Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  Elayne looked at her suspiciously. The girl was yellow-haired, much younger than Elayne, with pale blue eyes and a round face. A sprinkle of blond freckles gave her a cheerful countenance. She seemed out of place on this island of wizards and pirates.

  "I will bring it," she said, as if Elayne had agreed.

  In a moment she returned to the bedside with a tray of hammered brass. She held up the ornate ewer and cup, pouring carefully. Light gleamed on the brilliant enamel designs.

  "You drink it first," Elayne said.

  The girl nodded, unsurprised, and took a draught. She wrinkled her nose and then smiled with a purple-stained upper lip. "I fear it has a trace of bitterness, ma’am. But my lord says it will cure your head."

  Elayne waited a few moments, to be sure the girl stayed waking. "What’s your name?"

  "Margaret, if it please Your Magnificence." She gave another bow of courtesy.

  "Pray do not address me as ’magnificent.’" Elayne put her hands to her aching eyes and saw the ring again. She sat up, drawing the sheets to her chin. Her head pounded. Margaret didn’t seem to have fallen into a faint, or expired, so Elayne took the cup of grape juice and drank a large swallow.

  She worked at the ring. It would not come off.

  "Does it pain you, Your Grace?" Margaret asked anxiously.

  "It doesn’t belong to me," Elayne said. She took another swallow of the purple liquid, and then finished the entire cup. A metallic taste lingered on her tongue. "I’m not entirely foolish, though I took his drugged wine."

  Margaret bit her lip. She took the cup from Elayne and set it carefully on the tray.

  Elayne held the sheet close about her shoulders. As luxurious as the chamber allotted to Lady Beatrice had been, this one was richer by far. No king would be ashamed of the artistry in the bright frescoes and carvings that adorned the domed ceiling. At first they seemed like religious tableau, or scenes of gentle parties in beflowered gardens, but a second glance revealed astrological signs woven into the ladies’ headdresses. The creatures that lolled at their feet like pets were not lapdogs, but small monsters, or fairies, or something indescribable. Scrolls and books lay piled on a velvet table-covering.

  "What chamber is this?" she demanded, holding the embroidered coverlet close.

  "It’s my lord’s bedchamber, Your Grace," Margaret said cautiously.

  "Why am I here?" Elayne was burningly aware of her nakedness beneath the sheet. "Is he coming here?"

  Margaret bobbed her head. "He’ll return with the lady and some others. I’m to prepare Your Grace for inspection."

  "Inspection!"

  "The sheets, madam." She gestured toward Elayne’s knees in the bed. "I have some flowers, too! I’ll spread them very pretty beside you in the bed, if it would not make you shamefast."

  "I don’t know what you mean." Elayne felt panic. "Inspection? Who’s coming? Am I to be sold?"

  Margaret shook her head vigorously. "Your Grace, of course not! If he would not tolerate the least one of us here to be enslaved, how should he allow such a thing for you?"

  "He spoke of it several times. He threatened me with it."

  The girl looked disapproving. "My lady, may God forgive me, I cannot believe you. He would not countenance any such thing."

  "What is this inspection, then? Who does he bring?"

  "I believe he’ll bring your lady attendant, madam—the elderly lady. She’ll wish to be assured of the proper consummation of your marriage to my lord."

  Elayne gave a gasp. "She will wish to be assured of no such thing!" She sat straighter. "Where is my chemise? I must rise."

  "No, Your Grace, it would be best to stay—"

  "I have not said that I would marry him! My gown!" Elayne said forcefully. "Make haste!" She pushed herself off the bed, dragging the sheets around her. As she pulled them from the mattress, she saw spots of blood-red amid the white folds. "Deus!" she exclaimed. "What—"

  She stood still. A wave of mortification and horror rose to her cheeks as understanding came upon her.

  "No," she whispered. "Depardeu, no!"

  "Don’t be abashed, ma’am," Margaret said. "It is an honorable mark upon your wedding bed."

  Elayne stared at her. She almost declared the girl a lunatic. She had not consented to any marriage with this pirate. But the ring upon her finger, his bedchamber...she remembered nothing of how she had come here.

  She turned away, holding the sheets tight about her. "He would not dare!" she exclaimed under her breath. And yet even as she spoke, she knew he could commit any transgression that he willed. Marriage would be a favor compared to other prospects.

