The Medieval Hearts Series

by Laura Kinsale

  "My lady," he said, bowing.

  "I did not hear—" She glanced toward the planked door, which she herself had barred from within. The heavy rail was still in place. She blinked nervously. "How came you here?"

  "Talent," he said. "And study." He moved near, standing over her. Elayne stiffened as he touched her. He took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to him. She suffered his leisurely inspection, having no choice. He lost none of his inhuman perfection at closer range. His face was still that graven image of proud Lucifer, fallen from Heaven, his eyes deep black and wickedly beautiful.

  "I know you," he said pensively. "Who are you?"

  She lowered her eyes. "Elena," she said simply, using the name of her Italian christening, which had long ago transformed on English tongues to Elayne.

  She hoped it would sound common and unremarkable in this part of the world, the name of a girl who had no ransom value to anyone. But his hand fell away as if she had just uttered some dreadful iniquity. He leaned closer, searching her face.

  "Who sent you?" he demanded.

  Elayne swallowed. She shook her head slightly. She was afraid—and yet she felt remote, as if she were not really in this chamber, but safe somewhere, watching from afar.

  He took her chin hard between his fingers. "Who?" He smiled with an affection that seemed warm and terrible at once. She stared at him. Though she had no intention of speaking, she felt the answer hover on her tongue, as if his smile alone could compel her.

  "Tell me now," he said gently. "You must tell me."

  "Lady Beatrice," she whispered, clamping her lips closed against saying more.

  His black eyebrows lifted. "No, tell me who sent you. Who put you in her service?"

  "The countess," Elayne mumbled. "I serve the countess."

  "The Countess of Bowland?" he asked kindly, his voice very quiet. "Melanthe?"

  Elayne’s eyes widened. But he seemed now not so threatening, more human. "The countess," she murmured. To gaze up at him made her dizzy. "She said..." Elayne tried to remember, but her brain felt drugged and slow. All the voices of the past months seemed to clamor together in her head, a tumble of instruction and warning. "She said...she told me...trust no one."

  She felt his hand tighten on her chin. He drew in air with a soft hiss. "Did she?"

  "I don’t know," Elayne said in confusion. She put her hand on the bedpost. "I’m not sure."

  He smiled, like the Devil speaking from the shadows. "Then trust me," he murmured, or Elayne thought he did. She could not seem to see him clearly. He faded, or the light faded, or the shadows crept into her eyes.

  * * *

  She was roused from deep heavy sleep by a candle in her eyes and a sharp hand on her shoulder. Elayne rolled over, her heart jolting, disoriented by the sudden awakening.

  "Il Corvo summons you," a young woman’s voice said. Blinking, Elayne stared at the hooded figure but caught no glimpse of her face, for the candle shone bright enough to blind.

  "My garments," Elayne said hoarsely, with a wild fear that she would be brought before the pirate wearing nothing, exhibited and sold as a naked slave.

  "Wear this," the girl said. Her voice was unfriendly. She held up a robe of deep royal blue trimmed in gold. Elayne pulled it over her smock. Countess Beatrice snored on in unheeding slumber.

  "A comb—" Elayne said tentatively, trying to tie up the garters with shaking fingers.

  "Hurry. It’s no matter. He will prefer it so."

  Elayne took a deep breath. The Countess of Bowland, he had said, as if he knew all about her godmother. She had not told him of Lady Melanthe. But she had some apprehensive notion that indeed she had, only she could not remember when or how.

  He was a pirate. He would be striving to obtain the highest ransom for Lady Beatrice. He would want to know if Elayne had any value. Possibly he intended to force her to write a begging letter for her release, full of dread and pleading.

  She didn’t want to be held prisoner. But she wasn’t, in truth, in any hurry to resume her journey to Monteverde and her marriage. Elayne felt be-spelled: suspended between the earth and the sky in this rich carpeted room that seemed to hover like the gulls in the sapphire haze. She said nothing more to the girl, only followed her cloaked guide through long passages and up endless stairs until they came to an arched door standing open on blackness.

  "Go through," her escort said. "He awaits you."

