Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  "You don’t choose to make all haste to your lands, then," he said.

  "I fear pestilence."

  He shook his head with a slight laugh. "My lady—I don’t know that you ever speak me true."

  "I do! I fear to go out, for the pestilence."

  Her lips made a strange pressing curve—an aspect there and gone, a shadow between her brows before she smoothed her face again to cool composure. Always she was a secret, impossible to read. It could have been a hidden smile or a hint of tears. But he thought it was not a smile.

  She faced him wholly. "You said that I may stop here, where no ill could come, so long as I wished!" She made it a challenge, as if she expected him to deny it.

  "Then do we not go, my lady," he said, "until I know it to be safe for you."

  "Oh," she said, and closed her eyes.

  "I thought me that you would wish to depart soon."

  She made a tiny shake of her head.

  "Melanthe," he said, "will I never understand you?"

  Her eyes opened. "When I wish it."

  He bent and retrieved his wet mantle, throwing it across his shoulder as he stepped up onto the dais. "My lady," he said, giving her a brief, stiff bow before he went through the door and mounted the stairs.

  He had stripped himself down for dry clothes when she came. She closed the door and looked at him with a look that made the blood run strong in his veins. He could not hide himself, though he turned away from her—but she came to him and touched him and put his hands at her waist.

  He kissed her. He held her hard and laid her on the bed, knowing he’d been befooled somehow, that she meant to wile him by her days of denying and now giving, heartless wench that she was. But she’d only wiled him into what he wanted anyway, to keep her here and love and overlie her until she gasped in frenzy beneath him, her hair escaped from the kerchief to spread all about the pillows.

  He buried his face in the black silken strands, groaning his release through clenched teeth. He lay atop her and felt her breasts rise and fall against him, her sheath tight and delicious, faint throbs in her that ran through him like sweet kisses.

  She turned her lips beside his ear. "Now," she said, "you understand me."

  He gave a laugh, his teeth still clenched. "No, Melanthe. Only you make me cease to care if I do or not."

  * * *

  In a careful fold over her arm, Cara carried an altar-cloth and the vestments she was to mend. She crossed Bowland’s dim and busy hall, jumping back from a woodman’s bundle of fagots as he stopped suddenly in front of her and dropped the load. The wood thudded almost on her toes.

  "Beware!" she exclaimed, one of the English expressions she was learning well among these savages.

  The servant turned with a great show of surprise, but he was smirking beneath it. He didn’t even bow, but only leaned down to grab the roped bundle.

  "You did that on purpose!" she cried in outrage. "Disrespectful oaf, you’d have broken my foot!"

  He didn’t understand her French, or pretended not to. She pressed her lips together. In less than a fortnight here, the small slights were mounting to open disdain. She hated this place, and these people. A hot sting threatened behind her eyes.

  Someone stopped beside her. Still in his travel mud, the English squire Guy seized the woodman’s collar and dragged him up close. He growled something in English. The servant’s insolence vanished as he tried to choke out words and bow at the same time, his face turning red with effort.

  Guy spoke again, short and fierce, and shoved the woodman back. He fell over his own pile of fagots, landing on the rush mat with a loud thud and yelp. Guy made a gesture toward Cara. When the servant was slow in heaving himself up, Guy stepped over the bundle and aimed a kick with his armored toe.

  The man yelped again, scrambling into a kneel before Cara. He begged her pardon humbly, in perfectly adequate French.

  Everyone in the hall had paused to watch. Guy swept a look over them. "Surely a noble house serves its ladies with good cheer," he said, his quiet voice carrying to the corners.

  The hall was silent. Slowly, as Guy maintained his arrogant stare, one or two of them bowed, then more, until finally every servant in the hall had acknowledged him.

  He gave Cara a curt nod and strode back toward the passage beyond the screens, his blue cloak flaring from his shoulders. She looked down at the still-kneeling woodman and the respectfully bowed heads around her, and hugged the vestments close, turning to go after him.