  Lady Beatrice’s sharp voice penetrated the chamber, an ill-tempered forewarning that caused Margaret to hurry toward the door. Just before the maid reached for it, the latch swung open. Margaret stood back, bowing down to the floor.

  Elayne conquered a fervent urge to hide herself. She stood as straight as Cara had ever demanded, holding the sheets and tangled tresses of her own hair close to her breast as she glared toward the door.

  The countess entered, rapping her cane with each step. She paused, her thin eyebrows lifted almost to the tight line of her wimple as she looked Elayne up and down.

  I am a princess, Elayne declaimed in her mind, and returned Lady Beatrice’s look with defiance. She would not bow or even nod. Not now—when one move might cause her meager coverings to slip.

  Behind Lady Beatrice the pirate stood in the doorway, dressed in pure indigo, his hair tied behind his neck. He wore two daggers on the belt at his hip. Beyond, she could see that there were others waiting, but he blocked their faces from the door. As he met her eyes, she lifted her chin angrily.

  He seemed amused. He might even have made a wink at her as he gave a formal bow of courtesy, but she wasn’t certain, for he lowered his face as he went to his knee. His reverence was easy and elegant—as polished as any at the court of Windsor. He rose effortlessly and stepped into the room, closing the door on the crowd.

  "And what have you got yourself into, girl?" the countess demanded. "This poor fellow seems to think you have some noble blood in you, and so he’ll wed you on the spot."

  Il Corvo said, "You may spare us any play-act, Lady Beatrice. I know her bloodlines to a fine degree."

  The countess turned her head and shoulders toward him. She thumped her cane and shrugged. "You seem to have made sure of your mark on her. If you’re so convinced of who she is, what ransom do you suppose to get now that she’s besmirched?"

  The pirate walked to Elayne. She turned her face away. He lifted her hair and traced his fist down her throat. The velvet of his sleeve brushed her bared shoulder. "Do you wish to make a more certain examination? I wouldn’t like to send you back to Melanthe with any doubts in your mind."

  "Send me back? To England? Yes, and you suppose I’ll be pleased to carry news that you’ve ravished the goddaughter of the Countess of Bowland for your whore?"

  "Taken her as my beloved and honored wife," he countered calmly. "As I told you, we gave our vows in my own chapel here not a few hours since. I’m grieved that you weren’t in attendance, but now you may see for yourself that all is sealed."

  Lady Beatrice tapped forward and reached for a fold of the sheets around Elayne, bending over to examine one of the bloodstains. She flicked it away and straightened. Elayne felt like one of Sir Guy’s horses at the market.

  "It will never stand, once Lancaster is informed," the countess said, gripping the cane’s head in her bony fingers. "If you know who she is, fool, you know she’s contracted for a portion enough to buy your little island a hundred times over. You’d have done better to hold her for a handsome profit than to defame her virginity."

  He gave a cold nod of assent. "You, too, have a pirate’s mind, I see, my lady. As it falls out, however, a handsome profit is not my desire."

  "What is it you expect, knave?"

  "I expect you to return forthwith and convey tidings of the marriage of Princ
ess Elena Rosafina di Monteverde to Allegreto Navona, along with my cordial gratitude to the Lady Melanthe."

  "Gratitude! You’ll have the armies of England and Monteverde upon you in gratitude! What of her betrothal contract?"

  "You may further advise our good lady Melanthe to hold the armies of England in check," he said, "if they wish to be arrayed on the winning side." He looked down at Elayne. "But Melanthe will understand. She owes me this. Read closely how she chose the words of that wedding contract." With a half-smile, he slid a lock of Elayne’s hair through his fingers. "She owes me. But I do thank her for it."

  Elayne tweaked her hair away. She was trembling. "Whatever it is you want of me, whatever enemy I am of yours—you didn’t need to do it this way." She glared up at the pirate, clutching the sheets close. "I had no wish to go to Monteverde, nor bring armies upon anyone. If you could prevent me from wedding the Riata in some way—I told you I abhorred the match. I’d have obliged you in whatever manner I could. But not this!"

  "You regret our vows already?" he asked. "You wound me!"

  "You know there were no vows made!"

