Allegreto offered no oath of innocence. When she finally looked back at him, he gave a chilly laugh. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Of course I must have done it," he said. "The Devil knows I wanted to." He opened his eyes with a look of disdain. "Arrest me, then, and let us complete this farce."
Beneath the scorn, there was something else—a barely contained wildness, a despair in him, as if he did not care what she did to him.
"Allegreto," she asked, "you did not cause it?"
"I did not." His voice seemed oddly helpless. "If I had aimed to kill him, he would be dead."
She knew that for a certain truth. Yet she had not seen Zafer since the morning; he had vanished among the crowds before the duomo. She hardly trusted herself or her own judgment. From outside the window came the sound of church bells tolling evensong. She bent her head, feeling the crown weight it forward.
It was beyond forgiveness, the way she could love him when she knew what he was. She knew he could say false and make an angel believe it true. She had seen him hold a knife at Dario’s throat. She had heard the crack of a man’s neck in the darkness and felt the blood pool at her feet. There was no one else who had reason to hurt Raymond; the Riata knew nothing of what he had once meant to her. It was a senseless attack on a chance victim—for anyone but Allegreto.
In the deepening gloom he waited. He stood apart, her beautiful killer, accused and tried and condemned by all reason. She could hardly check herself from going to him and pulling him hard into her embrace, holding him to her heart.
He said he had not done it. With no reason but that she was blind in love, she chose to believe him.
"It must have been a band of ruffians," she said slowly. "I will see that Philip looks out for any further disturbance."
Franco made a growl of protest, uncrossing his arms.
Elena glanced toward him. "Consider well if you have an objection, my lord," she said. "The only witnesses say it was your men."
The Riata scowled at her, his eye-patch a black disfigurement across his face. But he said nothing. Allegreto seemed to move and then stood uncertainly, his defiance suddenly vanished, as if he was not sure what she had meant.
"Let us proceed to the banquet," she said. "The surgeon can attend me there with news."
TWENTY-SEVEN
Franco had changed nothing in his years of occupying the citadel. It was all as Allegreto remembered, still a mix of rough ancient stone and the improvements that Ligurio had begun to make, the intricate designs and colors of the brilliantly tiled floors, the windows cut into walls that had seen no light through them for centuries. But the thick old timbers of the ceilings remained untouched.
He knew the day that work on the plaster and frescoes had ceased. The stone masons had laid down their mallets. The painters had put away their brushes, leaving a painted drape of cloth that vanished halfway into the upper curve, never reaching the painted hook that awaited it.
He could see it from where he was seated at the high table, the long succession of frescoed damask drapes along the wall that ended on the day of Prince Ligurio’s death. The great gilded chains and candle branches that the prince had installed still hung from the walls, adorned by dragon heads that hissed into space.
There were murmurs from the banqueters at the long tables below, as there had ever been. His presence, and Franco’s, was no doubt a topic of heated argument. As the sweet fried bread and meat jellies were served between courses, a trio of carolers presented a ballad that described the triumphant entrance of the Princess Elena into Monteverde. The singers added some flourishes to the story—a miracle dove of peace and a few battles won by valiant miners against enemies unnamed. Riata and Navona came away with more credit than Allegreto would have expected in this paean to the new republic. He supposed that the princess had made her wishes clear. She had been utterly determined to drag him and Franco Pietro to seats at the high table.
He sat before people who had hated him for years, next to a young councilman whose father had been tortured once by Gian for paying too openly amorous attention to Princess Melanthe. They were courteous to one another, having no weapons at hand. She used that much sense at least: Dario’s men had examined every guest at the gate for any blade or means of mayhem.
Allegreto was yet benumbed by what she had done. Even now, even here—especially here—he could not shake himself of Ligurio’s dream and how she stood for it.
