Her hand eased, but still she kept her eyes closed. "All this? You’re supreme in merits."
"I’ve thought me a little over what my service could be."
"And what is left to me, but breeding?"
"Of course. I think of it each time we keep company, that we may not sin."
"Monk-man!"
"There be chambers at Wolfscar in need of dusting. I know well how my lady wench likes to sweep a hearth."
"Wench?" she uttered dangerously.
He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. "If Your Highness finds time heavy between your lazy sleeps—I be not much hand at Latin, my lady, nor lawyers and court dealings such as a great estate must always have."
She opened her eyes, looking out the window. "All these plans and devises! Methinks you’re a great trumpery, who never meant for a moment to go back to chevauchee in France!"
"If you have truer need of my service," he said with dignity, "then I won’t, unless our king commands me."
She put her hand on his, preventing the mirror from moving. Her face diverted, she looked warily from the corner of her eyes. With a cautious move she shifted the mirror in his hand, turning it slightly toward her.
"Look into it, my lady," he said. "I haven’t lied to you."
She turned it all the way, staring down into the glass. Her brows rose in outrage. "Why—I am not comely! I am not!" She slapped the mirror facedown. "I knew it was all dishonest falsehood, these songs and praises to my beauty. Indeed, when is a rich woman plain?"
Ruck smiled at her. "Are you not beautiful? It’s my fortune to be blind, then."
"Pah!" She reached out, catching him off balance with a hard shove at his shoulder. He fell back off his heels, sitting down with a grunt on the bare stone. "Any woman would look beautiful to you, monk-man, after ten and three years of chastity!"
EPILOGUE
Cara sat in the solar, her toes by the fire and the cloth of gold spread over her lap as well as she could with the child so great in her. The cloth was to make a coverlet for an infant’s cradle—not hers, of course, but Lord Ruadrik’s gift for his lady’s churching. He’d left the fabrics at Savernake as he passed through just before Christmas, and bade her have them sent back to Wolfscar by Easter to be well in time.
She lifted her head, taking a deep breath after bending over the labor. She shoved herself to her feet, carrying the cloth to the cold window, where she could inspect the fine detail in what was left of the cloudy light.
She glanced out over the snowbound yard. The cloth fell from her fingers. "Elena!" she shrieked.
The door, the stairs, the way that was so slow in her cumbersome state vanished beneath her feet. She burst from the door onto the porch without even stopping for a cloak.
"Elena, Elena—"
Her sister was just dismounting, her small feet disappearing in the snow. Cara swept her up and buried her face in the thick woolens, panting with exertion.
"Here now!" Guy’s chiding voice barely reached her. She clutched at Elena as he lifted her away. "Inside." He hiked her sister in his arms, carrying her as Cara ran alongside, almost dancing in spite of her bulk. Elena was chattering in Italian; it sounded strange and wonderful to hear; Cara took in not a word of the childish talk, only heard the gay high voice and knew all was well, that Elena was whole and unhurt.
She was weeping too hard to see more than Guy’s outline in the passage. Someone came in with them—a woman, a nurse; there were others in the yard; it was all confusion as Guy went back out to see to them, but Cara could only hold her sister tight.
"You’re so big!" Elena said, her dark blue eyes finally coming clear. "We’ve had a great adventure, coming through the snow! Dan Allegreto’s horse fell in a drift! Will we live here? It’s so cold! Dan Allegreto says that I’ll like it when I grow accustomed. I threw snow at him, but he said it didn’t hurt. When will the baby be born? Will I be its auntie?"
Cara’s hands loosened. "Allegreto?"
Guy came in the door, knocking snow from his boots. No one followed him but another duenna, an older lady who crossed the threshold with offended dignity as he held open the door.
"Donna Elena, your decorum!" she snapped.
Elena stood straight in Cara’s arms, making a little courtesy. "Dan Allegreto says that if I wish to marry him," she confided to Cara, "I must learn to be a lady, for I am now a hoyden."
