Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  "Raymond," she yelped as he touched her skin.

  He spread his palms under her breasts. "I want you," he said huskily into her ear. "You witch, you make me mad with it!"

  "Please. Not here." She grabbed his wrists through the fabric of her skirts, pulling his hands away. But he wrenched free with an easy twist.

  "Where then? Elayne—you slay me! Great God, you are so warm." His hands explored freely under her smock, from her hips to her back to her breasts again. He squeezed them together. She whimpered, thrilled and horrified at this brazen touch.

  He was a courtier; he knew the ways of high-born ladies, while Elayne knew no more than the hall of a country castle at Savernake. She had not had any suitors at all before, much less a worldly knight like Raymond. Until this moment he had been a gentle and gallant admirer; had done no more than kiss her hand and tease her and call her delightful names.

  Her chicken’s-wing love charm, it seemed, had unleashed another man entirely. He was not gentle now. His mouth on hers drove her head back against the wall. He pushed his knee between her legs. She wrestled, ducking away with an awkward shove. He pulled at her, grabbing her chemise. She felt the thin thread on the charm around her neck give way and fall as she stumbled free, brushing her skirts down frantically.

  "Raymond!" she exclaimed between gulps of air.

  He stood back, his cheeks red. "You don’t desire me, then," he said, breathing hard himself.

  "I do!" she cried, holding her arms around her. "But not like this."

  "I beg your pardon, my lady." He stood straight. "I did not aim to offend you."

  "I’m not offended, but..." She blinked in the dimness. Her voice trailed off. She should never have met him here. It bespoke an invitation she had not meant.

  "Is it marriage?" A rat scurried into the far corner as he knelt to retrieve his gloves. "A-plight, I intended that. Do you doubt me?"

  She had doubted, of course. He came in his fine court clothes, on business of purchasing horses for his lord John of Lancaster, and lingered for weeks at a remote castle like Savernake where there were no entertainments or amusements to be had. But his talk of marriage seemed all in jest. He never spoke of it seriously, and there had been no open negotiations between their families, though Cara had inquired thoroughly into Raymond’s circumstances. Her sister was not impressed. He was well-bred and widely connected, even if a landless younger son, but Elayne herself had a good dowry and Lady Melanthe’s pledge of a grant of property upon her marriage. Cara felt she could do better. But Elayne cared nothing for that. She had known from the instant he first smiled at her that he was the one.

  "I don’t doubt you," she said. "I love you."

  His grim look eased. "Little cat. You will drive me to distraction!" He smiled at her. "I am sorry. I should not have handled you so brutally. I don’t know what caused me to lose my head."

  She tried not to look at the black feather and small waxen figure that had fallen to the floor and now dangled unnoticed from the gloves he had retrieved. "Never mind," she said brightly, hoping the charm would drop away unobserved in the dim interior. "You shocked me. I’ve never before—I should not have—Cara would be wild if she knew that I’d come to meet you here."

  "Aye," he said. "It was not wise of you. Another man would not have let you go so lightly."

  She dropped a courtesy. "You are kindness itself to spare me, Sir Knight!"

  He frowned a little. "Elayne, I speak soberly. You must promise me that you will be more circumspect."

  Elayne blushed. "Circumspect?"

  "Aye," he said. "If we are to wed, you must leave off your childish ways. It is charming in a girl, by hap, to run about the countryside and trifle with foolish spells and mischief as you do, but I will not tolerate such in my bride."

  She lowered her face, thinking of the dead chickens. Verily, she had always been too impulsive. Cara and Sir Guy complained of it often. Why cannot you delay for a moment to think, Ellie? Why cannot you hold your tongue, young lady? It is not for a woman to say such things. I beg you will be restrained, Ellie, don’t laugh so much or ask so many questions.

  "I will do better," she said, staring helplessly at the love charm that still dangled from his hand. At any moment he would look down and see it. "I will try."

  "And I want your pledge," he said, "that you will do no more of these small spells and magics. I know you mean no harm, but it is sinful."

  She nodded. He meant to marry her. The charm had worked. What other magic did she need to do?

