Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  "Richard of Bowland, God save him!" Edward exclaimed with pleasure in his voice. He bade Melanthe rise and gave her a wine-balmed embrace. "Child! And our John has sent you to us! Tell us of him; in truth, how does he?" He held out the paper with a sad sigh. "This speaks not a word of himself."

  "My very dear and mighty lord, your son was in great good humor when I took leave of him," she said.

  He nodded, pleased, and then seemed to lose the course of his thought as he stared off into a corner. After a long moment, he tilted his head toward her as if he were a child with a secret. "The prince is our pride," he whispered, "but John is our heart."

  Melanthe murmured, "The duke has much the look of his dear mother the queen, God give her soul rest." Melanthe had no idea if this were so, having only the haziest recollection of Queen Phillipa as a plump and smiling personage, but she added, "He has her eyes, my lord. A very fine figure of a man. Your majesty may well love him with a full heart."

  Edward’s lips trembled. "Verily. Verily." He gave a deep sniff. "You are a good and lovely child. What can we do for you?"

  Melanthe bowed, placing a lavishly bound volume upon his bed. "My lord would honor me, would you accept this small gift. It is a work upon falconry, written by a master from the north country."

  At Edward’s impatient gesture, the king’s servant passed the book to him. He turned the leaves, nodding in delight. "A most worthy subject for a treatise. Excellent. Excellent. We are pleased."

  Melanthe drew him into a little discussion of hunting birds. After a quarter hour they were great friends. He was well known to have a passion for falconing and hawking.

  "And this, sire," she said, when she felt the moment right, "I would convey into your own hand, if you will consent."

  She held out a sealed parchment. King Edward accepted the paper, fumbling it open. "What is this, my dear?"

  "It is my claim to my husband’s estate, quitted into your name, my beloved lord. I am a weak woman; I haven’t the power to assert it myself, but it is a most valuable right. My husband was the Prince of Monteverde. He had no male heirs to survive him, and I myself have a claim through my mother’s blood. All of it I cede to my mighty and esteemed lord, to do with as your majesty might will."

  Melanthe was aware of the chamberlain’s subtle stir at this news. He stood close to the king, bowing. "May I read the document to you, sire?"

  The chamberlain’s greedy hand was already upon the quitclaim, but Edward’s fingers closed. He held to the document. "Monteverde?" His vague old eyes seemed to sharpen. "We are in debt to Monteverde for a certain sum."

  "My lord, I didn’t know of such a thing," Melanthe lied, dropping into a deep courtesy. Edward was in debt by an impossible amount to the bank of Monteverde, as he was and had always been in debt to the Italian money merchants. "Then I may have even greater hope that my humble gift is of value to my king."

  Alice’s man made another attempt, not so subtle, to divest Edward of the quitclaim, but the king held it tightly; "You have not asserted your right?" He frowned. "Nay, but—our mind betrays us. Bowland—don’t you have a brother to act for you? Lionel’s friend..." He paused, his voice trailing off into an old man’s quiver.

  Melanthe could see him remember. He had peddled his second son Lionel to the Viscontis of Milan, in a payment for England’s debts—but the most lavish wedding of the age, with gifts of armor and horses and hounds in gemmed collars, cloaks of ermine and pearls, a banquet of thirty courses all gilded with gold leaf and a dowry so huge it had taken two years to barter, had not bought a long and happy life for Lionel. He had died six months later in Italy of an unnamed fever.

  And with him Richard, of his closest inner circle, Richard her brother, who had been only five when Melanthe had left England and a stranger of twenty-one when he came to Italy to die. The gossips had said that he had been slain mistakenly, by sharing poisoned drink with Lionel. The gossips had said that Richard had meant to kill his own prince and accidentally killed himself as well. The gossips had said that Melanthe had murdered her brother for his inheritance, uncaring that the prince died with him. The gossips said anything. She watched the king with her heart beating hard.

  "May God give both of their souls reprieve." Edward’s broad shoulders were drawn inward, his lower lip unsteady. He groped for the wine goblet and drank.

