Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  "I never wed you, fool. How should I? It was a joke, an idle sport, monk-man, to make you forfeit your vaunted chastity!"

  His green eyes held steady. "You have as many deceits as a fox has turnings, my lady, but you’re well skewered on this joke of yours."

  She laughed. "I love another man. You’re nothing to me."

  He took a step at that. She sought desperately for a way to turn it to advantage.

  "Melanthe—"

  "I loathe and scorn you!"

  He lowered his hand. With a sharp turn he paced to the far end of the chamber, lost again in shadow. The rays of the sun were longer and lower. Gian must come, any moment he must come.

  "You never told of Wolfscar to them," he said, his voice coming with a soft echo from the dark comer. "Why not, lady?"

  "Why?" She shrugged. "But why should I? I didn’t wish to make my lover jealous."

  She could not see him, but she sensed that she had found a chink. An inspiration came to her, if she only had time to employ it. She reached to her throat and released the catch on her silken mantle. It fell to the floor, and she kicked it from her.

  She stood in the light and stretched her arms luxuriously overhead. "But Gian isn’t here yet. Perhaps I’ll bedevil your chastity one more time before I go."

  She turned, looking toward him, unable to see past the shafts of colored sunlight. He said nothing.

  With a wicked smile, she moved toward him. "One kiss," she murmured. "For farewell, monk-man."

  He caught her hand before her eyes adjusted, pulling her up against him. "Is this loathing and despite?" he asked low.

  She lifted her eyes, the sun-haze still in them, his face dim and veiled; his mouth on hers all feeling. He kissed her hard. She breathed him, familiar heat and plain scent, a man’s unadorned skin and the taste of him on her tongue—memory and delight and pain. The last time. The last time his arm pressed her into his chest, the last time his fingers slid upward behind her throat, straining her closer still.

  She almost lost herself in it, but the declining sun burned on her eyelids. Her hand crept up his shoulder. She pressed the point of her dagger beneath his ear.

  He jerked at the prick of it, his breath hissing inward.

  "Now," she said, "you’ll do as I bid. Your hands crossed behind you."

  His dark lashes hid his eyes as he looked down upon her. Slowly, slightly, he shook his head. "No, Melanthe."

  She breathed deeply, holding the tip against his skin. "Do you think I’ve not the skill, or the strength?"

  "Not the will."

  "Fool! Don’t try me!"

  His mouth was a taut line in the half light. "I try you. Do it, if you will."

  She gripped his sleeve, turning the blade, pressing harder and praying.

  "You think to tie and imprison me until you go," he said bitterly. "But you must slay me, Melanthe, if you will to be free, for I won’t concede it while I breathe life."

  She cut him. He flinched, but he held her, his arms tightening as a bright trickle of blood ran down his neck. She was trapped in his embrace.

  "Fool! Fool! If Gian comes now, he’ll flay the skin from you alive."

  "What does it matter to you, who hates and loathes me?"

  She heard horses. Hoofbeats sounded in the courtyard, and the voices of men. "He’s come!"

  Ruck seized her tight. "Decide, my lady. It’s beyond lies now."

  "He is come!" she cried. She tore herself from him. "Go!"

  "It’s he you want, then?"

  Her mastery shattered. "Go!" she screamed. "You fool, do you think it is between you? He’ll slay you—I cannot bear it, God curse you, he’s killed all that I ever loved only because I loved it. Go! The kitchen, the postern door—"

  But he did not go. Melanthe stood in the midst of the streaming light clutching the dagger, staring at the blind shadow of him, hearing the sounds below.

  "He knows, he knows," she moaned. "He’ll find you here—how did you come? You were safe, I made you safe, go, go now, if you ever loved me...please—I can’t bear it." She could see nothing, only light and the window, the last sun pouring past her in rainbow hues. "I cannot bear it."

  He caught her wrist, wrenching the blade from her. His body made an outline against the light, the rays shifting and dancing around him. She heard the knife clatter on the stone floor.

  "Melanthe—" He held her hands up, and she saw blood on them, felt the sting where she had cut herself. "He is dead."

