The Medieval Hearts Series

by Laura Kinsale

  With a faint shake of his head, he put her away from him, turning her gently to the water, "Let us not tarry longer here. It is not wholly secure."

  SIXTEEN

  "Stay by the bed," he said as Elayne stood garbed in a man’s robe again, this one luxurious, pure white damask silk with an ancient scent of lavender. She shivered in the cool night air, her wet hair still trailing in a tangle down to her hips.

  He shielded a small oil lamp and moved about his father’s chamber, his fingertips searching the frescoed walls, tracing the patterns of red diamonds and painted vines and flowers that ran in perfect geometry around the room. He wore only laced hose and breeches now, his chest and feet bare, his black hair tied back roughly. He paused, flipping his dagger into his hand, and probed delicately at a spot on the wall.

  Elayne watched. His skin bore red marks where she had scored him. She felt unnerved by what they had done, as upset and distressed as if she had caused some calamity. And yet she loved to look at him. He moved with such confidence and grace, like no other man she had ever seen move. She felt a deep possessiveness of him now, so fierce and raw and tender that it was almost like despair.

  He placed his shoulder against the wall and pushed. Elayne leaped, recoiling onto the bed at the sound of a huge wooden crash behind her. An arm’s length from where she had been standing, the carpet sagged over an open trapdoor, the knotted fringe trailing down into darkness. Cool air flowed up, carrying the warble of anxious doves. She realized with horror that the trap opened to the full drop of the tower.

  "Look," he said. "Here." He tapped the wall and held the small clay slipper lamp near it. "When you see this—a diamond with a tooth at two points. Draw a line between them, then an arrow in your mind, from that line. In the perpendicular direction, five paces distant. It will happen there."

  "What will happen?" she asked faintly.

  "Something unpleasant," he said.

  Elayne closed her eyes and opened them.

  "Attend me, hell-cat. Do not forget these things, as you forgot the door."

  She nodded, twisting his ring around and around on her finger.

  "I am going to kill Franco Pietro. I can’t reach him while he remains in Monteverde, in the citadel in the city. He must be drawn out. So I have made sure that he knows we are abroad, that I have you. If I killed three men in Venice as you say, then there was a fourth that I allowed to live, so that he could send the news to Franco Pietro and set him on our trail."

  "We are followed?" she asked uneasily.

  "I think not." He strode across the chamber and kicked back the sagging carpet from the hole. Kneeling, he reached down and under the floor. The muscles in his back and shoulders worked strongly. As he sat up, the floor creaked and squealed, and the trapdoor sprang back into place. The boards vibrated with a hollow crash.

  He leaned hard on the trap, testing. Then he rose, taking up the lamp. "We will hope that Zafer leads them a fine chase," he said. "But Franco Pietro has men enough abroad in the Veneto. They will be caught by the third day ashore, by my reckoning, and Hell itself to pay when Franco’s men discover they have the wrong company. Zafer will betray me to Franco Pietro, to avoid their torture."

  She drew a sharp breath. "Nay, Zafer would not betray you!"

  He glanced up at her with a faint smile. "You think not? How little you know of Riata torture!"

  "Oh God, you have not planned this! That the Riata will capture them!"

  "Aye, that was my intention. Zafer knows it to the last detail; and you adjudge well, that he would not betray me. Not for torture—even the Riata will guess that much. But to save Margaret from it, he will do it."

  She shook her head. "Nay!" she protested wildly.

  "It is what we planned, beloved. It is a ruse, but they must believe him, that he turns on me."

  "But there might be some misfortune, some misstep—" Her fingers gripped a handful of the scarlet bedcover, twisting the damask silk. "How can you know?"

  "I cannot. But I trust Zafer’s cunning as I would my own." He gave a short, harsh laugh. "Nay, the misfortune is here," he said, touching his bruised face. "In my own wits. There are things I have not remembered, that I must know. God rot your beloved palfrey."

  She drew her feet up, hugging her knees close. "It is fiendish! Margaret is with them. And her babe. And Matteo!"