  "Your promise," he said firmly. "I wish you to say it aloud, that you swear in the presence of Almighty God, you will not use spells or make magic."

  "But, Raymond—"

  He frowned.

  "Such a heavy oath should be in a church, before a priest, should it not? I will make it in confession, come Candlemas. And urge him assign me a penance as well, something very grave and painful, to help me remember," she added.

  "Well—" His mouth twisted. He shook his head. "Mary, I don’t want to cause you pain! Only swear in the church in your mind, when the Host is present, not to do it anymore."

  She nodded, lowering her eyes.

  "Good." He reached out and raised her face, his fingers under her chin. "Don’t look so wretched, little cat. I do love you."

  She looked up at him, wetting her lips. He loved her. Without taking her eyes from his, she caught his hand and drew his gloves away, closing the charm within. "May I have them for a keepsake?"

  "They are yours, and gladly," he said. "I ride tomorrow to Windsor, to seek out consent of my Lord Lancaster and the Lady Melanthe."

  * * *

  Elayne had an angel, a guardian watching over her, so Cara always said—usually in disgust when Elayne emerged unscathed from some illicit adventure. But it was true. Not that she would ever say so to Cara, but Elayne saw him now and then—in dreams, or half-waking. She could hardly describe it or even remember it clearly. A vision, not a friendly one, but full of darkness and power. She did not speak of it because someone who did not know her angel might misunderstand, and think him something of the Devil’s sending. But he was not from the Devil, that she knew, any more than her natural spells and potions were. He was simply...her angel. If he was more dark than light, haps it was because he held many evil things at bay.

  She had been under his protection this eve, for certain. No one had seen Raymond kissing her—Elayne’s blood pounded at the thought of that kiss, of being caught in dalliance, but eluding the danger only made it all seem more a marvel. A quiver ran through her. She glanced about the empty chamber as if her older sister might suddenly leap out from under a stool or behind the hangings. She put down the book in her lap and checked again to make certain the buttons on her cote-hardie were secure. An extraordinary woman, he had called her. A sparkling diamond. And then he had kissed her.

  Elayne had never dreamed of anything like this. With the deepest reluctance she had joined Cara and Sir Guy in the great hall the first night of Raymond’s arrival, expecting yet another lengthy, dull meal with some stout guest—a visiting warden or a lay brother from the nearby abbey grange; yet another opportunity for Cara to scold Elayne’s unseemly manners.

  The older she grew, it seemed, the more a stranger Elayne felt among the people she had loved for as long as she could well remember. She loved Savernake Forest: the ancient oak groves and the enormous beech trees, the wild fey places and silent haunts of deer and pheasants. She loved to ride the fine horses that Sir Guy bred and husbanded for the Countess Melanthe on her pasturage at the edge of the royal wood. She loved her nieces and nephews and the pack of dogs and children that adventured with her about the countryside, against all of her sister’s and the priest’s strictures on chaste and virtuous behavior.

  She even loved Cara, though they chafed at one another so. It was only that the ordered round of daily life at the castle that was Cara’s greatest pride and comfort seemed an intolerably narrow prospect to Elayne, as pred
ictable as the cattle chewing their cuds in the fields.

  But Raymond de Clare had transformed it. He was not merely some agister come to collect pannage for grazing pigs on the acorns of Savernake. He was one of Lord Lancaster’s men—a knight from the court of the great duke himself, elegant and clever, delighting in Elayne’s free custom. He had grinned at her, winking when Cara fussed at her unfettered laughter—and Elayne had found herself floating. He contrived with her in merriment and defended her from her sister’s chiding. When she was with him it seemed as if she were in a wild trance—it was when she was away that she felt her heart swell with true affection and ardor for his gentleness, his wit, his long swift stride.

  Cara said he was merely toying with Elayne; that she had best have a care with a man who had experience of Lancaster and the King’s court both. Even Sir Guy had cautioned Elayne about Raymond. A man might praise an unbroken filly, Sir Guy said, but he would buy a well-gentled mare when it came to laying out his gold.

  Elayne huffed softly, recalling that advice. She set aside her book and pen, holding her skirts back at the hearth, and lit a tallow candle from the fire. See what they would say when Raymond returned with her guardian’s blessing on the match!

