The old bandit came behind her and set his hand on her shoulder, as if he were giving courage to one of his men. He wore fine studded mail now under a green tunic, his broad chest embroidered with the silver insignia of captain of the guard. But he was still Philip Welles of the forest and the camp, smelling faintly of wood-smoke and dirt. "Bless and keep you, Princess," he said brusquely. "It’s a hard fate for you, I know."
She pressed her hands together, rubbing the place where the ring had been. She felt it like a ghost, like Allegreto’s presence. "Sometimes I think he comes here," she whispered. "Sometimes I can feel him near, at night."
"I don’t believe it, Your Grace," Dario said. "He couldn’t enter here even to reach Franco. The citadel has no secret ways."
She gazed at the fortress across the lake. She only wished that he came, knowing he could not. Knowing that it was she herself who kept him bound there.
She looked back at Philip and Dario. "I cannot wed another," she said fiercely. "Not while he lives. Let them pass what laws they choose."
Philip shrugged. "As you will, Princess."
"We’ll keep and protect you, Your Grace," Dario said. His bullish face was set in stubbornness, his dark eyes serious. "You need no husband for that."
"Aye," Philip said simply.
They stood before her, solid and steadfast. Her mouth quivered. Philip gave her shoulder a rough squeeze. With a sudden sob, she turned into his deep embrace, weeping as he held her close and rocked her like a child lost.
* * *
On the morning after the council meeting, Elena had arranged for the first interview between Matteo and his father. It wasn’t going well. The boy refused to speak, standing with his back pressed to the door and his arms crossed while Nim and the mastiff sniffed and played about Ligurio’s desk in the privy chamber.
Elena contained exasperation. She’d already suffered through a furious dispute with Dario over whether there should be a guard present. He’d produced five new men to add to her protection, and insisted that all of them were to squeeze into the chamber with Elena and Franco and the boy.
She wouldn’t allow it. Even Dario was too much—he and Matteo were bosom friends, and the boy’s loyalties burned yet too fierce to have such competition present in clear suspicion of his father’s intentions. After they’d brought Franco Pietro from a search to his bare skin for any weapon or threat, she closed the door in Dario’s face, leaving him near to tears of rage and frustration. He opened it every few minutes and insisted on checking inside, which did not aid the matter.
Franco was little help, either. He had limped into the chamber and stood in a state of gloomy silence, leaning against the wall opposite Matteo and looking like some fiend from a prayer book with his scar and eye-patch and scowl. He also had his arms crossed, a mirror image of his son’s mute denial.
Only the dogs were friendly. Nimue had grown to her full size, as tall as the table now, still a bandit at heart but disguising it in the elegance of a downy white princess, her soft-lashed eyes full of nobility and joy. The huge mastiff was instantly smitten, fawning over her and rolling onto his back in majestic submission, full of canine hopes of a high alliance.
"Let’s play a game," Elena said, after exhausting the subjects of Matteo’s tutors and how he had grown. Both of the Riata males looked at her without enthusiasm.
"Indeed, Princess," Franco said after a moment, standing straight and making a courteous bow. "What game do you propose?"
"What of morra?" she asked.
Franco nodded. He lifted his torn lip in something that resembled a smile. "If it would please you, Princess."
"Morra is for babies," Matteo said with vast disdain.
"No, it’s a fine game for anyone. I’ll play with your father, if you don’t like to join in," Elena said, rising from the desk. She stood before Franco Pietro and held out her hand.
They played five rounds, very awkwardly. Elena won by three. She didn’t look around at Matteo, but from the corner of her eye she could tell that he watched them, petting his father’s mastiff while Nim sprawled panting at his feet.
"We should play for stakes, Princess," Franco said. "That’s what adds the relish."
Elena considered, tilting her head. "That is a fine gold button on your sleeve."
He nodded. "It’s yours, if you win in five rounds."
"And what do you play for, my lord?"
"Another visit with my son."
