Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  He smiled. "Forgive me. I’m an impudent fellow—but how shall I not be anxious to have you to myself?" The door hasp clanked shut like the bolt on a prison. For a long moment he sat with his wine cup in his hands, gazing at her. "My life has been a joyless desert without you."

  "Come, Gian—we’re alone. You needn’t exert yourself to love-talk now."

  He rubbed his thumb over the rim, looking down at it. "It’s no exertion," he said softly.

  She realized that he wished to play at love-amour. She thought of his perfumed kiss, and a terrible loathing of the course she must take came over her. He was no Ligurio, to leave her in peace in her bedchamber, but the man who had made sure by murder that she took no lovers. He had waited for her—without a legitimate heir, for his own enigmatic reasons, for a logic she had never plumbed, nor ever would.

  "It would be exertion for me," she said. "I am too weary now to trade compliments."

  His eyes lifted. He smiled and drank. "Then I’ll waste none upon you, without my fair share in return. Tell me of your dread adventure, if you cannot praise my manly beauty."

  "Nay, I should not like to disappoint you, if it is compliments you desire," she said. "Shall I say that your own son could not flatter that elegant garment better?"

  He did not move, but the pleasure seemed to flow through him, from a slight twitch of his spiked slipper to a deeper expansion of his chest when he inhaled. "Do not say it, my dear lady, if it would tire you too much."

  "I am weary in truth, Gian." She nibbled idly at a cake. "I really don’t wish to hold a long conversation."

  He rose abruptly, walking to the oratory, her father’s little chapel where light from a narrow window of stained glass dyed the altar and rood. He was handsome enough, in his own way—older than Melanthe by near a score of years and yet lithe as a youth—an Allegreto with the sureness of age and power on him. Gluttonous indulgence was not his vice; he lived austere as a monk but for the fashions in clothing that he liked to set. For their interview he had abandoned the staid floor-length robes in favor of the single color of Navona: white hose and a short white houppelande. Often he embellished the milky ground with gold alone, but now he was embroidered in spring flowers, his voluminous sleeves longer than his hem. It showed the lean legs of an ascetic—and his masculinity—very well.

  "Concede me just a little description of your ordeal, my love." He smiled. "Your escort comes from an abbey, they tell me. Have you been safe all along in a religious house, then, while our Allegreto tore his hair?"

  "Why, yes—has he not recounted to you?"

  "He seems to have become shy." Gian leaned against the carved arcade of the oratory. "Gone to earth somewhere, like your English foxes."

  She did not know whether to bless Allegreto for his forethought, or fear that Gian had indeed questioned him and now wished to compare their stories. "He has a great fear of your displeasure," she said, a description so patently inferior to the actuality that she found herself returning Gian’s smile with a wry curl of her own mouth.

  "Still, a son should not hide from his father’s just wrath. Or the world would become a wicked place indeed, don’t you think?"

  She gave him a surprised look. "Wrath? But what has he done?"

  "Failed me, my dearest lady. Failed me entirely, when he allowed this calamity to befall you. And acted beyond himself in another small matter, not worth mentioning. If you should come across his burrow, you would not be amiss to tell my little fox that delaying the chase only puts the hunter out of temper."

  "If you mean that he failed in my protection—surely you did not expect him to take on a pack of murdering bandits?"

  "Ah, we come now to the bandits." He examined a painted and gilded angel’s face carved at the base of the arch. "Was it a large body of outlaws?"

  She shrugged. "I think it must have been. I was woken out of a sound sleep to flee."

  "You’re very easy about it, my lady! Were you not dismayed?"

  She made a sound of impatience. "Indeed no, I was so delighted that I stayed to offer them wine and cakes! Truly, I am not eager to live the experience again only for your entertainment."

  He bowed. "I must ask your pardon. But these outlaws should be brought to justice."

  "That has been taken care of, you may believe."

  He raised his brows. Melanthe looked back at him coolly, daring him to put her to an inquisition, or hint that she did not rule here in her own lands.

