The Constable blustered, but at least possessed the wit not to shout.
“Hush, Lord Kingston. You have nothing to fear,” she said, “if you deal with us fairly. Tell me, where are the Borgias?”
“I’ll tell you nothing! You may have managed to slither in here undetected, but you can’t hope to slither back out.”
Nor did she, but Joscelin could not yet know that. Still, the irony of her position did not escape her—threatening this man just as Fausto had threatened her.
She only wished it hadn’t been necessary to remind Joscelin how well she knew her trade. But he knew what she was already and could hardly despise her more.
Lord Kingston shook with outrage. “They’re in their cell—top of the Beauchamp Tower. But you’ll never escape these walls, I say!”
“In that case, you have nothing to fear,” she said. “For your sake, I hope you are not lying.”
“I’ve answered your accursed question! Go and see for yourself.”
“Take us there, signor.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
“You’ll do it, even if you’re told to walk on your hands like the court fool.”
When Joscelin frowned, she regretted voicing the threat. His sense of honor would never permit real damage to a man in his custody, even one as distasteful as this.
“Listen carefully,” he told the Constable. “If you stay silent, she’ll remove the knife from your throat. When she does, monsieur, you’ll take us straight to the Borgia cell. I’ll be one step behind, and my sword a heartbeat from your kidney. ’Tis a fatal stroke, if my hand slips.”
He stood at the ready, still blocking the door. But, Santo Spirito, the look of him! Stamped with a fighting man’s caution and readiness to act, but his brow furrowed with distaste for the charade. Well, she had no liking either for bullying a fat old fool who was sweating with terror. Yet she would do what she must, though she died for it—even if her methods repulsed him.
“You’ll lead us past your guards,” she told the Constable, “and say whatever you must to reassure them. If you try to signal a warning, I’ll carve out your kidneys and fry them for my supper. Do you doubt me?”
“Aye, madam!” The Constable quivered with rage. “How do I know you won’t stumble on your own skirts and skewer me by mistake?”
“You think I’m so inept at killing?” She could have laughed, if she weren’t so desperate. “Haven’t they told you who he is—the old blind man you’ve locked up to rot?”
“Of course I know him. I’ve held him for three years despite his wiles, haven’t I? Alessandro Borgia is a butcher and a Papist who claims his foul work serves God—which is blasphemy and abomination.”
“Do you know God’s wishes so well?” In fact, she had never agreed with her father that murder was God’s work. “I am the Hand of God’s daughter. You may believe he taught me everything he knows. Believe it—and do not try me.”
Even after he’d seen her fight the Spanish priest, Joscelin had not really believed Allegra was what she claimed—a hired killer without conscience or scruples, ruthlessly effective at her assassin’s arts. Now he could scarcely tear his eyes away from her chilling competence.
As he strode across the Green, gripping the Constable’s arm, Joscelin searched the stern heights. Snow had begun swirling down from the sky, helping to blur their movements.
Even in the midst of danger, his body hummed with awareness of Allegra—his lover, his curse, his revelation. The wicked blade of her cunning had been sheathed when he’d met her. He’d been blinded by her dark beauty to the desperate woman beneath, compelled by her terrible choices. Now her glittering edge stood unsheathed. Mon Dieu, she pierced his heart.
Bright darkness, the don called her. And so she was. She was a mirror polished to blinding brilliance. She was smoke and shadow that tricked the eye, her dazzling facets reflecting both illusion and truth. At first, he’d been bewitched by the Devil’s Mistress. Now he knew she was no witch. She was a woman who loved her family.
And he was hopelessly in love with her.
The Constable led them crunching across the snow toward the dark spike of the Beauchamp Tower. In the highest window, torchlight flickered like a red eye, staring down on their approach. Outside the tower, the Constable jerked to a halt and peered through the snow-swirled darkness. Joscelin kept a firm hold on him as Allegra slipped up beside them, silent as a ghost.
“Inside,” she whispered. “Quickly.”
“Something’s amiss,” the Constable said. “This door’s always guarded—”
“Inside, or bleed!” Her voice was naked steel.