  She sat down again on the chest where her books were stored, holding Raymond’s gloves to her lips. She drew in a full breath, taking in his scent, and then laid his keepsake in her lap, the charm still entwined inside. She warmed her fingers between her knees for a few moments, and then pulled the writing pedestal near. Elayne had long ago ceased to speak aloud of her deepest questions and thoughts and dreams, holding them to herself like the secret of her dark angel. But she had a place to keep that silent part of herself—the gift of the one person who seemed to understand her. Her splendid, enigmatic godmother, the Lady Melanthe.

  Elayne had seen her godmother and guardian only a few times in her life, and yet those times persisted in her mind like waking dreams. Lady Melanthe—black-haired like Elayne, regal as a tigress, and as dangerous. Even thinking of her made Elayne lift her head and stare as if into a deep forest. There was no one to compare with Lady Melanthe, no simple description to encompass her. Cara was plainly frightened of her, though she would never speak of why. Sir Guy was in awe. Both were meticulous in every attention to their liege lady. Yet they never mentioned her without a blessing, without gratitude, even something like affection mingled with the dread. As if the Lady Melanthe were a mythical goddess rather than a mortal woman.

  When Lady Melanthe approved of Raymond’s proposal, they would have no more to say.

  Elayne stirred the inkwell, contemplating. She meant to write a verse on the day, on the moment Raymond had said he loved her. Cara always dismissed her attempts at poetry as an idle occupation, suggesting that Elayne’s needlework stood in far more urgent need of improvement. Elayne gave the unfinished basket of mending a shamefaced glance. It was true enough—compared to Cara’s exquisite embroidery, Elayne’s hems and laces always looked as if a porpoise-fish had tried to ply a needle with its flippers.

  But Lady Melanthe herself had provided for Elayne’s instruction in letters, in both the Italian and the French style. She insisted that Elayne be able to comprehend any documents that her godmother sent her. A number of manuscripts, both interesting and tedious, had arrived at Savernake with regularity, fair copies of letters by persons in every sort of station from archbishops to journeymen tailors.

  Elayne seized such packets from the messenger’s very hands, already untying the twine before his mount was led away, and bore them to her corner of the privy parlor. It did not matter what her godmother gave her the opportunity to read. Even the dullest Latin writ could challenge her to ponder things she had never considered before. Was an oath valid if extracted under threat of a red-hot plate? She followed a judge’s reckoning on the point with anxious interest, relieved to find at the end of the legal document that he decreed the wife in question need not undergo the ordeal that her husband demanded to test her honor.

  But even better were such implausible volumes as The Description of the World. Cara claimed she had heard of that one long ago in Italy, where they called it Il Milione—"The Million Lies"— because everyone knew it was only a fable made up by a Venetian rascal. But Elayne devoured every word of Signor Polo’s tales of his travels to far China, and wondered if such things as birds the size of elephants and money made of paper could be real. Even if Cara did not always approve of the texts, she never prevented Elayne from studying them. That the Countess Melanthe entrusted Elayne with such valuable articles as her books and letters was plainly a singular compliment.

  Lady Melanthe also sent Elayne gifts each year, and the gift on her twelfth birthday had been a daybook, blank pages bound in beautiful blue-dyed calf hide, locked with a finely made hasp and golden key. No instruction had accompanied the book, but Elayne had taught herself to scribe in it, making careful copies of the most interesting documents before they had to be returned. It had not been long before she was composing text of her own, as unworthy as it might be. Her prayers and weightier thoughts she recorded in Latin, and experimented with the sweet dance of the French tongue in little poems and ballads. But as she grew older, she found her best pleasure in writing down anything she liked, in a language no one else would know.

  In an earlier year Lady Melanthe had sent the wisewoman, Mistress Libushe of Bohemia, who was to teach Elayne the lore of herbs, along with such surgery and practice of medicine as a noblewoman should require. That, at least, was what the letter said. But there often seemed to be more to Lady Melanthe’s gifts than met the eye, for Elayne learned of much beyond simple ointments and curatives from Libushe. It was the wisewoman’s strange native tongue, so unlike the French or Latin or Tuscan or English, that Elayne borrowed to write her uncommon speculations and musings in her daybook.