  "Alas, I arrive too late to rescue you, and now I cannot even take your revenge. A paltry fellow!" He drained his wine. "Hardly the equal of this mysterious green captain of yours, I fear."

  She leaned back in her chair and gave him a dry smile. "Verily, not half as holy."

  "Holy? I was told he is a knight of some strength and repute."

  "Certainly he is. I retain only the best for my protection."

  "But where is he now, this paragon?"

  Melanthe turned her palms up. "I know not. I believe a great hand comes down from heaven and lifts him up to sit among the clouds. Haps he prays and parleys with angels, which is as well, for his conversation is too pure to be borne on earth, I assure you."

  "Even when he shares a bed with you, as I’m told?"

  "A bed!" She stared, and then laughed. "Ah, yes—a bed. At that delightful manor house, you mean. But how come you to hear of that farce? Most notably holy when he shared a bed with me." She grimaced. "My ears rang with his prayers."

  He observed her a moment and then chuckled. "My poor sweet, you have had a hard time of it, haven’t you?"

  "Worse than you know! I fell from the rump of his repellent horse and broke my cannal-bone. Three months have I sojourned in the most contemptible little priory, among nuns! The prioress could barely speak French and did naught but pray for me. She and my knight got along excellently."

  He laughed aloud. "But I must meet him, this knight. And the prioress, too. Such intercessions might save me a little time in Purgatory."

  "Gian, do not flatter yourself. Prayers are wasted on you, as they are on me. I told her so, but she was relentless. God is weary of hearing my name, I quite assure you."

  He strolled back to her chair, standing near. "Surely, though, some gift or reward should be—"

  She turned an angry eye on him. "Do not forget that I am mistress here. I do not require your advice or your assistance in it."

  "Of course not, sweet. But I think—hearing of your trials and adventures—that I do not like you riding about the country on the rump of some nameless knight’s horse. Or falling off of it. Or sharing a chamber with him, however holy he might be. You have had your way, and paid respects to Ligurio and your king, and seen to your estates." His hand skimmed her cheek. "I think, my dear love, that it is time and past for our betrothal."

  She stared at the colored window in the oratory. "Yes, Gian." She kept her breathing slow and even. "It is time."

  His finger pulled back the silken scarf, tracing her jaw and the telling pulse at her throat.

  "If he touched you in desire, fair child," he murmured, "he is dead."

  Melanthe rose, moving away from him. She locked her hands and stretched her arms out before her. "If the man ever felt desire, I warrant it would kill him. Now indulge me, Gian, I want to rest. My shoulder pains me." She smiled at him. "And do leave poor Allegreto alone if you love me, my lord. I want to dance with him at our wedding."

  TWENTY-THREE

  They hunted with ladies’ hawks, summer birds, a blithe company passing through the meadows with laughter and elegant disport. Melanthe wore a garland that Gian had presented her. The sparrowhawk she carried felt no heavier than one of the blossoms from the spray, tiny and fierce, pouncing upon thrushes and woodcock and returning with them to the glove, a delicate court lady with savage yellow eyes.

  Melanthe rode beside Gian, tame as the sparrowhawk returned to hand. Their time at Windsor drew near to a close. He had completed the contracts and assignments; the king’s license w
as sealed at the price of only two of her five castles, the quitclaim to Monteverde purchased back from Edward for a proper princely ransom. They hawked today; in three days the betrothal feast began, a week more of such pleasures; of gifts and minstrelsy—then Italy, and their wedding. Gian was not eager to wait.

  He chafed at their separate residences, but Melanthe had held adamant on that point and his proper behavior beforehand. He laughed and cajoled her, but knew her better than to believe she would give anything away for nothing. That was what he thought and said of her, not knowing that she would give everything away for nothing. For the nunnery, as the only place she could avoid fornicating with him.

  When she lay awake at night, as she did every night now, she laughed silently until she wept at the mockery of it all. The place she had walked through wilderness and fire to avoid, the abominable nunnery. She did not dare attempt to evade him in England again. Once they were back in Italy, she could fly to the abbey that she and Ligurio had endowed. She had Allegreto’s promise that he would help her. And vows upon vows, lies upon lies, until she forgot who she was, if she had ever known.