Cara stood straight, her heart thundering. "He is come?" she said to Guy in French.
"No," He shook his head. "This is all the party, but the guard that I sent to the stables."
"Oh, Dan Allegreto is here. He brought me to you," Elena said, slipping easily into French.
"The yard is empty," Guy said.
Elena pulled away. She ran to the door, pushing it open. Cara hurried after her as the little girl ran out into the snow without her cloak, calling.
Cara couldn’t run so fast—her sister had raced across the yard and past the gate before Cara could prevent her. The duennas made shrill helpless cries after their charge, but it was only Guy and the porter who caught up with Elena after she crossed the bridge.
The little girl had already stopped. She stood gazing down the empty road. She put her hands about her mouth and cried, "Dan Allegreto!"
The name echoed back across the snowy fields. Two horses in the nearest pasture lifted shaggy heads.
"Oh," Elena said in a tiny voice. "He didn’t say goodbye to me."
"Elena, you’ll catch your death, standing in the snow." Cara spoke sharply. "Guy, she must go inside."
"Come then, little donna." Guy lifted her high in the air and set her on his shoulders. "Mama speaks, and we listen."
Elena made no protest, but she craned her head to see behind her until Guy had carried her through the gate. Cara watched them out of sight. She turned, looking down the road—waiting.
No one came. The tracks made a long thin shadow in the snow, vanishing out of sight where the horse pastures met the forest.
"God grant you mercy," Cara said. Cold tears spilled down her cheeks. "I’m sorry. Grant mercy. Thank you."
The snow chilled her feet. She stood with her arms hugged close to herself, stood until the cold went through her to her heart. When she realized she was shaking with it, she turned back, and left the empty road to night and frost.
Shadowheart
For Sage and Keeper and Folly,
dogs and muses and a reason to smile
Dear Readers,
Allegreto first appeared in For My Lady’s Heart, a beautiful young assassin who seemed to have a will and life stronger than any fictional creation. I knew that I must write his story, and readers demanded it, but it took me years to understand him.
He did not make it easy for me. Who would have expected that he would? And what I finally learned of him was not at all what I had anticipated. I knew that it would take far more than any ordinary woman to love such a man, but even so, Elena surprised me too. She revealed herself first as a blithe maiden, but I found that she had a blade hidden in her soul, and the courage to use it.
Now, for this ebook edition, in addition to the original and complete version of the book which was published in 2004, I’ve included a condensed version of Shadowheart. I’ve made this 2011 revision for readers who prefer a tighter read and more modern words for dialogue. We all have different preferences and I hope you’ll enjoy whichever version you choose–or both!
Laura Kinsale, 2011
CONTENTS
Letter to My Readers
Shadowheart: Original Published Version
Shadowheart: New Condensed Version
SHADOWHEART:
Original Published Version
ONE
Forest of Savernake,
in the fifth year of the reign
of King Richard II
On Plow Monday, all the chickens died.
Elayne knew she shouldn’t have tried to substitute a chicken feather for the quill from a magical hoopoe
bird. But Savernake Forest did not harbor hoopoe birds. In truth Elayne had no notion what a hoopoe bird looked like—the only place she had ever seen the name of the creature was in the handbook of charms and experiments that contained her formula.
Elayne felt that it was hardly certain her small attempt at a love spell had caused the complete demise of the Savernake poultry. But Cara’s suspicion would fall on Elayne. Cara’s suspicion always fell on Elayne. It could not be hoped that her older sister would overlook the sudden termination of every fowl in town. In a larger locale, in London by hap, or Paris, the loss of a few dozen chickens might pass unremarked. But not in such a minor place as Savernake.
Elayne pulled her mantle close, striding over the frozen ground away from the village. She could feel the black feather and small waxen figure hidden beneath her chemise, tickling her skin like a finger of guilt. She had ventured to substitute the chicken feather for the magical hoopoe quill because another recipe in the volume called for a feather from the wing of a black chicken. But it was a foolish experiment. The other recipe was meant to cause a man’s beard to grow. Perchance that goal did not sympathize well with the ingredients for arousing a man’s affections, and the result had a deadly effect upon all the poultry for ten leagues roundabout.