  "Go," she whispered, but it was hopeless, too late. She could hear them in the hall and on the stairs.

  "Navona is dead, Melanthe."

  She shook her head. "He is not dead. He comes."

  "No, my lady." He held her hands. She couldn’t see his face. She wanted to see his face, but tears and light and dark were all she had.

  There was a scratch on the door. She shuddered. She could not move. "He’s here," she whimpered.

  "My lady, you said me once, never was I to tell you false. Gian Navona is dead. I saw him—my lady, my sovereign lady. Believe me. You need not fear."

  "My brother, and Ligurio," she whispered. "And my daughter. And any friend I ever thought to have but Gryngolet. I didn’t mean to love you. I did not mean to. It was so far away. I never thought he could find out."

  The sun rays shafted around him as he lifted his hands to her face. He smoothed her hair, his fingers catching in the net and passing over the jewels.

  "She only had two years. My baby. And she was so pretty. I always remembered how pretty—and I thought—with you—if God willed—" She licked tears from her mouth. "But then I was afraid."

  "I would you had told me. Melanthe. If you had told me!"

  "I was afraid." Her face crumpled, and she couldn’t see. "I was afraid for you. And then Desmond came, and I knew that I’d brought it all there, and I had to go away." She shook her head. "I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t tell you so, for you would come."

  "I did come. How could I not?" His hands squeezed tight on her shoulders. "How could I lose you? Ah, Christ, a child...Melanthe, my lady, my life—even that? And you kept all from me, and made me think—" He shook her and then pulled her to his chest. "Helas, I have not known you; you’ve blinded me."

  The scratch came at the door again. She put her hands on him, closing her fingers.

  "Gian is dead," Ruck said. "It’s not Navona."

  With an effort she released him. He let go of her and went away. She stood facing the shining window, the tall traceries of colored glass. Her hands stung and throbbed.

  Behind her, someone spoke softly in French. Ruck answered them, the words too low to understand. Melanthe turned around, and for the first time she saw him clearly, not a shadow against glare, but real and distinct. He closed the door and came back to her.

  His face in the light was sober, his black brows and lashes stark. He touched her hands gently, and then her cheek. "It’s Allegreto below, and Navona’s men." He took her wrists.

  She lifted her eyes, a new terror rising in her. "Who killed Gian?"

  "No one, unless it was the Arch-Fiend himself."

  "You’re certain he’s dead?"

  "Without doubt, I am certain." He held her face between his hands. "Luflych, make your soul easy." He gathered her close to him. "He’s gone beyond where he can reach you evermore."

  A quiver ran through her. He held her harder, pressing his lips to her hair. The gentle kisses seemed to draw fear from her in a surge, breaching walls and barriers, transforming it into endless tears that spilled from her eyes and washed her cheeks and his black velvet.

  "It can’t be." Her voice was hollow, muffled against his shoulder. "It cannot. Are you sure? Did you kill him?"

  "Hush, Melanthe," he murmured. "Be still." He rocked her softly. "I’ve said you true."

  She wanted to push back and look at him, to make herself believe that he was with her, but she didn’t want to leave his embrace. She closed her eyes and felt him instead, his broad b
ack beneath her palms, the height of his shoulder and the breadth of his body. She pulled him into her as if she could make the steady rise and fall of his breath supplant the jolting sobs that shook her.

  "Hush now." He drew her down onto the window seat. His arms enfolded her tight against him. He kissed the nape of her neck as she pushed her cheek to his chest. "My liege lady—my heart. Hush. You’re safe with me."

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  In candlelight Gian Navona lay on a straw-covered hurdle, only the stone floor beneath him. He was white, his skin and his clothes, already an effigy with painted black features and gilt embellishment. A priest knelt beside him; the others left a space about the corpse, standing back clustered in the corners and along the walls, except for Allegreto.

  The youth stood beside his father’s body like a white greyhound guarding its master. Ruck had not sensed the depth of resemblance between them before. In his frozen pallor Allegreto was a mirror of his father: comelier, younger, perfected. He still wore the milky livery, showing damp yet, as if no one had thought to let him change. His pitch-black eyes turned to Melanthe, watching her as she left Ruck at the screens and crossed the floor.