He had no part in it, and yet he loved her and this fantasy of a place where it was not tyranny and fear that ruled. He loved the fragile concord that she held together by sheer will and faith and stubborn idiocy. If he had cast a hundred horoscopes, he would never have foreseen it. His lady queen, she had dared to make things true that no living man had even hoped to dream.
He did not know if she truly believed him or not, that he had not tried to kill her English lover. She had her reasons to ignore such an incident in the midst of her celebrations, to avoid any arrests or storm of accusations. But when she accepted his word, only his word and no more, it had been like one of Ligurio’s windows punched through stone walls, a shaft of sun into a place that had never been lit before. He sat with a hole inside of him, not sure if he was bleeding or burning from the brightness.
Raymond de Clare would live. She’d had word of that before the boxes of spiced confetti were cleared from the table and the first courses began. Allegreto was separated from her by several councilors, her grandfather’s old advisers who held first precedence in Monteverde, but he had seen the relief in her face when the steward had come to whisper in her ear. It cleaved him with jealousy, but he was still bewildered by the strange kernel of joy at her trust in him. It tempered malice, made it difficult to understand himself. Made it difficult to eat. Difficult even to breathe.
Dario and Matteo and one of Franco’s men performed credence at the high table. It was another of the whispers that must be circulating wildly among the guests below—that Franco Pietro’s son served Navona even yet. Matteo had grown. He had more assurance now, only tipping the wine a little too far the first time he came to Allegreto, spilling a few drops over his towel. The boy took his ritual sip, looking over the rim of the cup at Allegreto with a particular unblinking look.
It put Allegreto instantly on guard. He realized how he had been drifting on some thoughtless cloud. Long-ingrained habit made him attend always to what passed around him, but he had let his concentration slip too far in such an exposed place.
He realized that Dario, too, was noting Matteo’s subtle move to place the clean silver trenchers and blunted knives. With an embellishment of courtesy, Allegreto bent his head deeply to the councilman beside him and offered to carve the meat.
He drew the platter toward him, lifting it just enough to feel the slip of paper beneath. In an excess of enthusiasm for his task, he pulled the trencher slightly too near, over the edge of the table, and gave his neighbor a wry smile for his clumsiness as the message slipped unseen into the folds of tablecloth over his lap. He pushed the roasted bird back and began to carve.
* * *
Nimue leaped and cavorted, a pale shape in the moonlit tournament grounds. Allegreto walked freely beside Matteo— hardly allowing himself to enjoy the sensation after the months of captivity. It had not been difficult to arrange this reunion. After the banquet and diversions finally ended, as the princess had retired to her antechamber with the wine-bemused guests from the high table, the boy simply said to Dario that he was going to take Nim for her last excursion of the day, and asked Allegreto if he would like to go along.
Dario had shrugged and said the princess would expect Matteo in bed before Compline, and given Allegreto a subtle signal of safety with his left hand.
Allegreto had acknowledged it and walked out. He had no doubt that there were watchers on him, but Matteo had chosen his ground well. As soon as they reached the lists, Nimue bounded immediately out onto the wide grassy yard, beyond the bedecked scaffolds standing ready for the hast
ilude in the morning. Allegreto and Matteo followed her. There were others strolling in the grounds and standing on the walls that overlooked the city, but no one in the center of the great open space. A half-moon gave light enough to see Nimue trot along the line of the wooden lists, investigating smells.
Allegreto stopped and leaned against the heavy railing. He had a moment’s thought to say how tall Matteo had grown suddenly, and then recalled the disgust of his own childhood at the mention of such a thing. "What passes?" he asked instead.
"You don’t have to be afraid of me," Matteo said, hiking himself onto the single rail. "If you are."
"I don’t?" Allegreto looked aside at him solemnly. "Have you forgot all the means to kill me that I taught you?"
"No!" The boy jumped down, and then hiked himself back up again. "No. I meant—don’t suppose I’ve turned to Riata."
"You are Riata," Allegreto said quietly. "I never meant you to forget that."