  "Amen." She made the cross, drawing a deep breath. "My lord, in my woman’s frailty, I haven’t the courage or desire to act upon my claim to Monteverde. I wish only to return to Bowland and live there unmolested in my widowhood, if it please you. But a man of greater energy and shrewdness than my poor self, sire—such a man as the Duke of Lancaster, say—a lord of your son’s natural powers might make a great and useful thing of this claim."

  "Verily." The king wiped his eyes. "Verily."

  "Your majesty must wish to give the duke much, in return for his dedication to his brother’s interests in Aquitaine," Melanthe murmured.

  King Edward began to weep at this mention of his son’s unswerving loyalty. God knew, Lancaster was truly faithful to his family, bankrupting his own coffers as he was in trying to hold Aquitaine together in their name. For a moment Melanthe feared she had gone too far, that this talk of his sons would send Edward back into maudlin foolishness. But the chamberlain took advantage of the moment to get his claws upon the quitclaim again. The king roused, shaking off his retainer’s obtrusive hand with royal contempt, showing a gleam of his former spirit as he stared down at the document with a narrow-eyed examination.

  They shall not have it, Ligurio. Melanthe smiled inside herself, her teeth grinding together. Not Alice Perrers or Riata or Navona either. Pray God and Fortune, King Edward had resolve enough left in him that he would turn her quitclaim over to his favorite son instead of Alice’s brood, and the wolves of Italy would find John of Lancaster in their midst after all. Fair payment it would be to him, she thought, for the dislocate shoulder and humiliation she had caused. Perhaps someday he would even thank her.

  The king looked up at her, his eyes red. "What can we do to show our fondness for you, child?"

  "Sire," she said, bowing her head. "My only wish is that I may live alone at Bowland. My marriage is in your majesty’s gift."

  "You would not be pleased to wed again?"

  "No, sire, by your leave. Perhaps, in the fullness of time, at God’s behest I will enter a nunnery and devote myself to prayer."

  The king nodded, gripping the quitclaim. "So be it. You have our pledge, child—in our affection for you we shall not require you to marry again. Also, we desire that you hold the dignity of your father’s offices, in the style of Countess of Bowland, and all other titles with which he was invested." He waved a shaky hand toward the chamberlain. "See that these things are so affirmed by our seal."

  Bowing down unto the very floor, Melanthe abandoned the king to Alice’s tender avarice. It was vital now to leave London instantly, before Allegreto or the Riata could discover what she had done. She acted by Ligurio’s teaching: she kept her goal clear, but the path to reach it shifted on the edge of a moment.

  She felt freedom near. On the high empty hills she remembered from her northern childhood she would live, belonging to no one but herself. Of all her father’s rich and comfortable manors, she chose cold Bowland Castle as her citadel, as he had done. If she could command Monteverde for the six years of Ligurio’s dying, she could hold her father’s lands from Bowland, vast though they might be, among these simple-headed Englishmen.

  The course she would take to attain her end was still uncertain, but she lived moment to moment as she must. Allegreto was well distracted from his usual vigilance—she had made sure of that before her audience with the king—but how long his fear would divert him she did not know. Always she watched for opportunity, seized on a different ruse, twisted and turned as she saw her chance or felt her danger. She had betrayed every bargain and vow with her quitclaim. Now she lived like quicksilver, breath to breath until she coul
d rid herself of her watchdogs.

  * * *

  London was full of plague rumors. At Princess Melanthe’s command Ruck tracked hearsay through the muddy streets. When he presented himself to attend her at Westminster Palace, Allegreto assailed him in her anteroom.

  "What befalls?" the youth demanded, trailing Ruck to her steward. Allegreto had a morbid fear of plague: he talked of it endlessly and had taken to attaching himself to Ruck whenever he was at the palace, as if Ruck had some talisman against it.

  "Nothing befalls, that I can tell," Ruck said.

  "Nothing?" Allegreto asked anxiously.

  Ruck held out his hand toward the door as the steward announced him. "Am I to report to your mistress or to you, whelp?"

  "To me, certainly." The princess’s voice was elegant and firm. She lowered the book of poetry to her lap.