  Cara had taken an instant dislike to the wisewoman. She forgot to order wood for Mistress Libushe’s fire, complained that she was teaching Elayne to speak useless, barbaric words, and fussed that the wisewoman’s feet, bare in snow and sunshine, were unseemly, when she could well afford to buy shoes on the stipend Lady Melanthe provided for her. But Mistress Libushe said only that her feet did not feel easeful in shoes, for she wished to feel the earth. Cara could do no more than reckon her grievances and indulge in small discourtesies. The Countess Melanthe had sent Libushe, and so Libushe had stayed.

  Elayne sighed, tapping her lower lip with the quill. She did not dare to write her love poem in any other tongue, but her grasp of Libushe’s Bohemian language was hardly adequate to convey the chaotic feelings inside her. Elayne longed for Libushe to talk with now, as they had so often while walking through the meadows. Mistress Libushe had a way of making confusion into sense. But the wisewoman had departed Savernake of her own accord when Elayne reached her sixteenth year, leaving an abiding sense of loneliness that had not subsided until the day Raymond sat down to the table in Savernake’s great hall.

  She took another deep breath against his gloves and bent to her agreeable labor, pondering a beginning to her verse of love and joy, then drawing each letter with slow care. She did not wish to make a mistake and waste any of the fine vellum pages.

  "Elayne!" Cara’s voice interrupted her work with a shrill note that boded ill. Elayne slammed her daybook closed without even blotting the ink. She leaped up and stuffed the love charm and Raymond’s gloves in the chest while her sister was still laboring up the stairs to the solar. Elayne dropped the lid and sat down on it.

  "Elayne!" Cara’s generous figure appeared under the carved wooden portico at the door. A man followed close behind her, bringing a scent of livestock and sweat in his coarse woolens. Elayne recognized the husband of a village woman who kept a large hen-roost—the same roost that had yielded the black chicken feather in exchange for a thimbleful of ginger powder pilfered from Cara’s coffer.

  Elayne stood up, bowing her head and giving Cara a deep courtesy. "Fair greeting, sister!" she said warmly
.

  Cara made a huff of dismissal. "Do not play innocence, Elayne," she said in her accented English, still heavy with the inflection of Italy even after years. "What you done to Willem’s fowl?"

  "Was no ordinary fowl, lady," Willem said angrily. He glared at Elayne, gripping his cap between grimy fingers. "Was my fighting cock, the best bred cock I was hoarding for Shrovetide! And my wife’s chickens, dead to a hen!"

  "Nay, I heard of that, but I hoped it wasn’t true!" Elayne exclaimed, brazening it out. "Sir Guy said that all in town were taken."

  "Aye, there’s not a poultry to scratch," he said. "Between last night and morn they all took dead, and we found ’em laying about the yards and streets."

  "Dread news," Elayne said. She wanted desperately to sit down, but she remained standing. She knew what they would say next.

  "Aye, dread enough. ’Tis the Devil’s work," he said harshly, staring at her.

  Elayne crossed herself. She assumed her most profound air of concern. "Does the priest say so?"

  He instantly looked away, crossing himself, too, as she met his stare, and glanced aside at Cara. "Happen your sister has the Evil Eye, lady, God save us," he muttered.

  Cara looked flustered. "What a wicked thing to say!" she snapped. Her ire turned from Elayne to the villager. "I not never allow such words in this abode, I warn you!"

  " ’Tis the color," he said. "It is no natural blue."

  "You show ignorance," Cara said. "Lady Elayne descends of noble blood. Such purple tinge be a mark of well-born in our people."

  "Aye," Willem said forebodingly. "Foreigners."

  Cara’s mouth pursed. Her eyes and complexion were their own betrayal of distant birth—Cara was olive-skinned, with eyes of deepest brown. She far preferred to speak her elegantly fluent Italian tongue with Elayne. But she always took ill to any suggestion that she was not as thoroughly English as the man she had married. "Bah, I am too busy with you. You take this complaints to Sir Guy," she said with hauteur.