"No, I—avoi, I am. But—" He had an unhappy break in his voice.
Allegreto waited. He had not expected that Matteo alone would have some truly serious message for him, but he was not averse to causing Franco to writhe and fret over whether he meant to steal the boy again. And Elena had seen them leave together. She had not prevented it. She trusted him. The gap in his soul drank in the strange sensation.
"You must know that she wants me to be great friends with my father," Matteo said anxiously.
"I heard such."
"Do you mind?"
Allegreto shrugged. "He’s your father. The Bible says to honor him."
"Were you friends with your father?"
Allegreto lifted his head and gave a short laugh. "No." He curled his hands around the railing. "But I was a bastard son."
"I suppose that is different."
"Very different."
Matteo dropped to the ground. He squatted on his knees and pulled at the grass. "Did you like your father?"
Allegreto began to wish he had not come. He watched Nimue gallop across the yard to some other scent. After a long moment he said, "I loved him."
Matteo ripped up a handful of grass. "I wish you were my father," he said in a muffled voice. "I love you."
Allegreto felt the gap inside himself tearing open. Like a vision through it, he could see wheels beyond wheels of hate and scheming, of never-ending fears. He could see how he had been Gian’s tool, and had made Matteo his. All driven and pursued and drawn by love.
"Franco doesn’t mind if I make mistakes," Matteo said, as if it were an affront. "He says he doesn’t care, because I’m his son."
Allegreto was silent, gazing up into the dark. The stars were cold points of radiance hanging against the deep black arch of the air.
"I don’t want to like him," Matteo hissed miserably. "I’m afraid that Englishman is going to kill him."
Allegreto turned his head. "Englishman?"
"Signor Raymond. When I was out with Nim one night, I heard him talking to someone. They were speaking low, but I heard my father’s name. And they were trying to be secret."
Allegreto stood straight. "Who did he speak to? What language?"
"I couldn’t see who it was. I climbed up to look, but they were above me on the ramparts. They spoke in the French tongue. I could tell it was the Englishman because of how he says the words."
"Did you hear else?"
"Only Franco’s name, and talk of money. The other one spoke of gold."
"When?"
"Ten nights past."
"Did you tell Dario of this?"
"Nay. I don’t care if they kill Franco. He’s Riata." His young voice shook a little. "But I—" He stopped and then said, "I thought I would tell you."
Nimue suddenly ceased her investigations of a fluttering cloth that adorned the viewing stands. She turned and took a bound, standing stiff-legged, her plumed white tail curled up over her back. Her deep bark echoed in the yard.
From the top of the steep pavement that led down into the tourney yard, torches flared. Men came striding, their shadows a wild dance against the castle walls. Nimue ran forward, a rumbling growl in her throat. She stood between Allegreto and Matteo and the newcomers, barking a loud warning, until suddenly her ears lowered and her tail waved in welcome as she ran to make her greetings.
Franco Pietro ignored her, pacing forward aggressively, still showing a slight limp from the sword wound in his leg. He had four of his men at his back. Allegreto held himself still, lounging against the railing, measuring the distance.
Franco halted, just far enough away. "Matteo," he said. "Leave him."
Allegreto put his hand on Matteo’s shoulder and gave the boy a push. "Go."
Matteo resisted, leaning back against Allegreto’s hand. Nimue turned from fawning and sniffing at Franco’s knees and bounded happily to the boy.
"Go with him, Matteo," Allegreto said, giving him another light shove. "Honor thy father," he said mockingly. He did not care to linger in such an uncertain position, with no weapon on him. Matteo took a step forward. The boy grabbed Nimue’s collar and stood sullenly.
Allegreto nodded once to Franco. "I bid you eve." He rested his hands on the rail and vaulted it, walking away into the dark.