“God rot your soul.” Kingston gasped as her blade pricked his side and threw the door open. Joscelin urged them both in.
Quickly, he took his bearings. They stood at the foot of a twisting stair, cold as a damn tomb. He was braced for challenge, and the heavy hush set his nerves to prickling. Scanning the chamber with mounting unease, he saw chairs knocked over beside a table, dice and coins scattered around a guttering candle, as though the sentries had just stepped away.
“Where are the guards—?” Allegra broke off. Following her gaze into the shadows, he glimpsed a pair of booted legs sprawling beneath the stairs.
For the first time, the Constable quailed. “What deviltry is this? These men were alert at their posts an hour ago.”
“Easy now,” Joscelin said. “Allegra—be careful.”
Meeting his gaze briefly, she hurried to investigate. Her face was white as milk, as though she dreaded finding her father there—so close to victory, but forever too late. She stooped over the body, her breath hitching audibly.
When she whirled around, she was breathless with relief. “This sentry was garroted from behind. He’s unconscious, not dead. And here’s another, felled like an ox, but breathing. How many guards are assigned to this post?”
Joscelin felt the older man hesitate, and gripped hard in warning. “Lord Kingston, I advise you not to lie to her.”
“Four men.” Kingston glared. “The others must have fled to sound the alarm and summon reinforcements. You’ll be dead before the night’s done—or wishing you were!”
“But this makes no sense.” Arrow-swift, Allegra cracked the door and peered out at the silent night. “No alarm has been sounded. Your men on the walls are quiet.”
“Perhaps the missing guards are above,” Joscelin said.
Every soldier’s instinct urged him to charge upstairs and confront the danger—but that would leave Allegra alone and exposed down here. He distrusted her mood tonight, that air of hopeless resignation when they laid their plans. No doubt she thought to sacrifice herself for her family, to atone for her sins that way. But he wasn’t letting her out of his sight for a heartbeat. Grimly, he eyed the twisting stair.
Allegra wedged a heavy chair against the door, betraying the lithe strength that inhabited her slender form. “Go up before me if you please, signor. Joscelin, you’d better stay here.”
“In that case, I might as well have stayed safe in my bed at Belhaven instead of racketing back and forth across this bloody island. You can’t protect me, Allegra. I’m here to protect you, to the bitter end. You’d best grow accustomed to that, oui?”
“But you’ll be ruined!” In an instant her cool composure shattered, as distress ravaged her features. “Heed me, Joscelin, for God’s sake. I would spare you this.”
The Constable stared from one to the other. “By the Rood, this business has nothing to do with Anne Boleyn, does it? If you anger the king, sir, even that heretic whore can’t save you.”
“Be silent!” Joscelin growled, giving the man a shake—barely restraining himself from greater violence. “I’m warning you, man.”
Allegra’s face hardened into a brittle mask. “Go up then, both of you. Swift and silent.”
Allowing the Constable no time for heroics, Joscelin thrust the gaoler up the stair before him. Allegra sped behind him.
“H
urry,” she whispered.
Around they climbed, Kingston’s breath growing labored with effort. Except for themselves, the tower seemed deserted. A sense of foreboding knotted Joscelin’s gut—the niggling worry that somehow, he was missing something…
They emerged on the landing before a closed door and found more troubling signs. Again, two chairs stood before a table, but this post was not unoccupied. In each place a sentry slumped, face-down. An open flagon of wine stood between them. A cup rolled on the floor, its dregs spilled across the flagstones.
“Poisoned!” the Constable gasped. “May God rot your soul if they’re dead.”
“They’re alive.” She bent swiftly to check. “It was syrup of poppy mixed with wine, to make them sleep. My father would not have misjudged the dose.”
Joscelin’s mind raced to assemble the clues. One man garroted, one knocked senseless, these two poisoned—easy enough work for the Hand of God, armed with the Yuletide gifts Allegra had sent him. Yet if Alessandro Borgia had broken free, where were he and his daughters hiding?
Suddenly the puzzle fell into place. Joscelin sucked in breath to shout a warning, but too late. Darting forward, she opened the cell door, her stiletto gripped before her.
