Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  As if in a dream, she stood with the crew and the soldiers and watched helplessly, the creak of the ship and the sound of the chants filling her ears. Their own vessel had regained some faint speed. The pirate galley seemed misaimed with its wicked prow— it did not pull straight toward the belly of the ship, but seemed to direct a line that fell away from collision with each passing moment as the sails collected wind and the ship added speed.

  Elayne held her breath as the pirates came at them, clinging tight to a rope ladder at the mast, staring 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 increased the chance that their ship would slip a hairsbreadth ahead of 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 near oars on the galley swept upward as one unit, pointing toward the sky; at the same instant a flight of arrows hissed from the ship. A great sound rent the air, as if the heavens cracked open as the galley struck the ship’s huge rudder. Elayne fell to her knees with the impact. The pirate slid past under the stern amid a hail of screaming shouts, carrying the rudder away.

  The ship still sailed, but it was like a wounded bull now between two wolves. The second galley came on swiftly, the chants a relentless rising tempo, unmindful of arrows flying as it swept alongside with men hanging from the spars and ropes. She saw that they were going to leap aboard in mass; she saw an arrow take one down; his body twisted as he fell like a broken bird into the sea.

  The other galley was turning toward them again. Amid the war shouts, a heavy hand pushed her, half-dragged her toward the stern castle. Elayne stumbled inside just as the pirates began to leap aboard; the door slammed and she turned, scrambling for a bolt, a chest, anything to block it closed.

  "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 sound of the battle outside. The two of them huddled down behind the barricade of wood, 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 and a nod. 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.

  For the first time, Elayne felt a tinge of admiration for the countess’s fierceness. She accepted the dagger soberly. Crossing herself, she sent a prayer to her enigmatic guardian angel, begging that he not desert her now.

  As if in answer, a strange hush fell over the ship. Elayne stared straight ahead at the one tiny porthole in the stern, listening. Through the bulkheads and the door and the sound of her own heart beating, she could make nothing of the faint voices from outside. She stiffened as the chant of the galley oarsmen seemed to draw near again, but then—amazingly—it began to fade away.

  Elayne lifted her chin a little, peering over the countess’s bowed head. Through the porthole, beyond the chaos of the cabin, she caught just a glimpse of bright blue water and the white sails of another ship.

  * * *

  For some time Elayne waited. After many minutes she began to grow a bit impatient. If they had repelled the attack, then it would be benevolent of their own escort to come and inform them of it. She felt a strong urge to climb over the baggage and present herself with a demand to know what went forward. But the countess caught her arm tightly as she moved, and Elayne lapsed back.

  The ship shuddered, a deep thump as another 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 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 are out of 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?"

  Lady Beatrice thumped her cane against the chests. "See to this disarray."

  While Elayne stood back in her wet smock and the countess held herself like royalty on the rolling deck, seamen hastened to set the baggage back to order and clear the passage. The spaniel began to bark again, but hushed when Lady Beatrice struck the deck an inch before its nose.

  "Who is this varlet?" she demanded, staring with a stern distaste at the richly dressed stranger waiting behind their escorts. It might have been that he had just saved their lives, but Lady Beatrice gave no compliments for that.

  "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 countess stared at the stranger. "I take it that you jest."

  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!"

  She tapped her cane. "I daresay you are of France," she said scornfully.

  The captain looked up, grinning without rising to his feet. "Nay, my lady. I am a Portugal, 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 is my galley that I offer, to shepherd these slow-sailing craft. She is swift and well-equipped, to prevent a corsair from boarding you." He hesitated, glancing about at the confusion in the cabin. "I mourn that we did not arrive in time to spare you such a fright. We’ve been on the hunt for that pack, my lady." He made a sorrowful gesture with his hands. "But they scurry off like mice when they espy us."

  "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 men did well," Amposta said courteously. "I saw five bodies afloat, and none of them Christian. Your pardon—it is impossible to defend a round ship such as this from galleys. It is by God’s grace that we came upon you when we did, or..." He glanced toward Elayne, then shook his head. "I do not like to think of the consequence."

  "And what is your proposal, Captain?" Lady Beatrice asked peremptorily.