  "It is Margaret’s choosing. I meant it to be Fatima," he said, "but Margaret beseeched me to allow her to take the task. And she will serve the better. It will be easier for Zafer to make them believe what he does, for he loves her anyway."

  She lifted her head quickly. "He told you that?"

  "I have eyes," he said. He leaned down, searching again in his father’s coffer. He tossed an ivory comb toward her onto the bedclothes. With a little bitterness he added, "Why would he tell me? She won’t let him court her, because he is not Christian."

  Elayne knew it. Margaret had never spoken of her feelings, nor of Zafer, but the truth of it shone in her face whenever she looked toward him. To such degree, now, that she begged to be the one who accompanied him into hazard in the service of this lethal scheme.

  Elayne watched the pirate as he leaned on the bedpost. She had thought it painful before, impossible to stay with him, because he killed men so easily, because he lied so well. Now she felt as if her mind and heart were tearing asunder.

  "God curse you!" she exclaimed. She stood up from the bed, turning on him. "Do you not heed what happens to them? Why must you do these things? Why do you have to kill the Riata?"

  He leaned back on the bedpost with his profile to her, his blackened eye and the livid marks of her fingernails hidden from her view. Only his lower lip was a little swollen; it gave him a sullen aspect as he crossed his arms.

  She grabbed up the comb he had tossed on the bed. "Monteverde!" she hissed. "I hate the very name!" She sat down on the edge of the bed and yanked at the tangles in her wet hair, making an angry whimper at the pain. She ripped out a knot, wincing.

  He turned away, the shadows from the tiny lamp playing on his bared back and elegant form. As he moved around the bed she did not turn, though she tensed at the prospect of some new trap or hidden trick. She jumped when she felt the mattress sink under his weight behind her. He took the comb from her trembling hand. His fingers brushed her throat as he drew the mass of her hair back over her shoulder, leaving a coolness on her neck.

  He began to comb it out as gently and skillfully as the kindest maid, so that she felt nothing but the soft damp sweep of her hair as it moved. She sat still, halfway to tears.

  "I do not understand you," she said.

  He said nothing, working at the tangles.

  "For Zafer—if it is his choice to serve you, then God absolve his soul. But Margaret. And her baby," she said painfully. "What have they done, to risk so much for you?"

  With infinite care he pulled the comb through her hair, the faintest of tugs at her scalp.

  "And Matteo! A little boy! He is so frightened of you, and even still he loves you."

  He paused. He ran his hand down the length of her hair. Then he resumed his task in silence.

  "At least you could have left Matteo in safety," she said roughly. "Why did you bring him from the island at all? What can a child do in this fell scheme?"

  "He is Franco Pietro’s son."

  Elayne jerked away from him, sliding from the bed as she turned. "He is what?"

  He knelt on the rich scarlet coverlet, holding the comb. He looked at her, expressionless. "Surely you knew that, Elena," he said quietly. "Did you inquire of nothing about the man you were to marry?"

  "I knew there was a wife—she died in childbirth. I—" She had not asked more; had not wanted to. Had not known nor cared. "Matteo is their son?"

  "He is."

  "Your hostage?" she moaned.

  He inclined his head. "I told you I protected the island by sufficient means."

  She had thought he meant magic, or his pirate fleet. She thought
of how Matteo’s young face had been so anxious; how much he wished to please; how he had stared wide-eyed whenever someone spoke of the Riata with hate and disdain. "God save him," she breathed. "He loves you."

  Something flickered for an instant in his black eyes, a shadow under the long lashes, as when he had stared in the mirror and asked his father not to slay him in his sleep. She thought of the training, the poison, a boy’s fear and pride as he tried and tried again to serve Il Corvo’s wine.

  "If you mean for him to kill Franco Pietro," Elayne said, lifting her chin and speaking softly, her lip curled, "if that is what you intend, I swear before God I will see you into Hell myself. I will slay you any way I can."

  He gave her a long, unblinking look. She was trembling with the force of what she felt. She would push him through the trapdoor or spear him on one of his own daggers—she was terrified of what he would reply.