  Elayne stepped through the door. With a soft boom, it shut behind her, leaving her in darkness.

  She felt that she was looking outside before her eyes were certain of it. Slowly they lost the bedazzlement of the candle. She could see that the door opened onto a platform, a wide terrace surrounded by white columns, unroofed beneath the night sky. The floor was tiled in white, scored by dark lines that spread out from her feet as if beckoning her to walk forward.

  It was silent. But above the pounding of her heart she could just make out the sound of the waves at the base of the sea cliffs, a resounding echo at the edge of hearing.

  She crossed herself. As she stepped out onto the terrace, the whole sky opened above her, set off by the wheel of columns, thick with countless stars. She stood transfixed by the heavens, looking up. Never had she seen so many stars, as if the sky were not black but a living brilliance, a sparkling sheet of icy fire. They looked near enough that she might put out her hand and pluck one, and yet unfathomably distant.

  The place seemed an incarnation of starlight. She turned in a slow circle. The stars swung above her, cold and stately. When she stopped, she distinguished the outline of a man against the column before her. It did not alarm her—she was too amazed. She stood still, gazing toward him as the starlight poured down on the pale pavement between them.

  He walked forward, his cloak reflecting silvery highlights.

  "What is this place?" she asked, her voice almost lost in the stupendous silence.

  "My observatory," the Raven said. "You’re standing upon it."

  She looked down at the intersections of lines scored across the floor, marked at intervals by numbers and symbols.

  "You’re an astrologer?" she asked.

  "I trifle," he said. "I could cast your horoscope with fair accuracy, I daresay."

  "Pray do not," Elayne said. She did not want to give him any further power over her than he had already.

  His soft laugh echoed from the columns. "As you wish." He tilted his head a little to one side, looking down at her with dark eyes. "Afraid? I had not thought you so orthodox."

  "I am faithful in Christ," Elayne said guardedly.

  "Come, admit it," he said. "You’re a heathen."

  "No, I am not."

  "A pagan. I shall have no qualms about selling you to the Saracens."

  "They won’t thank you for it," she said, ignoring the chill that touched her.

  "You’re mistaken there, my lady. A virgin female bred to courtly manners, young and fair of skin, with your extraordinary eyes—worth five thousand French crowns, I venture."

  The breath left her chest. She stood very still, trying desperately to calculate. She had no idea what a French crown might be worth, but five thousand of them sounded a ransom for a prince. Or a princess. "If this be a ruse to make me afraid, I only wish it might be successful. I’m only maidservant to the Countess of Ludford."

  "What choice have I, then? As a sparing merchant, sweating over my reckonings."

  She said nothing, her meager defense already exhausted.

  "Perhaps you would like your fate cast after all."

  "As it lies in your hands," she said stiffly, "little wonder if you can foretell it."

  He seemed amused at that. Or perhaps he was merely calculating his profit when he sold her to the Saracens. There was no way to read his face but as an exquisite work of art, a mystery like the enigmatic angels carved above an altarpiece.

  "Come," he said abruptly. "I’ll show you more."

  She followed him as he turned away, all
thought of sleep vanished now. She felt as wakeful as she had ever been in her life.

  He paused before a pair of columns. Elayne realized she was looking through a door. A faint illumination rose up, carrying with it a strange scent, acrid but not unpleasant, as if flowers or herbs were burning.. The bluish glow provided just enough light to see the stairs sinking out of sight. He turned to her, bidding her enter.

  She wasn’t at all pleased to be descending this staircase. "Sir, I prefer not to go down."

  "You’re afraid?" He seemed surprised.

  "God’s mercy, yes!"

  "It’s the way to my library."

  She shook her head, taking a step backward. "Tell me what you do there."

  "I conjure the Devil as a black goat," he said, with an impatient sweep of his hand. "He arrives in a great cloud of hail and brimstone, and does whatever I bid him. Don’t you wish to watch?"

  She drew a quick breath and crossed herself. "You’re too bold to make such a jest."

  "No," he said softly. "Be certain that I know the Devil too well to summon him. I’ve lived by his hand and under his rule, and no power he could grant is worth that cost."