  She caught up with him in the passage. "Sir!"

  He stopped, looking over his shoulder. When he saw her, his face broke into a boyish grin.

  "I must thank you, sir," she said, halting a few feet away from him and lowering her face.

  "Did you see that?" he exclaimed. "It worked. I can’t believe I did it."

  The excitement in his voice made her look up. He was still grinning, with a streak of mud she hadn’t noticed on his jaw. When she had first seen him, his blond hair had been damp and plastered to his head—she hadn’t realized what a bright color it was, shining like a golden crown in the dismal passage. He didn’t wear the flesh-colored hose now, but a soldier’s armor. He did not appear silly at all.

  "It’s the manner," he said. "Soft and steady. Confidence."

  "God grant you mercy, sir, for your aid," she repeated, taking a shy step backward.

  He bowed. "It was an honor to serve you, my lady."

  She almost retreated, and then paused. "You’ve been traveling."

  He lowered his voice. "Seeking after news of your mistress. Navona and Lord Thomas have divided a few of us to search and report."

  "You’ve found something?" Cara asked anxiously.

  He shook his head. "I’m sorry, my lady. Nothing. But you must not fear that we’ll fail." He gestured toward the door. "I must give my account to them now, and so haste, if I don’t offend you."

  "Oh no—of course you must go." She moistened her lips. "Where do you lodge?"

  "Over the postern gate, with the squires."

  "I’ll see that a bath is made for you, your robes ready when you wish them." She wrapped the vestments close about her arm and went quickly toward the hall. She hesitated at the screen, glancing back.

  He stood looking after her, his golden hair a faint gleam against the stone. She smiled, making a little courtesy, and hurried into the hall.

  * * *

  There were almost no other women in the castle—none at all of Cara’s rank, and she had the upper rooms of the household range to herself. She’d found a place by a window and sat in the embrasure, bending over the vestments in the rain-soaked light and picking the seam loose with her needle.

  Allegreto came upon her before she knew he was there. She reached for scissors and looked up, starting to see him leaned against the stone chimney mantel with his arms crossed.

  "Blessed Mary!" she exclaimed, her hand on her breast. "You’re as sly as a stoat."

  He inclined his head, as if it were a compliment. Dressed in the Bowland livery, all scarlet but for a simple gold slash diagonal, he might have been a crimson angel or a devil from the fires below. Cara slipped her needle into the fabric, pretending to go back to work. He came sometimes to watch her, and then left again without saying a word—spying, she supposed, though to what purpose but to unnerve her she had no notion.

  The disastrous news they had brought of Princess Melanthe’s disappearance had worked heavily on the peace of the castle’s constable, as well Cara could imagine. Sir Thomas seemed an able and efficient man enough, to see the sound state of the hold and garrison, but in this crisis his management failed him. She was aware that Allegreto had played no small part in the man’s consternation, encouraging him in terrifying notions of who would be blamed if the news spread and the king heard. Allegreto had the natural presence of his father if he pleased to use it, and he did now. A bare sixteen years he might have, but Sir Thomas hung upon his advice as if he were a hundred.

  "P
ut down your work," Allegreto said softly to her. "I have news."

  A bolt of fear made her fingers jump. She barely missed pricking her finger. "Tell me!"

  "A runner has arrived. The rest of our people will be here before night." He made a humorless chuckle. "And only a month since they left London! Sodorini outdoes himself."

  She was glad she did not hold the needle, for in her shaking hand it would surely have pierced her. Allegreto watched, a flame and a darkness.

  "I’ve waited, Cara. Now you must decide."

  The castle suddenly seemed a huge weight around her, pressing down upon her.

  "Riata or Navona," he said.

  She wadded the vestments in her fists. "My sister. My sister."

  "We will ruse them. But I must know who it is."

  "I can’t tell you!"

  "Little fool, do you think I can’t find out for myself? I’ll know by who kills you." He pushed off the chimney. "We came here together. I brought you. Cara, I brought you!"