  He smiled darkly. "I said I would kill Franco Pietro. That is not a pleasure I wish to forego to any child."

  She let go of her breath, blinking. Her eyes were suddenly blurred, and her nose stung.

  "I am not sure that is a great advance in merit," she said. "But I am glad to hear it."

  "Come here," he said. "Hell-cat. Let me comb out your hair. Comfort yourself that Dario took charge of Matteo and the babe. He brings them by another route to meet us."

  She wiped her hands across her eyes quickly, then turned and sat on the bed. He gathered a thick mass of her hair and resumed his work.

  "You would have slayed me in truth over Matteo, I think," he said, his voice pensive. "Or made the attempt."

  "Yes," she said fiercely. "And will yet, if I must."

  His hand stilled. He leaned forward and put his mouth to her hair. His hands rested on either side of her throat. He could have strangled her or caressed her, but he did neither.

  Elayne blinked again. She swallowed, pressing her hands together.

  "God grant you mercy," he said quietly. "Thank you."

  She wet her lips. "For what?"

  The bed sank as he sat back. "I was Matteo once," he said.

  No more than that. He pulled the comb through her hair, working gently in the tangles, awakening the damp scent of rosemary and citron. His knees were spread, just touching her hips.

  "A hostage, do you mean?" she asked shakily.

  "A hostage, though none so valued as Matteo. A weapon in my father’s service."

  "It is evil," she said.

  "Is it?" he said. "I know not." He drew his fingers downward in the waist-long strands, parting them. "But it would have heartened me, to think I had a champion to curb what he asked of me."

  "Let Matteo be heartened, then," she said grimly. "And all of them."

  "Will you be my conscience, hell-cat?" He sounded amused.

  "I do not jest," she said.

  He held back her hair and traced his forefinger along her temple. "Nor I. I am in dire need of one."

  No doubt the priest at Savernake would have despaired—if not laughed—at the idea of Elayne set to guard anyone’s conscience. She thought of all her small trespasses and sins, and how she had never been repentant for them, never in truth.

  She thought of the steamy lake, the water dripping from his face, his head bent before her in submission...

  "What could I hope to tell you of conscience?" she said in a painful voice. "Belike asking an imp to tutor a demon in virtue."

  He kissed her throat. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, feeling his warmth amid the cool fall of her hair.

  "I would listen," he said softly. "I would try."

  She lifted her hands and spread her palms over his, slid her fingers down to his wrists and held them, pressed them to her jaw and her cheeks. "It cannot be stopped now, can it?" she said. "There is no way to withdraw from what you plan."

  "Nay," he said quietly. "It is set in motion."

  She shook her head within the compass of his fingers. "Then there is no question, is there? We can only go forward, and carry it through without fail."

  He released a harsh breath at her ear. "I will not fail. Not this time." He drew his hands downward and shaped her shoulders and her breasts. He pulled her back down onto the bed, her tangled hair around her. She stared up at him, the dim golden light on his bare arms, the black queue of his hair falling down over his neck, her marks on his skin.

  He kissed her mouth, her chin, the line of her throat, so gently that she could have wept.

  "I will not fail you," he whispered.

  She lifted her lips and opened them against his kiss, spreading her fingers in his hair and dragging him hard and close. She tasted his tongue and the swollen cut she had made on his lower lip, refusing his gentleness, seizing his mouth greedily.

  She drew his tongue between her teeth, raking the tip and the sides of it. A deep vibration hovered in his chest. He gave a low laugh and broke away sharply, his face flushed.

  "You think to master me that way," he said, breathing deeply.

  She wet her lips, looking up aside at him under her lashes, tasting the flavor of him on her skin. She lifted his hand clasped in hers and held it to her cheek. Then she could not help herself; she nipped hard on his thumb and his fingers, and watched the heat in his black eyes, the little twitch of reaction with each bite. "I own you," she said, her breath on his open palm.

  He laughed and blinked, searching the room as if he awakened from a sleep. "Aye, you do," he said, shaking his head slightly. "The Devil give me strength, Elena. In this you do."