  "I offer protection, my lady. We can rig a steering oar for your rudder, and accompany your ship into safe waters."

  "How much?"

  Amposta tilted his head, making a negative gesture with his hand, as if the question shamed him. "I am told you are on Christian pilgrimage, my lady. A token, by hap. It is not important. Whatever you feel moved to grant once we have reached a parting."

  "Fortune indeed, that you came upon us!" Lady Beatrice said. "After these fellows from Rhodes have made such a ruin of the thing. But they are French, God forgive them."

  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. "Nay would I propose such an invitation 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. "By hap 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 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. But his first act upon installing them in the spacious cabin, among carpets and cushions, was to present Lady Beatrice with a silver rosary. The crew was courteous and disciplined, the food wholesome; altogether it was a marvelous increase in comfort and speed. The galley was so swift that it could circle the wounded sailing ship as it lumbered along like a greyhound could range about a plodding ox.

  By tacit accord, neither the Hospitallers nor Lady Beatrice 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. But under the amiable influence of the captain, Lady Beatrice became better-humored; almost jocund. He was generous with gifts, and full of ghastly stories of his own captivity among the Moors, both of which recommended him to the countess, who delighted in tales of torture. His crew, unseen below, was so well-trained, the oars pulled with such steady vigor, that Elayne could even walk about on deck while the galley cut smartly through waves that tossed and rolled the sailing ship.

  She was perfectly content to be regarded as a simple handmaid. A breeze lightened the oppressive heat of the Middle Sea. Like Lady Beatrice, she found her mood much improved. Her

  melancholy began to lift; her longing for Raymond became a gentler thing, a yearning that he might be there with her to see the glorious sunsets and the luminous bow wave under the stars. She was sure he had never seen the like of this transparent sea. The lookout did sight one corsair, red sails on the horizon, but when Captain Amposta’s galley turned in swift pursuit, it fled. The captain lamented that he dared not leave the damaged ship to chase it down.

  "Is that the coast?" Elayne 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. "Nay, not yet. We are still a week out from Italy, rowing against these contrary winds. That is the isle of Il Corvo, the Raven. A beautiful place, and well-protected. By hap you will 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.

  * * *

  They glided into the shadow of Il Corvo at twilight. Elayne stared up at the towering walls of the tiny harbor, at the white rock glowing pink against the last of light. A bridge crossed a ravine, supported by three dizzying stone arches that dropped sheer to the water, vaulting so far above her that she could see the radiant blue of the sky beneath them. There was no other sign of human habitation, save the huge mooring bolts sunk into the cliff wall. As one of the sailors dived into the water to secure the mooring cable, a dolphin surfaced and then vanished again into the clear green depths.

  "Welcome," Captain Amposta said, with a bow and a brief smile. "Il Corvo awaits."

  * * *

  "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 speak more truth than you know. 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 as a countess here in this savage place, 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 had not 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.

  "I do not suffer fools," Lady Beatrice said calmly.

  The captain straightened, sucking air between his teeth. For an instant, Elayne thought that he would leap at Lady Beatrice like a wild animal. The countess had lowered the cane, but she held it lightly, drawing a circle with the tip on the floor.

  "My dear lady—has this fellow been disrespectful?"

  The quiet voice came unexpectedly, a shock in the small tower room. 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 to the floor: an iridescent cape of black. Beneath it he wore silver, a tunic fitted perfectly to his body. His hair too was black; the color of fathomless night, long and tied back at the nape of his neck. He was like to a statue of pure metal, something—some thing, inhuman—elegant and fantastic. Elayne was not 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
do not require it." Though his words were deferential, though he smiled, it seemed less a courtesy than a mandate. "You have been served ill, I fear, to be asked to climb so far. My regrets, Countess. 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, if it be your order that I wait upon you. I am 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.

  "By hap you will muster the patience to enjoy my home and table while you are here, 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. "Do not suppose I am any such fool as sails into your harbor every day! That ship is sound enough. We shall not impose upon your idea of hospitality a day longer."

  "I fear that 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, or Mistress Libushe’s characters, but neither of those nor anything Elayne had ever seen before. "But Your Ladyship will like us better after I have Amposta here tossed onto the rocks below."