  Amongst the betrothal gifts there were already three mirrors, carved ivory and sandalwood and ebony, all buried as deep in her chests as she could bury them, so that she would not chance to look into the glass and see no one there.

  "It’s a great shame that your gyr is still in mew, my lady," the young Earl of Pembroke said, while the others complimented a fine flight for Gian’s hawk on a blackbird. "What a day she might have given us!"

  "’Tis a lighter weight to carry, this!" Melanthe held up her little bird. "And only think how fat Gryngolet will be, come autumn."

  Laughter rippled over the company. The spaniels put up a bevy of quails, and two ladies cast off. Courteous clapping and a discussion of the full bags and prospects for a sparviter’s pie of partridge and larks and wheatears followed their success. Turning away from the late afternoon sun, they allowed the horses to ramble toward Windsor and the castle, its highest banners just barely visible over the far trees.

  The shade of a narrow lane spread the party out, with Melanthe and Gian paired at the head as if by design. "You look a mere maiden in your blossoms," he said to her, smiling. "Flowers become you."

  "Do they?" she asked lightly. "Nay, I think you suppose to flatter me, sir, so that when I ask for diamonds you can satisfy me with daisies."

  She expected some smooth wit in response to hers, but instead he tilted his head. "Never do you consent to a tribute to your beauty, my lady. Is it the compliments or the complimenter?"

  "Neither, but myself. A maiden, Gian? Daisies? I fear I am too shrewd to believe such pleasant fancies."

  "I think you should believe them, my lady, for they are true."

  She slanted a look at him. The leaf dapple passed over his white velvet shoulders and turban hat. "Why, Gian. Can this be love?"

  He returned her look steadily, speaking barely above his breath. "Is it possible that you don’t know it?"

  She felt a flush rise in her throat. He did not take the easy tone of gallantry.

  "Why, then of course the betrothal must be off," she said. "Love will not do, if we are to be wed. People will think us a pair of burghers!"

  "Ah. But this is a puzzle. If love is not acceptable in marriage, does it follow you have no love for me now, since we are betrothed?"

  "You must go to the Greeks for logic," she said.

  "And to a lady for love. Do you not love me, my dear one?"

  She pricked her horse to a trot. "Inquire of Cupid, my lord, for the answer to that!" she called gaily over her shoulder.

  She straightened about in the saddle. The shaded lane curved, descending to a ford. Sunlight glistened on water through the trees—glinted on something more. She dragged her horse to a jerking halt.

  On the far side of the stream a pale destrier waited, caparisoned all in green, the rider armored, his sword drawn, emerald and silver like a dream in the glowing yellow light of afternoon.

  The black eyeslits watched her silently. Gian came up behind her. She heard the others, the thud of hooves and the sudden stifle of easy talk.

  The knight shoved his faceplate up. Melanthe felt Gian beside her, felt a helpless frenzy.

  "My lady wife." Ruck’s hard voice rang across the stream that divided them. "I would have let thee live separate and alone. I would not have abashed thee, if thou hadst only wished to deny me for cause of pride and place. But thou art my wife, Melanthe—and ’fore God, I will not let thee forlie with another man, nor live together with him in dishonor of us both."

  She thought of laughing. She thought of screaming. She thought of disclaiming any knowledge of him; all those things came to her at once, but she said, "Don’t approach him. He has gone mad."

  In her dismay the words held utter conviction. She felt Gian’s eyes shift.

  Ruck did not move. "It may please thee to claim so, my lady," he said coldly. "But you know as I that it is not true. I bid thee now to honor thy word and obey me. Leave this place, and this company, and come with me."

  "He is mad," Melanthe repeated stupidly.

  "Make way, fool," Gian said.

  He started to press his horse forward, but she seized his sleeve. "Gian! He’s dangerous."

  She thought it sounded convincing: Gian paused, and Ruck’s mouth lifted in contempt.