"Done," she said, holding out her hand.
Their rounds went smoother this time. Franco Pietro won. Matteo drifted closer
"But I haven’t won my button yet," she said. "You’re too clever an opponent for me, sir."
"I’m better than him," Matteo said, stepping forward with a proud, stiff move. "I can win the button for you, my lady."
"Excellent. I have a champion." Elena drew back and seated herself in Ligurio’s high-backed chair.
Matteo’s cheeks were burning as he stared down at his father’s hand in a boy’s ardent concentration. They played five rounds. Matteo lost.
"Curse you, Riata!" Matteo said, flinging himself away. "I hate you."
"Matteo," Elena said sharply. "You will not speak ill to your father."
The boy glared. But Elena had spent many months in gentle chatter, building a slender bridge to the heart of this high-strung child of hatred. Nim had helped, with her sweet tumbles and happy loyalty, gradually wearing away his desperate displays of what skills he had at deceit and murder. He no longer tried to show Elena how he could have killed both of the guards outside their door with a single thrust of the dagger she did not allow him to carry. He didn’t question Dario so often on what manner of poison would be best to slay his enemies. He even laughed sometimes.
She’d sent for the rest of Il Corvo’s island household and placed them with the monks and nuns of a double monastery within view of the citadel, advising the abbot that they would be wise to blunt their table knives. But she took Matteo as her own charge, slept with him and ate with him and spoke of her grandfather’s ideas. At night she knelt beside the bed with him and said a part of her own prayers aloud, including Franco’s name and Allegreto’s in the same blessing, along with Dario and Philip and Margaret and the others that he loved.
"I’m sorry, my lady," Matteo said sullenly. He spoke to Elena, not his father, but she let it pass.
"Another round?" Franco said to him.
Matteo gave him a seething glance. He’d only a week ago added his father’s name to his prayers. That was when Elena had sent to Franco, allowing him to leave his detention for a day and come to the citadel under a heavy guard.
The boy gave a contemptuous nod, as regal as any prince. Then he looked down and played the finger game as if ten thousand men were in fatal combat at his command.
He lost.
Elena could have hoped Franco Pietro would skew the odds a little, but morra wasn’t a game that was easily thrown without being obvious. Matteo stepped back, his cheeks spotted with red. "I can’t win!" he cried. "I never do anything right!"
He turned his back, marching for the door. Franco moved suddenly, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Matteo stopped, shivering. Tears glittered in his eyes.
"It doesn’t matter," Franco said.
Matteo shrugged his hand off. He stood and dashed at his eyes. "It matters! I’m not good at anything! No one will want me. I can’t even win a stupid game for babies! I try and try. And I can’t."
"It does not matter," Franco said. "You are my son."
Matteo drew a sobbing breath. His body stilled.
"My heart died when he stole you from me," Franco said roughly. "And then he made you hate me." He drew a breath between his teeth, as if he would say more, but stopped. He looked toward Elena. "You have no reason to trust me, Princess, and yet you have. It has been a revelation to me."
She lifted her face. He leaned on the table, still favoring his leg. She might have had him for a husband, a strange and difficult thou
ght. "I’ve been fortunate, I know," she said. "By God’s grace, I thank you that you’ve not—done what you might have done."
He gave his twisted smile. "I thought you plain mad," he said. "I do yet. But you hold Navona in check, it seems. I didn’t think it possible. You’ve kept your pledges to be impartial thus far."
"I’m trying. If you have any complaint, then tell me, and do not brood on it."
"Oh, I’ve brooded. I don’t care to be penned up by a mere maid. But my son would have killed me, and you stopped him by your own hand." Franco turned as Matteo made a faint sound. "You think you can’t do anything," he said harshly to the boy, "but you’d have had a blade through my throat if the princess hadn’t saved us both. You have courage, Matteo, and that does matter. Listen to her, and learn how to use it better."