  She fixed her eyes on his crimson figure. With a blinding vision, she understood him, saw how it would appear in Riata eyes. The princess was still alive, free of any nunnery, outside of all reach—and only Cara and Allegreto, together, had returned with the word. Even a child must believe that they had conspired to effect it.

  "Only tell me," he said. "I can safeguard you."

  She closed her eyes.

  "I beseech you. I beg you."

  "Ficino," she whispered.

  With a soft rustle across the rushes, he came close to her. "You’re with us now. With me. I’ll keep your sister if God wills."

  He stood before her, the devil’s perfection, invoking God. Abruptly he went to one knee and gathered the vestments and her hands within his, pressing his face into the cloth. As suddenly he let her go. He thrust himself back, as if he had touched a flame, and went to the passage.

  He stopped there. Without looking at her, he said, "You must send him word to meet you in the cistern cellar, the one where the oils are stored."

  She stared at him, bereft of words at what he had just done.

  "Cara!" he snapped over his shoulder. "Repeat me, that I know you won’t blunder it!"

  She started. "The cistern cellar, for the oils," she said. Before she was finished speaking, he had gone.

  * * *

  The alarm bells came deep in the night, dread tolling and shouts of fire. All the ladies rushed about in the dark, trying to find their way among the half-packed baggage and chests. Cara was the first down the stairs, knowing her way, holding her candle aloft for the others to see.

  The hall seethed with torch shadows and confusion. She tried to stop a servant, but none would mind her, and the ladies were screaming and pressing around, pushing for the door. She was carried with them out into the bailey, where the low clouds reflected light onto a chain of men passing buckets.

  No flames showed, only a black boil of smoke pouring from the base of the farthest tower. Even as she watched from the hall steps, it began to dissipate, and then vanished, carried away into the night. A hail began at that end of the bailey, a cheer that rolled toward the hall. The bucket chain began to break and scatter into knots of men.

  Cara drew a deep breath. It appeared to be quenched. She almost turned to go in, but a figure caught her eye, a gleam of bright hair among the men. He carried two buckets in one hand, striding out from the crowd. She watched him turn and shout at a page, and trade the empty buckets for a torch.

  The brand lit Guy’s face, showing him smoke-blackened and his shirt stuffed hastily into his breeches. A sudden cough racked him; he bent over, holding the torch awkwardly as he choked.

  Cara forgot her undress and cold feet. She ran down the steps and grabbed up a bucket that still had water in it. She came to him as he straightened up, still spluttering.

  "Drink, sir." She set the bucket on the ground and reached for his torch.

  He looked down at her blankly. For an instant she feared that he had already forgotten her, but then his gaze cleared and his open grin dawned. "Thank you," he croaked, and squatted beside the bucket, scooping water into his hands. He drank deeply, then splashed it on his face and stood, wiping his arm across his eyes.

  Cara smiled at the wild smear of blacking that he made. "Your bath is wasted, sir, I fear."

  He rose, making a small bow. "Ah, but I did delight in it," he said hoarsely, "and that’s not wasted, good lady." He looked beyond her, lifting his hand in salute to another smoke-blackened man passing.

  His companion stopped. "They say there was a poor devil in there, by Christ," he said.

  "’Fore God." Guy blew air through his teeth and made the cross. "He’s passed to his reward, may the good Lord save his soul. I know not what was in that cellar, but it burned like the flames of Hell."

  "It’s where they keep the oils," the other man said. "Good fortune that the stock was low—here, ma’am!"

  Cara had dropped the torch. She could not get her breath.

  "My lady." Guy’s face swam in front of her. "For love—John!"

  She did not swoon. A horrible shaking fit possessed her. She felt she must scream, but she could not scream. Her knees were sinking beneath her. Before she reached the ground she felt herself lifted up.

  "We shouldn’t have spoken of it in front of her." She heard Guy’s voice, but she couldn’t command words. He carried her into the hall, and next she knew the ladies were crowded around him and hart’s horn and vinegar thrust into her face as he set her down.