  "Only in defense of thy virtue, madam." Sunlight slipped down his bare blade. "I will not endure thee to whore with him."

  One of the ladies behind her gasped. Gian pulled his sleeve from Melanthe’s hand. "Thou harlot, I’ll kill thee for that, mad or no."

  "Gladly I’ll fight," Ruck said.

  Gian spit on the ground. "Baseborn churl," he said with deadly softness, "I would not soil my hands. Thou wert born upon a dung heap. Out of the way, madman, and run far."

  The destrier turned on its haunches, making room in the road between the thick hedgerows. "You may pass, if you will. And the rest, but for my wife."

  Gian reached out and caught the bridle of her horse. He spurred into the stream, pulling her along. At the sloped bank, the white courser moved before them, blocking passage. Ruck’s sword came down between their horses, the blade suspended over Gian’s arm.

  "Unhand her," he said quietly.

  Gian made a move to go around. Hawk kicked out with a vicious force that sent Gian’s mount shying back. He lost his hold on her bridle as his horse slipped and stumbled at the edge of the stream. His sparrowhawk fluttered free. At the same moment the Earl of Pembroke came splashing through the water.

  "My lady!" he shouted, slapping her horse’s rump. "Go now!"

  Her rouncy jumped forward, colliding with Pembroke’s as he passed, but the destrier held the narrow road. Ruck fended off the young earl’s dagger with an armored elbow, keeping his own sword clear. The war-horse backed hard against Pembroke’s bewildered mount, shoving him beyond knife reach.

  "Pass." Ruck swept his blade point upward, allowing a slim opening to the earl. "I have no quarrel with you, but you may not take my wife."

  "Thou staring madman, she’s no such thing!" Pembroke exclaimed. "How dare thee say it?"

  "Ask her," Ruck said.

  Melanthe felt their all attention fix. It was high disport, this; a play to them—except for Gian, who had silent savagery in his eyes. He had suspected; she knew he had suspected, but she had lulled him and beguiled him, and now he knew. Not the marriage, no, for that was too fantastic for credence—but jealousy burned behind his calculating stare. He would not bear it.

  "Am I thy true husband?" Ruck held the destrier in taut check, staring at Melanthe. "Tell them, my lady."

  She looked up into his eyes, his green cold eyes, and saw the last slender flame of trust still there. He asked her for the truth, because he did not conceive of dishonor. He did not know the depths of treachery—standing armed and armored, and defenseless against it.

  She shook her head, with a small disbelieving laugh.
"Thou art a silly simple," she said. "Thou art not even a man, I think, save by hap in thy dreams!"

  In the slight flicker of his lashes it died, the last tattered rag of faith. He smiled, a baring of his teeth. "Thou dost not answer my question, lady."

  "Then let me make my words clear to thy fevered brain!" she exclaimed. "I am not thy wife!"

  "I say that you are, but that you dare not speak according to conscience or the pleasure of God, for fear evil might be done you." He spoke with an even force. "I say that we were in the manor of Torbec at the end of Hilarytide, in the solar chamber above the hall, and thou said thou took me there and then as thy wedded husband if I willed it, to have and to hold, at bed and at board, for better and for worse, in sickness and health, till death us depart—and of this thou gave me thy faith. And I said that I willed it, and plighted thee my troth the same, and more, for I dowed thee with all that is mine, which thou didst not do for me in return, nor did I ask or wish for it. I had no ring nor garland for you, but swore all this by my right hand. And we had company and use of each other in the same bed where we spoke, to seal our vows, and afterward I wept."

  "A vivid dream indeed!" Melanthe said.

  "No dream," Ruck answered her, "but what passed between us in truth. We lived as man and wife, and the last time lay together ere you left me for Bowland on the day before the May."

  It was working upon their witnesses as he meant it to, a detailed and rational list of circumstances, no madman’s vision. She saw Pembroke’s expression change from disbelief to wonder—saw him look at Gian to measure his response.

  "You lie!" Gian’s shout rocked off the water and the trees. "Whoreson, who paid you to say this?"