She only hoped that Raymond de Clare, in whose image she had formed the wax, would not now suddenly sprout a beard.
As she neared the abandoned mill, a small herd of the king’s deer looked up from browsing at a frost-rimed thicket. They bounded away as Raymond stepped out from behind the great mill wheel. He held out his gloved hands to her, but Elayne turned her face away, suddenly shy. She thought him the handsomest man in Christendom, but in her agitation and guilt, she could not quite look at him just then.
"No welcome for me?" he asked, amusement in his voice.
"Yes," Elayne said. The word came out a breathless squeak, barely audible. She forced herself to raise her eyes, assuming worldliness and experience with a lift of her chin, and made a little courtesy. "Bel-accoil! Kind greeting, Sir Knight."
"Oh, we are on ceremony, then," he said, grinning. He gave a bow worthy of the king’s court—not that Elayne had ever been within a week’s ride of the king’s court, but she felt certain that Raymond’s great sweep, showing the red-and-black slashed sleeves of his doublet under his fine scarlet cloak, must be admirably suited to such rarefied spheres.
She evaded his gaze as he straightened, feeling that if she could not touch his face—only touch his face, or take a loop of his thick chestnut hair about her finger—that she would die of unrequited love before the night was gone. Instead she put her foot onto the frozen millrace. Eluding his offered hand, she jumped over the icy channel and started to walk past him. He turned as she did and walked with her, brushing her shoulder. Elayne made a skip, moving ahead of him, pushing aside a bare branch that overhung the doorway of the old mill.
He laughed and flicked her cheek. "You are avoiding me, little cat."
She looked up aslant, a covert glance at his jaw. He was perfectly clean-shaven—no sign of a beard. With a sense of relief she said cheerfully, "It is a favor to you. In faith, sir, you can’t wish to dally with such a rustic as I!"
He caught her shoulder, turning her to face him. For an instant he looked down into her eyes—she felt his hand, his fingers pressing her through the thick gray wool of her cote-hardie. "Nay, how could I not?" he asked softly. "How could I find a sparkling diamond at my feet and fail to pick it up?"
Elayne stared at his mouth as if she were the one bewitched. He leaned his hand against her, gently pushing her against the wall. The stone pressed hard into her shoulder blades. She glanced aside, afraid they might be discovered. The leafless bushes cast a wavering light in the doorway, but the old mill was empty and silent. She put her palms against his chest, as if to hold him off, but inside she was praying that he would kiss her, that at last, after weeks of this dangerous play and ferment between them, she would know what it was like. She was seventeen, and she had never been in love, never even been courted. She had not known that a man who stole her sleep and dashed her prudence, a man like Raymond, could exist.
"I am only another lady, like the rest," she whispered, her heart beating against his hand. "Haps not so meek as some."
"You, my love, are an extraordinary woman." He bent his head close. Elayne drew in a quick breath. His lips touched hers, warm and soft in the crisp winter air, softer than she had expected. He tasted of mead, very strong and wet—not completely to her relish. As his tongue probed between her lips, he breathed heavily into her mouth. In confusion and a sudden distaste, she pushed him away so quickly that he had to put out a hand to the wall to catch himself.
He lifted his eyebrows at her. He stood very straight. "I do not please you, my lady?"
"Nay, you do!" she said quickly, patting his sleeve. She was already ashamed of herself, to be such a coward. "It’s only—if someone should see us—oh my...Raymond!" She bit her lip. "You make me so abashed!"
His stiff expression eased, for which Elayne was grateful. Raymond de Clare did not bear any affront lightly, even the smallest. But he smiled at her and brushed back her woolen hood, pulling her earlobe lightly. "I shall not let anyone catch us."
"Let us go to the Hall. We can walk together there, and talk."
"Among a throng of people," he said dryly. "And what do you wish to talk of, my lady?"