He took one limping stride to the door and gave it a hard blow. Dario opened it instantly, his sword on guard. The other men surrounded Franco, swiftly penning him between his jailers. The mastiff growled, but Franco silenced it with a word. The dog trailed close as the Riata was escorted out.
Matteo held Nim’s collar, watching until the door closed behind them. Elena let go of a muffled breath and sat down again at her grandfather’s desk. She had a list of her afternoon audience; she opened it and pretended to read.
"Would you like to see him again?" she asked casually.
Matteo shrugged. "Nim likes his dog."
"Perhaps I’ll ask him to come back, and bring it."
Matteo made himself very interested in rubbing Nimue’s ears. "I’ll practice at morra. I can beat him, I think."
"Good," Elena said. "I have a vast desire for that button." She sighed and glanced down at the list before her. "Now I must put on my crown, and be courteous to a great number of very wearisome people. You may come if you like."
Matteo grinned suddenly, going on one knee with a flourish. "My lady, I beg your indulgence. I’d rather take Nim to the tilt yard."
"Desert me in my hour of need, then," she said, waving him out. "Tell Dario where you’ll be."
He promised it and left, calling Nim after him. As the door swung closed under the hand of the standing guard, Elena looked down at the parchment. The Venetian ambassador, again. The representative of Milan, who would speak to her as if she were a three-year-old child who would not behave. A sainted envoy from the prince-bishop of Trento. And an emissary from His Grace the Duke of Lancaster, Sir Raymond de Clare.
* * *
"Little cat!" Raymond murmured in English, kissing her hand as he knelt before her. "What have you done here?"
"Don’t say such things," she said below her breath. She pulled away, walking to the window of the privy chamber. In the public audience they had exchanged nothing but exquisitely courteous formalities and the Duke’s letter, and even here Dario stood impassive by the door, a wooden guard on such virtue as she had left. "Rise," she said, speaking court French, turning from the view of Monteverde. "I’m pleased to see you, Raymond."
He came to his feet with a familiar chivalrous ease and a little sideways smile at her. "How I thank God for my fortune, Your Grace."
"I pray He grants you and your lady wife good health and gladness."
He lowered his eyes. "It grieves me to say that my wife returned her heavenly place, these five months since, may the Lord give her soul rest."
Elena was already discomposed, hardly knowing what to say to him. This news left her without speech entirely for a moment. He stood before her with his head slightly bowed, dressed fine in his black-and-red doublet and scarlet cloak, as if no day had passed since she had last seen him.
"God spare her," Elena said, making a slight recovery. "It is sad news."
He bowed his head further, and then looked up with an expression that said it was not sad news at all. "As my lord Lancaster knew me at liberty, and near enough to come with speed, he chose me to convey his greetings." He smiled openly then, the same playful grin. In English he said, "It was a boon to me!"
She found that he embarrassed her. She had loved him and hated him; all those rash and untamed feelings, with nothing left of them now. And yet it was a comfort to see him, to hear English words, to speak to someone who had no part in the hazards that surrounded her.
She found her lips turning upward and heat in her cheeks. "Raymond," she said, keeping to English, "truly it’s good to see you."
"Little cat." He didn’t move, but the timbre of his words was like a caress. "I never thought to have the joy again."
Elena flushed, afraid that Dario would hear the emotion even if he couldn’t understand the words. The youth watched Raymond from under his heavy eyelids, a slow blink that belied the speed with which Elena knew he could move. "You came from Bohemia, then?" she asked.
"As fast as my horse could carry me," he said. "I wasn’t sorry to leave it." In English he spoke openly. "You know I hated that alliance." He cast a glance at the great desk. "But you—you spurned your betrothal! And now rule in his place! Elayne, I’m in awe."
It was strange to hear her name in English. She gave a feeble laugh. "Oh, Raymond, I hardly believe it myself. It isn’t—what I intended."
"But even the duke congratulates you!"
"I’m sure he only wishes to know that his agreements on a dowry aren’t to be discarded," she said with a wry smile. "I hope he may not be too dissatisfied if they’re set aside."