  He touched her cheek like a lover. "Have a care of what you say in the heat of the moment, carissima. You were not so unwilling in the night."

  "Oh! You are full of lies!"

  "That I am, my lady." He shrugged. "It’s one of my many mortal sins. But these blemishes upon our sheets are not a lie. And there are a score and more of my people outside this chamber who witnessed our pledge, and our lying down together, and come at present to wish us well. To withdraw now from your given word is a matter to consider gravely."

  She wanted to shout that it wasn’t true—there had been no pledge or oaths exchanged. But like a cheating opponent at chess, he had maneuvered her when she wasn’t attending, and she found herself with no escape. She could declare she had made no vow to be his wife—but what would she be then? Besmirched, as Lady Beatrice said. It might be that Franco Pietro would still have her, or the Duke of Lancaster would send armies, but at best she would end up where she had dreaded to go, under a cloud of stark humiliation.

  She could feel Lady Beatrice’s judging look. She was no longer chaste. She didn’t feel different; she had no memory of what had been done to her—but the pirate made her sound as if she had been eager for it.

  Perhaps she had been. When he touched her so lightly, she felt as if there were a flash between them, a sting, an ache that ran from his fingertip across all of her skin.

  "Well, girl?" Countess Beatrice demanded.

  He moved away, as if to allow her freedom to choose. As he walked behind the countess, silent as a cat on the carpeted floor, he paused. He slipped the dagger from his belt and turned it in his hand, so that the morning sunlight caught a white diamond in the handle and sent a prism of light across his palm. The maid Margaret watched him placidly. He looked up directly into Elayne’s eyes.

  "What do you say?" The countess leaned upon her cane, her back to him. The stiff wings of her old-fashioned wimple made a screen around her face. "Has he forced you into this, child?"

  The Raven didn’t move, or take his eyes from Elayne’s. His face was gentle, perfect, his hand balancing the dagger and his dark brows slightly raised as he waited for her answer.

  And she understood him. With a clarity as brilliant as the gemstone on his weapon, she understood that he would kill the countess if Elayne denied him. Lady Beatrice would be a messenger with no doubt in her mind, or she would not be a messenger at all.

  "Do not think you are friendless," the countess said gruffly, unknowing of the viper poised to strike. "There’s recourse for this kind of villainy, if you’ve spine enough to demand it."

  Elayne swallowed. She shook her head.

  "There was no villainy," she said faintly. "We are truly wed."

  The countess snorted. "God spare us, you witless chit! Not a moment since, you claimed there were no vows."

  "I only pretended to repent of it—for fear of your displeasure, ma’am."

  "Play me no May games! You tell me true if you’ve been plundered and forced to bed, or take your fine chances of life with this whoreson."

  Elayne saw his fingers close on the dagger; she saw him make a leisurely move.

  "I was not forced!" she cried. "We are wed; I said I took him for my husband before God."

  "Willingly?" the countess persisted, leaning forward. "This baseborn outlaw?"

  "Willingly!" Elayne flashed her hand outward. "More than willing! I wear his ring! I was eager to bed with him. Now take that message to my lady godmother and leave me. Leave me!"

  Lady Beatrice thumped her cane and raised her chin. "Bah! So I shall, then. Harlot."

  The pirate sheathed the blade without a sound. He inclined his head to Elayne.

  She pulled the sheets close around herself and turned her face to the wall.

  * * *

  From the tiled and arcaded gallery, Elayne watched Lady Beatrice sail away. The Raven had Amposta’s ship prepared and waiting, laden with letters and gifts to soften the shock of the news she carried. Before noon the countess was gone.

  The craft moved swiftly, manned by two tiers of oars as it made boldly for the horizon. Elayne gazed after it from behind the fronds of a potted palm. In a month, she supposed, Lady Beatrice would be safely back in England, spreading the word that Elayne was a harlot married to a pirate.

  She stood very still, containing shame and wrath and bitterness like a smooth-faced vessel with a whirlwind inside. From somewhere far below, invisible, the smoke and bustle of cooking drifted upward. Children laughed. Someone seemed to be rehearsing music on a psaltery, plucking the same faint string of notes over and over.