  She gazed at him, wide-eyed. "You made a pact with—" She could not even summon the nerve to say it.

  "I made no pact!" he said abruptly. "That’s done with. It was a human devil I spoke of merely. This is what I do in my library, my lady: I read. I study. I’m no foolhardy mage, who imagines he can command Hell itself. I’ve not the disposition of a priest, that I grant. I’m no meek sheep in the holy flock. It’s the natural powers in the world I would divine. Come and I’ll show you, if you will. If you won’t, then go back to your snug bed and your prayers."

  He turned sharply, his cloak sweeping wide, and strode to the top of the stair. He ducked into it and went down two steps, then paused for an instant, looking back at her. The faint blue illuminated his cheek and jaw, the frowning wing of his black eyebrow.

  If he had tried to force her; if he had threatened or tempted, she would not have gone. He was a pirate. And a wizard, it now came clear—a real one.

  "Do you think I shouldn’t be afraid of you?" she asked suddenly. "It seems to me that I’d be a fool if I were not."

  He stared back at her for a long time. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, only the shadowy planes of it. "Yes," he said. "You would."

  "Very well," she said. "I am afraid. But I will come down."

  He stood straight and still. The blue light outlined his figure in the stairwell, the black sweep of his shoulders and cloak. "Come, then," he said quietly. "Put your hand upon my shoulder. I’ll go before you, my lady, for your safety on the stairs."

  * * *

  The strange sapphire illumination in his library came from flasks of glass set about the room, gleaming like bog-fire. Elayne had hunted happily beside springs and moats as a child, chasing frogs and salamanders in pure defiance of Cara’s disgusted admonitions, but that had been long ago. She drew in a sharp breath as she made out the skins of snakes dangling from a rafter. Still, those were mere snakes.

  "For mercy!" she gasped, gripping his shoulder as she halted on the last stair. Against the far wall, a stone furnace glowed red with burning charcoal, lighting the white underbelly of a monstrous lizard, longer than two men, that hung suspended overhead by iron chains. Its tail was thick and scaly, and its huge mouth opened on fangs such as Elayne had imagined only in her nightmares.

  "It’s a crocodile," he said.

  Eleanor stared at the hideous beast. It lay stiffly in its chains, dead and dry, the clawed feet dangling and the great mouth propped open by a stake, but still it was fearsome.

  "A small water-dragon, of Egypt," he said. "As you see, it has no wings."

  "Did you slay it?"

  He laughed. "Not I. I leave that work to noble knights. I merely paid a large heap of gold to obtain it, my lady."

  "Why?" she asked in amazement.

  "I find such things useful, from time to time," he said.

  Elayne realized she was gripping his shoulder. She let go, but the glossy feel of his cloak seemed to cling to her hand. She brushed her palms together.

  "I’ve read of them in a book of beasts," she said.

  "Is it so?" He turned to her. "I haven’t met before a maiden who reads of beasts."

  "Nor have I met anyone who collects them as serviceable goods!"

  "You read much, madam?"

  "Yes, I read the Latin, Tuscan and French, and English, too." The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted the pride that had engendered them. It was hardly the education of a simple maid.

  He made no comment upon it, though she didn’t hope that he took no notice. "Sit down," he said, indicating a round table at the center of the room.

  She looked about at the vials and flasks and bizarre vessels that lined the room. There were scrolls laid neatly in racks; mortars and pestles of all sizes, the skulls of unknown creatures. She felt a curiosity dawning that was the equal of her fear. He was a magician. He had mastered what she had only attempted to learn. "What’s in them?" she asked. "The scrolls."

  "You would like to see?" He nodded, as if she satisfied him. "Then sit down."

  Elayne wet her lips. She sat and watched him bring a beautifully carved and polished box to the table. He lifted out a stack of cards and spread them. They were all painted with figures, men and women like something from a moral tale, carrying suns and moons and scythes. Each was named and numbered in Latin: The Beggar, The Artisan, The Emperor; Grammar, Music, Logic, Poetry.