“Ah, my pet. I had begun to fear you were not coming.” Cool and amused, the voice of Don Maximo Montoya turned his blood to ice. “Do join us, my dear, and by all means bring Sir Joscelin Boleyn and Lord Kingston with you.”
Chapter Twenty
Allegra started violently and froze in place, even though she’d half expected it. Somehow, she’d hoped this bitter cup would pass her by. Now, her heart lodged in her throat, as though it would choke her.
Gesù! I should have killed him. But it’s too late for that now.
A chamber opened around her, rough-hewn walls lit by a glowing brazier. The trappings of daily life were scattered around: a stack of books piled on the table, polished oak bedsteads set against the wall, a lute painted with poppies lying before the cheerful fire.
Nearby, a pair of guards stood in Queen Katherine’s pomegranate livery, armed with wicked pikes. Each man gripped a hostage, and her chest constricted—two black-haired girls on the cusp of womanhood, taller than she recalled, youthful mirrors of her mother’s exotic beauty. Their dark eyes stared at her, mute with terror, begging her to save them.
And there, seated quietly in a high-backed chair, was her father. Her eyes embraced him. Santa Maria, he’d grown so old, shrunken and brittle, drowning in a Venetian nobleman’s flowing black vesta. A mane of snowy hair floated around his shoulders, but his patrician features were impassive. A milky film covered the eyes that had been so keen. He’d gone utterly blind, unable to perceive between darkness and blazing light. Yet, even sightless, his gaze was riveted on the door, waiting for the newcomers to speak.
Maximo Montoya reclined on the bed, one arm propped behind his head, impeccable in deep crimson slashed with gold. His poniard lay beside him, a streak of silver fire. Yet his features were drawn, hollows sunk beneath his eyes. Silver threaded his inky hair—new since she’d seen him, crawling across the floor in agony.
Let him dissemble as he would. No man could spring back unscathed by the ordeal he’d endured. Perhaps he was reclining because he lacked the strength to stand.
Allegra stood rooted on the threshold, conflicting impulses battering like trapped birds in her breast. She wanted to fly into her father’s arms, weep with joy and despair—most of all beg him, beg for his forgiveness. She wanted to snatch her terrified sisters from the Spaniard’s henchmen. She wanted to plunge her stiletto in Don Maximo’s chest. If she’d thought it would save them, she would plunge it in her own.
“Buona sera, Your Excellency.” Her father started when he heard her strained voice. “You’re looking well this evening, despite what must have been a grueling journey. One could almost believe you rose from the dead.”
“Despite my minor efforts at misdirection, your destination was not precisely a mystery.” The don studied her, eyes keen as hunting knives. “I obtained a safe-conduct from the queen, despite her current distractions, which allowed me inside these walls.” Within his goatee, his lips curled. “The things we do for love.”
Allegra felt sick with dread. She dared not even glance at Joscelin, still commanding the door and the reluctant Lord Kingston behind her.
“Fortunately,” the don said, “the queen’s physician has some experience dealing with poison. How kind of you, my dear, to refrain from a lethal dose. Dare I presume that, despite my little provocations, you wished to spare my life?”
“I told you I would never kill again—not even to dispatch the Devil to Hell.” Tension gripped the chamber like a fist. The sentries divided their wary attention between her and Joscelin. Her father listened closely. Silent tears streaked her sisters’ cheeks.
“Padre…” Her voice wavered. Despite her resolve, her eyes blurred with tears. “Are you well?”
“I am blessed with good health, mia figlia, except for these old eyes of mine. God in His mercy has been generous.” Prisoner or no, Alessandro Borgia’s rich baritone was composed. The liquid syllables of their mother tongue rolled over her. “You must concentrate now on your sisters, my child.”
Rosaria Borgia started forward, but the guard jerked her back, making her cry out. “Is—is it truly you, Allegra?”
“Amantissima,” she whispered, through the aching lump in her throat. “Beloved, don’t be frightened. I swear all will be well, I swear it.”
Alessandro Borgia raised his hand to command silence. Nosing the air like a bloodhound, he shifted to English. “Signor Kingston, are you present? I fancied I heard your voice.”