  She stood looking down on the dead man for a long time. The priest murmured his prayer softly. Ruck couldn’t see her face.

  Navona’s men waited, a score of them ranged beyond Allegreto. Most of Melanthe’s retinue gathered nearer to Ruck, at the lower end of the hall. Set apart, an Englishman stood by a clerk with a writing roll and pen. Local people pressed forward through the open door into the passage, goggling and hushing one another, staring at Ruck harder than they stared at the corpse.

  "Place a shroud on him," Melanthe said. She looked at her maids and spoke in Italian. One of them ducked a courtesy and went quickly out past Ruck.

  "My lady," the Englishman said, stepping forward and speaking mannerly French. He sank to one knee and rose again. "With all reverence—John de Langley, our lord the king’s justice of the peace."

  "What happened?" she asked, lifting her chin. "How did he die?"

  "Madam, I am—"

  "He fell from our boat into the river." Allegreto’s voice cut across the justice’s, sharp and cold. Then despair seemed to burst from him. "My lady, I tried to save him. I tried!"

  "Madam, I am—"

  "Will you believe such a thing?" One of Navona’s men stepped toward the justice. "No, the bastard speaks false—my lord never fell from that boat. They’ve murdered him, these three together!"

  A murmur ran through the onlookers. "Madam," the justice said tightly, "I pursue an inquisition to determine this matter, whether it be an accident or a crime to be brought before the jury."

  Melanthe said nothing. Langley inclined his head to her.

  "I’ve found no witness but this youth, the name of, ah—"

  "Allegreto," she said. "He is Dan Gian’s bastard son."

  "Yes, my lady. And this is—?" He looked meaningfully toward Ruck.

  "My wedded husband. Lord Ruadrik of Wolfscar."

  The spectators didn’t even attempt to remain quiet. A clamor broke out among them. Ruck walked to Melanthe’s side.

  "Yes, and so I have said," he declared, glaring about him to silence them. "I’ve defended my word before the king. The archbishop himself has heard my plea that my wife went in fear of her life from this man Navona, and could not say the truth." He faced the justice. "If this isn’t proof enough—that she speaks my name now, when he’s dead—then I’ll gladly prove it by my sword again, against any who deny it."

  "Hear him!" The single cry came from the passage, and instantly all the English took it up. The hail even rose from outside, the sound of a substantial crowd. "Hear him, hear him!"

  "Oyeh!" the clerk bawled. "Silence for my lord justice!"

  They settled into muttered grudging. Langley made a courteous nod toward Ruck. "I hear your words, Lord Ruadrik. I was in attendance on your honorable combat. You’ll understand that I’m justice of the peace. A complaint and accusation is lodged here, which I must see into. If I adjudge there’s no evidence of a crime, then no arraignment be required."

  "They’ve murdered my lord Gian, may God avenge it!" the Italian shouted. He pointed toward Ruck. "Look you, that this Ruadrik threatened my lord, and assaulted him, and desired to steal his promised wife! All know it! Where’s he been, this fine Lord Ruadrik, I ask you, that he was mourned for dead and now we find him here with her, almost in the very hour of the murder? They’ve conspired together, these vipers; Allegreto to have his own father’s place, and those two to congress together as they will!"

  "Where is the proof of this, I ask you once again," the justice said evenly.

  "Will you not look to find another witness? Will you take the word of this lying baseborn?"

  "He’s spoken under oath," Langley said. "All this day I’ve conducted a search for other witnesses, and found none to deny his story."

  "My lord would not fall from a boat!" the man said fiercely. "He was no such fool."

  "In faith, any man might lose his balance, I think. And he wears weight enough in gold to drag him under."

  "Pah!" The Italian made a motion as if to spit at Allegreto, though he didn’t do it. "You know nothing! Ask him what he gains, this bastard! A fortune for himself, instead of a lawful born brother to take his place!"

  "I did not kill my father," Allegreto said in a fragile voice. "Morello, you know I love him."

  "Such love!" Morello snapped. "When he lies dead at your feet!"