"I’m here to speak to you on his behalf," Raymond said. He gave her an amused look. "I’m glad to hear you’re set against his desires. God send that it may take a long time to persuade you, and many meetings between us."
"Raymond," she said, feeling her cheeks grow warm again.
"I never forgot you for one moment," he said low. "Never for one moment."
"You flatter me. Don’t speak so." She was flustered in spite of herself.
"I know I can never have what I desire," he said, soft and fervent. "I gave up my hopes for that, though it tore my heart from my chest. But if you need a friend, let me offer all that I am to your service. How strange it is, that we come to this! I love you still, Elayne, I’ll say it though you despise me."
"No," she said, "I don’t despise you."
"But I speak too warmly," he said, lowering his head again. "I have no right."
She felt sad for him. He’d only done what any man would do, obeyed his liege, as she had obeyed the duty laid on her. The dream of a safe home and this handsome knight seemed so faint and mild that she could hardly recall what she had wanted so badly.
She wanted something else now, even more unreachable, as impossible to possess.
They had that in common, that they both wished for things that could not be. And he was familiar, and faithful, and apart from all the burdens of Monteverde.
"I’m in dire need of plain friendship," she said, holding out her hand. "I hope you won’t hasten to depart too soon."
* * *
Allegreto dropped her letter in the fire. He sat down before the great hearth, watching the wax melt in a sizzling red stream and drip to the stone while the parchment smoked and took flame. Her entreaties to him slowly vanished, marks of ink that blackened and curled and fell away to ash. "No reply," he said.
He heard Zafer go to the door and speak to the guard through the barred window. There were vivid moments when he thought to kill himself, most powerfully when she wrote to him of how willing Franco Pietro was to sign her accord if Allegreto would, and urging him to put his head on the Riata’s block for chopping.
He could find no way out. She had tethered and trapped him on all sides, and not with walls or guards. He couldn’t leave, he couldn’t remain, he saw no future. He could find no way to anywhere but Hell, by his own hand or by Franco’s.
He had a set of chambers furnished as fine as a silver merchant’s, with a featherbed and writing table, any books he desired from Ligurio’s library, a second room for alchemical work and visits from the steward appointed to Navona’s reinstated properties. Zafer shared
his confinement, and Margaret seemed to have lodging somewhere in the castle; they both served him, faithfully performing credence as if he cared whether he drank poison pure from the cup.
With Zafer’s contrivance, he’d have been able to leave this finely furnished prison easily enough in a trail of blood. But he remained, watching the fortress across the narrows for Franco to make his attempt, watching the citadel, spreading a silent cordon of protection around her as he could.
His endeavor would have been more effective if Dario hadn’t managed to discern every attempt he’d made so far to infiltrate a man to the citadel. Allegreto received sharp chiding on the matter in his letters from Elena, as if it were a schoolboy’s trick. She seemed determined to be a martyr to this cause, exposing herself in peril to everyone but him.
Dario at least was there. Zafer was the best, but he was stained too deep with Allegreto’s taint to be suffered inside the citadel.
He opened the papal dispatch again, holding the smooth vellum between his fingers. The true Pope seemed to be going mad; Allegreto’s letters of supplication had chased him all the way to Naples, where the holy father appeared to have no business but to grab at some rich territory, leaving Rome in disarray. If Allegreto would bring armies from Monteverde in aid of this hallowed and bloody endeavor, God’s highest representative on earth would consider his humble petition to lift his excommunication.
Allegreto tore off the handful of holy seals and sent them with scornful flicks one by one into the fire. He laid his head back in the chair and thought of a girl with a bloodied sword in her hand and a dream of another way.
This is my answer, she had said.
It wasn’t stone walls that held him here. Not guards or blades or chains. It was her answer, that there was another way, and even if he could not touch her or see her again, he could at least stand in the shadows and shield her from his kind.
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