
He’d tried to prepare himself. He had some slight hopes, floating half-waterlogged in a sea of desolation. He hadn’t yet received a reply from the Pope on his latest appeal and offerings—perpetual masses endowed at Monteverde and Rome and Venice, all of the isle of Il Corvo dedicated to a monastery, and a stone fragment of the Ten Commandments that he’d managed to obtain at extraordinary expense.
He offered what he had with as much meekness as ink could convey on a page. He’d begged the Pope to forgive his inability to send an army. He had no army at his command, but to have his ban lifted, to have a slender chance at Heaven, he would abase himself before this absurd madman of a Holy Father in any other manner the lunatic desired.
But it was too late now for the Pope. There would be a priest there for Franco; if Allegreto was fortunate he also might be suffered to receive the sacrament in extremity. He could hope for it.
He stood without resistance as they dressed him in green and silver. It was great finery for a man condemned, but he wasn’t spared the manacles they clapped on his wrists, rendering him helpless for the ride down the mountainside. Allegreto prayed that if it was to be a bonfire, she wouldn’t have the courage to watch, for he wasn’t sure he had the courage to endure it in silence. If he found himself howling in everlasting flames, at least there would only be the Devil and the rest of the doomed to hear.
The city gates stood open for them. Crowds lined the streets, staring as he passed, bizarrely silent under the deep toll of bells from every church in the city. It nearly broke his nerve—he thought he could have borne jeering and pelting with refuse better than the expectant waiting.
They passed Navona’s tower enclave. It still bore marks of smoke and flame from the upper windows, but a new portico was under construction lining the street. He recognized faces—men loyal to his house stood atop the wooden scaffolding. He met their eyes, and they bowed their heads one by one as he passed.
There were other signs of destruction and renewal in the city—empty spaces where buildings should have stood, stacks of rubble and pallets of worked stone ready to be levered into place. But it seemed unchanged in its heart, in its fine tall towers that glared at one another across the piazzas and streets. Long banners hung below every window, a hundred colors and designs to mark each house and guild. The cloth drifted with lazy majesty over the streets, lifting and falling, a soft sound above the clatter of armor and hooves as the bells fell silent.
Allegreto felt a rise of his heart as the street turned. Down a narrow cleft of shadow, the colored walls and golden dome of the duomo stood framed in brilliant sunlight. The crowds parted. In a moment he expected to see what pyre or execution block would end his life, but the sight of the church was a glimpse of wonder through a dark tunnel.
He took courag
e 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 sun struck full on the great mosaic of the Annunciation, a glitter of gold and turquoise 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 them a cordon of men. Near to her elbow stood a handsome peacock in a 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. The noise of the people grew louder, anticipating.
Escorted by the guards, he climbed the steps with Franco. Instead of humiliation, 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 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 didn’t 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’d 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 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 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 didn’t believe Franco was. No, the Riata had only to step back, avoid a blow, and watch Allegreto be cut down for trying.
He wouldn’t 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 couldn’t 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. 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 wouldn’t look at her. He couldn’t. 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 warmly 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.
* * *
A maid adjusted 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. She walked from her privy chamber to the presence-room, where Dario waited with Franco and Allegreto.
She’d designed the events to keep them well-occupied and within sight of one another, with no time to make connection with any of their followers. She might have freed them, but she wasn’t so rash as to give them easy opportunities.
Only Raymond had known of her plan. Philip and Dario were staunch friends, but their understanding was not wide. Philip was a soldier, and Dario a watchdog to his bones—they couldn’t 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.
She hoped that when they understood the danger, Allegreto and Franco would relinquish their enmity and work with her to form a defense. She’d discussed it long with Raymond, and he’d agreed that only a daring stroke could break the impasse. But now she saw Allegreto’s face, and her blood chilled.
Franco bowed immediately, a smooth flourish, withholding nothing. Allegreto looked directly at Elena, his face calm. But there was 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. 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 won’t delay us long before the banquet." She had to force herself to speak. "
I can wait no longer for you to agree to peace between yourselves. There’s 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 can’t 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 couldn’t bear it and find words to speak at the same time. "I don’t require an oath." She lifted her eyes to Allegreto. "Someone once said to me that they are easily made and easily broken. But I don’t think either of you wishes for us to fall before Milan, and as long as we’re divided, we’re in great danger. So I ask you to hold back from creating discord and insecurity among the people."
"I understand, Princess," Franco said. His scarred face was reddened with some emotion, but she didn’t 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. The meetings with Matteo had gone better.
She looked to Allegreto. "Will you hold your house in check?"
He didn’t 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’ve 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?"
The Medieval Hearts Series Page 175