  Elayne passed her hand over the pattern of silver-and-green leaves twining through the silk of her gown. There were hundreds of pearls embroidered into the low sweep of the neckline. It was a gift from Il Corvo, Margaret said, for Elayne to wear at the wedding feast. It lay heavily across her bathed and perfumed shoulders, more luxurious than anything she’d ever worn—and likely stolen from some passing merchant ship, she thought acidly.

  Behind her, through an open arch in the faceted black stone of the castle, the Raven’s sumptuous bedchamber and anterooms waited. She felt the approach of evening like a descending hand.

  "My lady." Margaret’s voice came meekly from behind her. "The repast doesn’t please you?"

  "I’m not hungry," she said. She had no intention of being in a drugged sleep when he came this time.

  "I’ll take it away." Margaret made a courtesy. "Pray, madam, if you’ll give me leave, I must be gone for a short while to feed my son before the banquet."

  "Your son?" Elayne glanced at her. The maid seemed young to have a child.

  "Yes, my lady," Margaret said, keeping her face lowered. "I was in a bordello house, to my shame, until my lord gave me sanctuary here." Her hands fluttered. "But I’ve repented and done penance! I pray Your Grace won’t cast me off."

  "Of course I wouldn’t cast you off."

  "God grant you mercy, madam. You’re as kind and good in your heart as my lord. I’ll make a loyal servant to you, as he bid me." She bowed deeply again.

  "Go," Elayne said. "Take as long as you wish." She turned back to the horizon as Margaret retreated, staring hard, unable to find the ship any longer.

  The weight of the pearl-encrusted gown was stifling in the midday heat. She turned suddenly and looked at the bed, the vibrant hues of the silken hangings, the clean sheets and pillows that showed no imprint now of what crime had been done upon them.

  The very essence of the pirate lingered here, like a sinful promise, a perfume too faint to perceive. She remembered him touching her bared shoulder; the back of his hand sliding lightly against her skin. A strange shudder overtook her, a weakness beyond understanding. With trembling fingers, she tore free the buttons of the elegant gown. It fell to the floor, where she left it in a costly heap.

  She instantly felt lighter. Amid the exoti
c furnishings was one small familiar coffer. She lifted the cover, inspecting quickly inside, relieved to find everything in place as she had left it.

  She thrust her journal and writing tackle into a leather purse, girding herself with a plain silk cord for a belt. She didn’t know what she was intending, dressed only in her short-sleeved smock, but she wouldn’t remain in this chamber any longer, meekly awaiting her fate.

  * * *

  It seemed lonely for a castle. Deserted, as if it had been built for some high lord whose retinue had departed, though she still heard voices and smelled the kitchen somewhere. Black stone walls surrounded the yard, stone that was like some gem itself, glittering with tiny surfaces of peacock iridescence within the dark hue.

  Two great white dogs patrolled the open court, their rough coats the hue of purest snow. They stood and stared with deep-eyed majesty, aloof and unapproachable. A goat stood tied in harness, the cart loaded with baskets of fruits and soft cheese.

  If he expected her to be humbly waiting, dressed and trussed like a prize fowl for his false celebration, he would be disappointed. The heavy main gates were closed, but there was one small doorway that opened from the courtyard to the outside. Elayne looked through, seeing a path along a corridor cut in the earth. She stole three plums and a pair of cheeses from the cart, and bolted through the doorway.

  Outside, it didn’t require long to be certain of what she knew already—that no unwilling bride would be making her escape so easily. The island was a natural fortress, girt by sea cliffs only the screaming gulls could occupy, riven by tiny harbors and gorges spanned by fabulous arched stone bridges. But the energy of anger—and something else, some hot misery that she could not name—propelled her feet, though she could find no destination.

  Below the castle, she could see whitewashed houses and a quay clustered around a diminutive beach. A pack of war galleys lay serenely off the shore, like wolves resting before their next hunt.

  Try the countless bridges and paths as she might, she could find no way down to the village. Her head still throbbed with an echo of drugged wine. Sea wind blew strands of her hair from its net as she wandered the maze of trails that seemed to lead nowhere but back to where they began. The frustrating twist and coil of the pathways back upon themselves only made her more furious at the pirate, enraged at the cheating games he played. She was breathing hard when she emerged finally onto a wind-blasted headland, surprising a goat that gave a kicking leap and vanished among the gnarled bushes.