"You must make a poem to my hair and eyes, of course! I’ll help you."
He laughed aloud. "Indeed." He smiled down at her, a strange smile, as if his mind had gone to some distance, but his eyes never left her lips. "Do you suppose I need help?"
"I feel certain that any knight could profit from a lady’s fine ear for these things."
"All this reading and writing of yours. Haps you will compose my proposal of marriage also."
"Certainly, if you should require my aid," she said airily. "Mark me the bride of your choice, and I shall study upon her, to discover what will be the most persuasive words to win her hand."
"Ah, but only tell me what words would persuade you, little cat."
"La, I shall never marry!" Elayne declared, but she felt her lips curl upward to betray her. To hide her mirth, she tilted her head so that her hood fell down across her cheek as she gave him a sidelong glance.
He snorted. "What, then—will you wither into an old crone, reading books and stirring over a pot of hopeless spells?"
"Hopeless!" she exclaimed. "Mark me, such incantations are not so vain as you suppose!"
He nodded soberly, in just such a way that she could see that he was making a fond mock of her.
"Wella, then," she said, shrugging. "You may believe me or not. I cannot see why I should cease my learning only because I marry."
He shook his head, smiling. "Come, in serious discourse now—though I know how it pains you to speak soberly."
Elayne straightened. "I do not tease on that point, I assure you, Raymond! Married or maid, I shall pursue my study. Lady Melanthe does the same."
"I hardly think her example is one to be followed—" He broke off as Elayne looked up quickly at him, and added, "Of course your godmother is admirable, may the Lord preserve her, but Lady Melanthe is Countess of Bowland," he said. "Her manners are not those of the wives of simple knights."
"Then I must take care not to marry a simple knight!" Elayne said. "Happen that some foreign king will be looking about him for a queen."
"How sad for him if he lights upon you, my dear heart—since only a moment ago you proclaimed that you would never marry."
"Nay—" She made a wry face at him for catching her out. "I shall become a nun."
"You? A celibate?" He pulled off one of his gloves and leaned an elbow against the doorjamb, tracing the soft leather against her lips. "That I cannot conceive. Not while I live."
His certainty pricked her a little. "Can you not?" she replied, keeping her face solemn. "But I would rather reverence God than be subject
to a husband."
"Hmmm..." He trailed his finger across her mouth. "I do not think the church will see you casting magical spells any sooner than your husband will," he said.
Elayne was breathing deeply, creating wisps of frost between them. "And how, pray, would this mythical husband prevent me?"
"My foolish darling, do you suppose I’d beat you? Nay, I’ll keep you warm and happy, and too busy for reading books."
Under his touch, Elayne felt that she would turn to steam and float away. But the excitement held an edge of terror. Elayne was not afraid of him, oh no—and yet she was frantic.
"Still!" she exclaimed with a flurried laugh. "I shall not marry! I do not propose to be commanded by a mortal man. I will have visions instead, and order the Pope what he ought to do."
"Little cat," he murmured. "Not commanded by your husband? What jest is this?"
"Another of my unholy fancies." She flicked her tongue at him and ducked away, catching his hand. "Come to the Hall, and I shall tell you all about it."
But he did not let her lead him. "Nay. Your sister will be there, looking daggers at me." He drew her close, his hands at her waist, sliding them upward. "I have a better purpose, Elayne."
He began to walk her backward, bearing her into the darkness of the empty mill. She laughed to cover her confusion, allowing him to push her step by step into the abandoned room where old reed baskets and rotten barrel staves lay scattered.
She felt him lifting her skirts. His other glove fell to the ground. She tried to dance away, but he held her confined between his legs as he backed her into a corner. His mouth came down upon hers again. His bare hands searched into her chemise.
This was too jeopardous by far. She had only meant to make him love her and wish to marry her. She gasped a protest, but he seemed deaf to it, his fingers working to unbutton her cote-hardie. He grasped her loosened gown, pulling it up, exposing all the length of her legs to the cold air.
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