  "These are the Triunfi," he said. "The emblems of the Taroc."

  She had heard of the Taroc. Libushe had mentioned it, but Elayne had never seen the cards. He turned their blank sides upward and stacked and cut them apart, then stacked them again. The rare odor of myrrh filled her nose. His hands moved with simple grace, as if he had done it many times. His silver sleeve gleamed like light sliding up and down a sword blade as he moved.

  He set the deck before Elayne. His dark, beautiful eyes rested upon her. "Take off some cards, and keep them with you."

  "Why?" she asked. "Is this a spell?"

  "We are philosophers. It is purely contemplation and study."

  "Study of what?"

  "Of you."

  She stared at him warily across the table. "I don’t think you’ll find that there is a great deal of me to contemplate."

  "So it may be. Gentle young ladies often lead dull lives, and have characters to match."

  "As you say," she murmured, dipping her head briefly.

  He grinned, a dark flash of humor. "Take up the cards, madam," he said.

  * * *

  She had expected it to be more interesting, but she grew weary of breaking the stack and handing him one card after the other from the top, over and over, while he placed them in a pattern on the table. Her neck and shoulders ached. Night and lack of sleep began to overcome her vigilance.

  If the Raven were fatigued, he gave no sign of it, but seemed to be deep in thoughtful meditation as he examined each card, placed it, and then studied the evolving spread. Finally she came to the last two cards in the stack before her.

  "Take the one from the bottom," he said.

  Elayne offered it to him. He turned it up and laid it down facing her, in the center of the figure.

  "The Knight," he said. "From the first decade, the stations of humanity. I don’t think you’re a humble maidservant, my lady Elena. Your birth is much higher than you tell me. But you need not look so alarmed." He leaned on his elbow lazily. "The degree of your nobility is not what I wished to discern."

  She had grown wide awake in an instant. The elegantly dressed Knight posed before her mockingly.

  "Here—" He spread apart two cards that lay at the lowest part of the wheel. "Your establishment interests me more. The Duke and the muse Clio, the giver of fame. But you see...here at her feet, this herb. It’s only the poor gith flower."

  "Oh," she said.
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  "But perhaps you know it by another name. I’ve heard it called melanthy, too." He smiled at her, and suddenly Elayne saw her danger.

  "Is it?" she asked stupidly.

  "Yes. Does it not grow near Bowland Castle?"

  She blinked. "I know not. I’ve never been there."

  "But you’re in the household of my Lady Melanthe, the Countess of Bowland."

  He spoke with simple assurance. Elayne answered nothing. She thought that someone must have told Amposta, but she kept a careful silence. There were any number of minor handmaids in the household of Lady Melanthe.

  "You see, a little study of the details reveals much," he said. "Here in the ninth house, we can see more—in your childhood you made a great journey out of danger…recovery from a morbid illness?" He tilted his head, turning over another card and considering. "No, I think not. The Emperor in the sixth position. Your health has always been superb."

  He glanced up at her, as if to confirm this. She could not deny it; she had never been seriously ill. Even the measles had treated her lightly.

  "A journey in truth it was," he said. "Over land and water. A vital cusp. Everything in your life changed at that turning. I don’t think you would have lived long if you hadn’t traveled so young." He frowned at the cards before him. "From the south to the north. Was it winter? Was there snow? And a fortification—a castle—a woman with child."

  Elayne stared at him. He could not know of her childhood journey from Monteverde to England; Lady Beatrice could have told him nothing of that. Elayne recalled it only dimly herself. But in her mind, even as he spoke the words, a memory stood clear, of arriving at Savernake in a snowfall, of Cara’s bulky form, nearly to term with little Maria, of being swept up into a joyous welcome.

  "You called out," he said. He rested his forefinger on a female figure, a singer holding a double flute. He smiled a little, as if remembering it himself. "A horse foundered in the drifts. You made a ball of snow and threw it."

  She sat frozen, stilled by the strange precision with which he described her own memory. She could see the horse struggling, the empty, snowy road that led away from Savernake Castle. "How know you these things?" she whispered.