* * *
Allegreto could not breach the citadel from outside, but once he was within the gates, he knew how to move through every corner and stone of it. It was in Ligurio’s old chambers that Franco had made his only mark—changed the paintings of ladies playing chess and plucking roses to scenes of hunts and tournaments. Allegreto covered his candle and walked softly through the dark rooms that occupied the upper floor of the great tower. The alchemical tools were long vanished, but Ligurio’s library was still intact, the boards lined with books and unbound papers. Allegreto stood a moment, remembering the prince and a boy hungry for gentle words and wisdom, for things he had never known. They had spoken of science and history and politics. They had even argued sometimes, a thing Allegreto would never have dared with Gian.
Here amid Ligurio’s books, his thoughts, Allegreto tried to reason what the prince would say. Allegreto did not understand Franco Pietro now. A year had passed. Franco should have made some move long since to reclaim Monteverde, to purge Navona in a final sweep.
This attack upon the Englishman—it was a clumsy attempt, pointless, far too inept for Franco. Matteo thought Raymond de Clare had accepted money to kill his father, but from what little the boy had heard, it might as easily have been the reverse, a pact for Raymond to perform some deed for the Riata. The Englishman was close to the princess; the word was he saw her daily. It could have been murder or information or only another meeting with his son that Franco desired.
And now someone in Riata livery gave the English whore a warning, but let him live. Or it was Franco’s attempt to blame the thing on Allegreto and have him arrested again—a poor gamble with witnesses who had seen Riata badges on the Englishman’s attackers.
Allegreto stared at a map of Monteverde that hung upon the wall. No thoughtful voice from the past spoke to him. No ready answers came. He only thought that Franco Pietro must be failing in his mind. They were both of them breaking somehow, splintering in directions that had no logic.
From the boards under his feet, he felt the faint vibration of doors closing in the chamber below. He blew out his candle and let his eyes adjust to darkness. After a few moments he moved quietly out of the library.
In the bathing room, faint moonlight from a narrow glass window fell on the naiad that still presided over the basin, spreading her marble arms and offering to pour water from her mouth. It was one of Ligurio’s inventions, a piped system that would bring water down from a cask heated on the ramparts to Ligurio’s bath and the ladies’ quarters on the floor beneath. Allegreto walked to the statue and put his ear to the nymph’s cool stone lips.
From this place, it was possible to hear all that passed in the ladies’ chamber below, where Melanthe had resided.
Elena’s voice cam
e to him, her affectionate chiding voice that she used with unruly dogs and children. He closed his eyes, leaning his shoulder on the wall to listen. She had a diversity of voices—the unyielding tone of the Prima di Monteverde, the brave cry that echoed over the crowds and claimed they were all one, the husky whisper that bid Allegreto take her deeply, rolling in his arms to arch and tremble beneath him. She spoke now to a maid and harried the dallying Matteo to his prayers, leading the boy in a recitation of names of the souls they asked God to bless and absolve. Allegreto heard Franco’s name, and even his own.
Perchance it would have some sway with God, the prayers of a boy and a maid—no matter the maid was no pure virgin and the boy had already tried murder. To Allegreto it seemed there was an innocence, a sincerity about their voices that might have some effect. He did not suppose anyone else alive had ever raised a prayer in his behalf. He felt vaguely ashamed, and grateful to be included. He did not even begrudge Franco’s name in the roll.
After prayers there was a small commotion as it seemed that Nimue tried to climb onto the bed with Matteo, and had to be cast out sternly and sent to her mat. Allegreto heard the familiar scrape of the bed-curtains drawn closed on their wooden rod as the maid bid her mistress and the boy good night. Then Matteo wanted to talk to Elena of the hastilude on the morrow, but she answered only with mumbles that Allegreto could not discern through the muffling curtains. The boy’s voice finally faded away.
Allegreto waited a long time after he could hear nothing. Then he rose, his eyes well attuned to the darkness now, and went softly down the stairs from Ligurio’s chamber. He knew the way by feel, knew the door at the foot of the stairs had no lock or bar; that it would open silently with the right steady pressure.
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