  * * *

  She did not own him at chess, though, or in any other way. With a guarded amusement, he did not quite come near enough for her to touch him, but prowled the chamber until she had set up the pieces that he had found in his father’s coffer. At Savernake, Elena had been the leading mistress of the game, able to vanquish her sister or Sir Guy or even Raymond. But she was no match for the Raven. She sat upon the stool, her damp loose hair brushing the carpet at her feet, frowning at her position. For the fifth game in succession, he held her king mated in check within the space of a dozen moves.

  She tossed her hair back and looked up at him. "Dice?" she asked, pressing her hands between her knees.

  He smiled. "You prefer chance to cunning?"

  "Verily, what choice have I? I did not know I was so poor a player."

  He reached over and completed the only move open to her, then caught her pale king in his hand. He set it lightly in the center of the painted board. "You are not the worst of players," he said. "But then—my reason is not yet wholly lucid, either. That was three moves beyond what it required to best you."

  Elayne gazed at the ivory figure, the finely carved crown of an elegant set, still a little disconcerted to find that she possessed far from as great a skill as she had supposed. His courier and knights glistened in the lamplight, cut from a blood-red crystal stone.

  "I learned to play against my father," he said. "I never won." He sat back in the chair, draping one leg over the carved wooden arm. "But I could take Franco Pietro in five games of seven."

  She looked up. In the glow of the small lamp he looked like a great black cat resting across the chair, watching her. "You’ve played him?"

  "Many times, before he exiled me."

  "You were friends once?"

  "Nay, we were never friends. My father let the Riata have me in hostage when I was seven, in surety for some pact between them—I know not what. Franco was a few years older. And he was not fond of a slinking Navona bastard." He looked into the darkness and smiled. "When I would not attend confession with his puling priest, who wanted more than confession from me, he had me stripped before his whole family—the women, too—and led about like a dog on a leash. So I took out his left eye with my blade."

  She drew a breath between her teeth. "God save."

  He looked at her steadily, the shadows carving his face in ebony and gold. "One of us will kill the other, Elena. It is certain."

  She shook
her head with a small, sad laugh. "I must suppose that as your new-appointed conscience, I cannot hope to persuade you against it."

  "And wait until he comes for me?" He gestured toward the board with a faint smile. "It is no wonder that you lose at chess, Princess."

  Elayne rose. She pushed her hair back over her shoulder. "You said the Riata kept me, also. I marvel that I survived it."

  "Aye. But you had a use. You were surety that Cara would kill Melanthe for them." He lifted his lashes, looking up from the chair as she stood frozen above him.

  He meant to shock her, she could see. She felt helpless, still unable to fathom such things. Her sister—her sister, to kill Lady Melanthe? To kill anyone. It seemed absurd. And yet Elayne turned away, as if by squeezing her eyes closed she could blot out the sound of Cara’s begging, the frantic look upon her sister’s face, the cold flat calm in Lady Melanthe’s voice as she said that Elayne must wed the Riata and there was nothing she could do.

  "Cara tried," he said. His voice held a softer note. "But she was hopeless. She had not the skill for it, or the heart."

  "Thank God for that, then." Elayne bowed her head. "I would not have had her commit murder for me."

  "No? But you have just sworn to kill me on Matteo’s behalf, if you must."

  She looked aside at him. She frowned.

  He returned a half-smile. "But that is different, I suppose."

  Elayne pressed her lips together. She lifted her eyebrows. "What thorny questions you do pose your conscience."

  "I have a lifetime’s hoard of them," he said, "set aside for your deliberation."

  "I used to read of such things." She thought of the long texts in Latin, the dilemmas and careful weighing of reasons in the documents that Lady Melanthe had sent to her. "Of the jurymen and the advocates and assizes. I would read the writs and decisions, and think of what I would do if I were to judge."

  She thought he would laugh and dismiss her as a foolish woman. But he said seriously, "I never thought to study such." He leaned on his fist, as if considering, and then made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I would have supposed all the judges bought and paid for. Did the decisions seem just to you?"