  "I love him!" Allegreto cried, his anguish echoing back from the roof.

  Melanthe’s hand tightened for an instant on Ruck’s arm. The whole hall was silent as the sound of the youth’s grief died away. Ruck watched, afraid that Allegreto would break in his misery, losing his wits and his tale. But he only closed his eyes, and then opened them, with a long and unblinking gaze at Morello.

  The man looked away. He muttered something viciously in Italian.

  "And still I hear no credible proofs, to say the boy speaks false," Langley said. The justice turned to his clerk, requiring Bible and Cross. "Lord Ruadrik, will you take oath to your innocence in the matter?"

  "Verily," Ruck said. He placed his hand on the holy book and swore by his soul that he had not killed Gian Navona. He kissed the rood and crossed himself. As he stepped back, the spectators murmured approvingly.

  "My lady?"

  Melanthe made a courtesy as they brought the Bible to her. In a clear, quiet voice she swore the same.

  The justice leaned over and spoke in his clerk’s ear. The man nodded, and nodded again. Ruck put his hand on Melanthe’s elbow, holding lightly. The onlookers were so still that they seemed to hold in their breath.

  "I find no cause to convene a jury," the justice said.

  A hail burst from the English, and a shout of anger from the Italians, quickly subdued when Langley gave them a furious scowl and his clerk demanded silence.

  "In the case of murder, we are advised never to judge by likelihoods and presumptions, or no life would be secure. Therefore, without a witness who is willing to step forward and swear otherwise, the accusation of murder appears unfounded. I have no material reason to doubt the drowning of Gian Navona was accidental, may God pardon his soul."

  He had to pause once again until order was restored, with two of the Italians bodily restraining Morello. The justice looked on him with raised brows.

  "My lord Ruadrik has said that he will uphold his sworn word by his sword, as he has done before. Do we understand then that you wish to fight him?"

  Morello jerked himself free of his companions, glowering. He cast a glance at Ruck and said nothing.

  "If not," Langley said, "then I declare that the king’s peace be best served by the swift dispersal of those who have no business here—and by the absence of some two-score foreigners of Italy from my county on the morrow."

  * * *

  When the gray friars came with a coffin of lead, Melanthe turned away and
went upstairs. She didn’t even keep a maid from among the Italians, but commanded them all to depart. Only the gyrfalcon and some chests had been brought back from the barks, and the bed, set up again in her chamber without its hangings.

  Ruck would have followed her, but he looked back and saw Allegreto standing alone, gazing at the friars as they began their work of washing the body and sewing it up in its shroud.

  Ruck didn’t go to him, but stood by the screen until Allegreto saw him there. Ruck made a curl of his fingers to beckon. The youth seemed lost; he hesitated and then came quickly, like an uncertain dog that overcame its doubt, following Ruck into the shadowed passage. He put his hand on Allegreto’s shoulder. "You’re still wet. Do you have dry clothes?"

  "On the boats." The boy looked up at him, his cloak of mastery vanished—strangely young, as if they’d all forgotten that he was hardly yet more man than child. "Should I change now?"

  "Yes. I’ll have something brought up from the wharf for you."

  Allegreto caught Ruck’s arm as he turned. "Cara?" he asked, the name a whisper.

  Ruck paused. The youth looked off toward the pool of light falling into the passage from the hall, where the friars did their work with quiet words and soft splashing. In the set mouth and proud chin, Ruck saw that it was no fear for the girl’s telling tales that concerned him. "I took Donna Cara to her betrothed, as she asked me. They’ve left now with the horses."

  The youth glanced at him coolly. "Where?"

  "My lady’s castle by the forest of Savernake, so they said me."

  Allegreto’s eyes narrowed. He nodded. Then a shiver passed through him, and he leaned his shoulders back against the wall, crossing his arms. "God’s blood, I wish they’d be done with him, so that we might leave."

  "You’ll return with the others?"

  "Navona is mine, green man. So I will take it. And Monteverde and the Riata with it."

  The names were no more than names to Ruck, castles or kin or cities, he knew not. But it might have been Gian Navona himself standing in the half-light. Ruck only said, "Beware your friend Morello, then."