  "No—" She pushed them feebly away. "I’m well. I only—lost my breath."

  Guy knelt beside her, looking up into her face with a frown of innocent concern, black streaked all across his nose and temple. Cara clutched his hand. She swallowed, trying to command herself. But when she lifted her head, she lost all mastery.

  Beyond him, past the ladies in nightgowns and the men in shirts, above the curious faces and tumult, Allegreto stood on the dais, dressed in gold and fire.

  He was utterly still, watching her, the only silent figure in the commotion.

  She moaned, shaking her head. Guy pressed her hand and patted it. He asked her something, but she did not hear. She pulled away and stumbled from the bench. Guy called after her, but she couldn’t stop; she had to run, turning and twisting blindly, like a doe trying to find some break in the deerpark wall.

  TWENTY

  There were traps set all over Wolfscar. They were feminine traps, light and easy to escape, but no man tried too hard. On the day after Easter, with Lent past and Ruck’s grievous interdict lifted, the sport of Hock Monday became an occasion for high glee.

  Ruck found himself hocked at the door to the great hall, barred by a rope from passing until he paid a groat to the mirthful women who stopped his way. His was an easy escape—the other men were bound hand and foot, voicing loud protest, struggling at their fetters, refusing to pay and altogether making the most of their imprisonment while it lasted.

  Having bought his freedom, he reached the gatehouse and crossed the bridge safely. Crocus bloomed alongside the road, saffron yellow. Alone but for the grazing animals, with the shouts and song left behind him, he walked beside the furrowed and readied fields, his breath frosting in clear air.

  He stooped and probed in the mud with a stick, pleased with the results of the new draining ditches. The mill needed repair, but the mill always needed repair. They had pressed the oxen to plow near four virgates of land, even reclaiming some that had gone to brambles.

  He sat on his heels, looking out over the valley and the high slopes. Protection and boundary, the purple-green walls. So easy to forget the world beyond them. He stared at the long morning shadow of the castle across the fields, the dark ripples of turrets and chimneys on red soil.

  For weeks they had lived as man and wife, lived as if nothing existed beyond Wolfscar. Not once had she said that the time neared for leaving.

  He flipped a clod of mud from the end of the stick. It fell with a plop.
He flipped another, watching it hit the ground, thinking of why she would not want to go, why she would sojourn here so long without even desiring to send word of herself to her home. There were dangers, yes; always peril—but he’d never thought she would stay so long.

  He should speak, he knew, though it was easy to bide silent. Easy to stay his tongue, hard to find the moment. He’d never been so loath to think beyond the thorn-wood.

  A chimney shadow took on life as someone came up the road behind him. He didn’t rise, but flipped mud from his stick, waiting for Will to discuss the seed corn.

  Instead a rope dropped over his shoulders. A tug pulled him off his feet. With a startled flail and exclamation, he overturned onto his back in the cold grass.

  "I have you!" Melanthe said.

  She fell on her knees, pinning the rope down with her hands next to his shoulders. He lay looking at her upside down.

  "How much?" he asked.

  "All your land and chattels, knight, should you hope to rise again."

  "I paid the others but a groat."

  "Ha," she said, "I make no such paltry bargains."

  He pulled her down and kissed her, holding her head between his hands. "All is yours, brazen wench," he said against her lips. "’Beware you what I levy on the morrow, when will be the men’s turn."

  "You must catch me first."

  He rolled over and sat up, casting the rope about her. "Lucky I have you already."

  She squealed and wriggled like a village girl. "You traitor! Never!" Their frosted breaths mingled in the sun as he held the cord against her struggles. She tried to push him away, laughing. "No trumping wretch shall cheat me of my lands!"

  He stilled, standing on his knees, looking into her eyes. "Melanthe," he said soberly, "don’t accuse me of it, even in jest."

  Her hands lightened on his shoulders. Then she gave him a push. "Whence this gravity, monk-man? You’ll be sorry to fatigue me with earnest speech."