  "My liege lady." Ruck bowed, while Allegreto hovered by his elbow like an importunate child.

  "Green Sire," she acknowledged courteously. She was much more sedate in her manner among the English, dressed with rich propriety in blue and white, only a few diamonds sparkling in her necklace and belt. A changeling, taking on the aspect of her surroundings. He felt his own weakness, succumbing to this false look of virtue when he knew the corrupt truth of her.

  "What news?" she asked.

  "I find no evidence of any epidemic here, Your Highness."

  She nodded. "Well enough. It’s only gossip as usual, you see, Allegreto." She laid aside the book and gave a little stretch. "I fear you must leave me now to rest. The sea journey still fatigues me."

  Ruck started to withdraw, but Allegreto hung on to his arm. "No, the truth!" Allegreto demanded. "What do you know?"

  Ruck frowned at him. "I’ve said truth. There’s no plague in the city."

  "Do not conceal it!" Allegreto flung himself onto the bed. "My lady—he must speak."

  "Do you hide something, sir?" she asked sharply.

  Ruck prevented himself from looking directly at her. Out of her presence it was possible to feel disgust, but the sight of her overpowered his better reason. A vision of her had haunted him for thirteen years: the reality cut through illusions to the heart of impure hunger. Her new modesty only made it worse. He knew more of her, but not enough. He feared that everything could not be enough.

  "There is no plague," he repeated. "It is but gossip."

  Princess Melanthe tilted her head. "But you believe it will come?"

  "How can I know? There’s talk of the planets aligned for it."

  This news turned Allegreto white. "My lady!"

  "There’s little enough to that," Ruck said. "I vow the planets predict plague once a month. The astrologers make their living on such gloom."

  "No!" Allegreto turned to Princess Melanthe. "My lady’s charts say the same!"

  "You must be careful, love," she said. "Very careful. I’ve cast your stars again. They exert an ill chance now."

  "In Bordeaux they said it had returned in the south!" Allegreto exclaimed.

  "Not in Milan," she said soothingly. "The talk there was that it raged among the Danes."

  "Perhaps it is all talk," Ruck said.

  "Traders will bring it from the north! In death ships!" Allegreto hurled himself off the bed. "Lady, let us fly!"

  "Fly where?" she asked calmly.

  "Away!" His voice had a frantic undertone. "Out of the city!"

  "And suppose it follows us out of the city?" She smiled at him. "Perhaps you’ll be fortunate to meet the Heavenly Father while you’re still young and innocent."

  The youth made a faint sound, falling to his knees before her. He buried his face against her skirt. Ruck had begun to feel a certain compassion for Allegreto. The indifferent way she mocked his mortal fears might have seemed casual, but Ruck had caught the small cruel narrowing of her eyes as she looked down at her youthful lover. At that instant it was as if she hated him, but then her mouth softened, and she ruffled his hair.

  "Fly, then, if it pleases you," she said. "Return home to Monteverde."

  He lifted his face quickly. "Your Highness—we go home?"

  "Not I. But I’ll send you to safety. Your father will shield you in his country villa."

  Allegreto stared at her, his fingers gripped in the folds of her dress. "No—lady..."

  She traced her fingers down his face. "Go home. I couldn’t bear to see your sweet skin swell and blacken," she murmured. "I couldn’t bear to hear your groans."

  His breath came faster. His tongue ran around his lips. "We will go home together, lady. My father will give refuge to us both."

  "I’ve had audience with the king. Will you deny me my lands that he commends to me?"

  "But the plague—"

  She gave a slight laugh. "There is some privilege in age, my lovely boy. Does it not strike most terribly at the young and handsome such as you?"

  He shook his head, holding her embroidered hem pressed to his mouth. "I can’t leave you, Your Highness."

  "The stars augur ill for you. Will you compel me to follow your coffin?"

  He gave a dry sob. "You know I can’t leave you, lady. But let’s fly from this city, I beg you."

  She sat back, glancing a question at Ruck.

  "As soon as Your Highness likes to venture forth," he said bluntly. "But the weather is threatening. We were fortunate in our water crossing. To the north, they say the winter already holds hard. And it would be wiser to take time to assemble a large escort for my lady’s protection."