The Constable stepped forward, showing no surprise at the others’ presence. He must have known then, and kept silent—curse the man. His important guest had been the Spanish Ambassador. “You should know, Master Borgia, that nothing occurs inside these walls without my knowledge.”
Joscelin strode forward to her side. With a diplomat’s composure, he angled his sword and bowed, low and correctly, to the chamber at large. “Bon soir, Signor Borgia, Don Maximo, mesdemoiselles. I am Sir Joscelin Boleyn. I regret that the circumstances prevent a proper introduction, but I think we must forego further courtesies.”
Alessandro turned toward him, as though his blind eyes could see. “We all do what we must, Sir Joscelin Boleyn. I regret to offer a guest such poor hospitality.”
“How exquisitely courteous you are both being—and how humble,” the don said. “Sir Joscelin does not mention his connection to Lord Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire and Ormonde, or his own advancement to the post of Gentleman Pensioner. Not to mention his pending marriage to Mistress Catherine Carew.”
“Our business tonight is no matter of diplomacy, and my father is not involved. I’m the only Boleyn who should concern you, Excellency.”
“Ah, but I’d forgotten!” The don bared his teeth in a smile. “Haven’t you heard? Your father has petitioned the king to award your post to his legitimate son—George Boleyn, Lord Rochford. Just imagine, the reward he promised to you, now awarded to your foppish brother. Does it not discourage you?”
Allegra’s heart sank as she heard these tidings—the death of all his hopes. Santa Maria, this would kill Joscelin! He stood beside her, gripping his sword. Then, to her astonishment, he threw back his head and laughed.
“George can have the post with my blessing.” He grinned, teeth flashing against his tanned skin. “I hope he appreciates it, as I never could. Let’s focus on the business before us, oui?”
Allegra thrust her questions aside. “What has happened here, Father? We found four guards lying witless—”
“Oh, come now, Allegra.” Don Maximo followed her Italian without effort. “Apply your wits to the matter, my pet. Your father and your sweet sisters were escaping—precisely as you intended them to do—when my arrival aborted their efforts. Assuming you hadn’t fallen for my clumsy ruse and gone to Pontefract
, I knew you’d be arriving.”
She fought against the sick fear that swamped her, fought to keep moving forward, without the distraction of emotion. “Is it vengeance that brings you here? I preserved your life, Excellency, when I could have taken it. Do you seek revenge for Fausto? You barely knew him, and I know he meant nothing to you.”
“Indeed, what do I seek from you?” the don mused. “Not long ago, I would have said vengeance—not for Fausto, who was insignificant, but for my foster-brother, Innocenzo Grimaldi. The man who turned on his own brother, his hope of Heaven forfeit, and died for loving you. Did you never guess that we studied together, at the very same monastery?”
“Innocenzo?” She stared blankly. But at last she understood him! She understood the hatred that burned in his eyes when he watched her, the unrelenting malice that drove her to despair.
“Indeed.” He nodded. “I didn’t travel all the way to Genoa to hire an assassin, Allegra. I went there to destroy his murderer. Your husband was already dead, but I meant to see you burn. Then I decided it would amuse me to prolong your suffering. I learned what you dreaded most—to see your innocent sisters feed the fire, and to go there yourself. It wasn’t so difficult making you dance to my tune, once I learned the music.”
“If you longed to see me suffer,” she whispered, “then surely you know you’ve succeeded. It’s time to finish our dance, Your Excellency.”
“Ah, but I cannot forget poor Fausto, who died cursing at your feet. He died unconfessed and unrepentant, and for that he is surely damned.”
“Allegra.” For the first time, urgency flickered across her father’s lined features. “He is willing to let the girls go.”
Of all the scenarios she had envisioned, this was the one she dreaded. She would purchase their lives at the cost of her own. If only, if only it isn’t burning, I swear I can bear anything else.
She dragged in a breath to fill her lungs. “Why would you let my sisters go?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” The don coiled upright, propped against the pillows, one boot-heel digging casually in the mattress. “You’ve played the game well, my pet, and won the right to some concession. Suffice it to say that I’m willing to release your sisters.”
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