  Allegreto raised his face, wiping fiercely at the tears that tumbled down his cheeks. "Please—lady—no delay!"

  "How long to softer weather?" she asked Ruck.

  "Three months, say."

  "Three months!" Allegreto cried. He reached for Princess Melanthe’s hand and squeezed it between his. "I’ll be dead in three months! I feel it!"

  She looked down at him for a long moment. His eyes seemed to grow wider, almost fearful, as he held her gaze.

  "I’m in no hurry to leave," she said indifferently. "The journey will discommode me."

  He suddenly snatched his hands away and flung himself from her. "You taunt me!" he shouted. "We’ll not stay here, or I’ll write to my father!"

  "Little use, if you’re to be dead in three months." Princess Melanthe picked up her book and turned a page idly. "With luck he might arrive to pray over your coffin."

  Allegreto seized the book. He ripped out half the vellum, scattering it across the carpets as if the precious leaves were but wheaten chaff. When Princess Melanthe made no reaction, his face seemed to transfigure, altering from smooth beauty to a demon’s mask of rage. He leaned over her, grabbed her cheeks between his palms and kissed her, crushing his mouth against hers. Ruck saw her hands clench white on the arms of the chair as the youth bore her head hard back against the carved rest.

  Ruck grabbed Allegreto’s shoulder and hauled him off. With one shove he sent the youth sprawling backward against the tapestried wall.

  "Master yourself!" He held Allegreto by the throat, pressing him to the wall. "Before you find a grave sooner yet!"

  Allegreto swallowed beneath his hand, breathing hard. He looked at Ruck with black eyes that had gone empty, as if fear and fury had canceled each other.

  The sound of light clapping came from behind. "A most knightly performance, Green Sire! The poor child only wants manners. Perhaps you might give him a lesson at your leisure."

  "Tell my lady—"Allegreto said between panting breaths, "tell my lady’s grace to think of how she will grieve should I die."

  Ruck let him go and stepped back. "This lies between you and your mistress." He cast her a hard glance, then bowed. "I await your decision outside, madam."

  She lifted her hand to bid him stay. "That will not be required. We’ll be civilized, shall we not, Allegreto? Begin the preparations to depart for Bowland at once, sir."

  "Tomorrow! By secluded ways," Allegreto said, quick and hoarse. "If it please my lady’s grace."
<
br />   She made an impatient flick of her hand. "As you will, then! We take only what men-at-arms you have at present, sir. The rest of my court may follow with my baggage. It will be safer to avoid peopled places, should pestilence somehow run ahead of us."

  "No, only for his fancy?" Ruck asked in outrage. "Your highness, such a small party—it’s not protection enough!"

  "Allegreto wishes to avoid plague."

  "Plague isn’t the only danger to Your Highness," he said harshly, "or the likeliest, for that matter!"

  Her lashes lifted. "And what is likelier, sir? You can’t master such bandits as the countryside boasts?"

  He scowled. "My lady—I’m not thinking of outlaws only."

  "Of what, then?" she demanded.

  "Your Highness holds great wealth and property," he said brusquely.

  "Ah. It’s my abduction you fear. Well thought, Green Sire, but I have no dread of it. Our departure will be quick and quiet, and if we travel by uncommon ways, so much the better to foil any such schemes." She smiled. "And of course, you may spread word that any man who forces me to wed him will rue every day of his short life and die in lingering agony."

  Ruck gazed at her. She was so beautiful and so wicked, laughing at him behind that comely innocent smile. It would work, he thought with resentful wonder—between her reputation and her plan to slip away, she would be near as safe from seizure and force as if she traveled with half a thousand men.

  He bowed his head. "My lady," he assented grudgingly, "as you say."

  Allegreto gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes. He stood against the wall, fresh tears trickling down his cheeks. The pulse in his throat hammered visibly.

  Ruck’s own heart still thudded with reaction. He had seen little of Princess Melanthe and her courtier so far on the journey—he hoped that he would see little more, if this was to be the way of it. He disliked scenes and ravings intensely.