Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  They could not. She knew they could not, for they had approved it themselves in the last meeting.

  "We would be fortunate to find some prince or duke with as much understanding of matters of defense and guile," she said. "We are repairing what was razed by the Riata—all of the Navona strongholds are impregnable again. For that, we hold the southern lake with greater strength than we had before. We have expelled the traitor Jan Zoufal and thwarted his intention to devalue the trust in Monteverde’s coin. I am in negotiation with Venice for a fresh treaty of alliance, should we need further support. If there is more that we should arrange in our own defense, put it before me for discussion."

  The faces down the table looked unconvinced. There were low mutters. Another councilor asked to speak, and Elena nodded.

  The man rose, keeping his face averted. He was one of the younger ones, heavy-browed under his fur hat. His name had been put forward as a possible husband for her. "Your Grace, what of your prisoners of Riata and Navona?" His voice had a heated edge.

  "What of them?" she asked.

  "Navona has already attempted to force himself upon you once, Your Grace," he said angrily. "Forgive me, but it would be disaster if it happened again, or some Riata malice found you. We would be plunged into chaos, as it was in the years after your grandfather’s death, may God assoil him. A strong husband at your side will prevent such." He turned to her. "And as long as you remain unwed, there are those who will scheme for a union between you and Franco Pietro or Gian Navona’s cursed bastard. It cannot be suffered!"

  A loud chorus of agreement echoed in the chamber. Someone called for a vote of primacy, and instantly there were seconds from half the council.

  Elena could not stop it. It was part of her grandfather’s law, that eleven council members could call for a vote to override her decision, and force her to submit to it. While she stood and watched, they made a state resolution to bar the Prima of Monteverde from marriage to a man of Riata or Navona blood, on pain of death or exile for him. They further resolved to seek a husband for her without delay, the final decision to be made within a fortnight.

  If Philip had not looked up at her, his plain, hard-tanned face concerned, she would have borne it better. But his fatherly glance knew her heart; knew where her secret lay in the castle beyond the lake.

  She felt her lip begin to tremble as the votes added up. The cloak of power and control began to slide away. She felt again like the girl who had sat on a stool before Lancaster, young and overwhelmed.

  The voices died down. The resolution passed. She stood before them. "You cannot force me to marry," she said, with her voice shaking. "Not even with this. I will not consent."

  The young councilman sprang to his feet without waiting for her recognition. "Nay, this is imprudence beyond bearing! What if you are murdered without protection?" he said loudly, all courtesy and formal practice forgotten. "What if you sicken and die?" He flung out his arm. "Do you want us to fall again to Riata? Or to fight among ourselves until Milan drags away the spoils?"

  She narrowed her eyes. "It would only be what you did before I came," she said.

  They shook their heads, disputing stridently. The eight months of her rule had been peaceful, even if it was like the peace before a storm. The people were pleased with her. The houses of Riata and Navona stayed their hands. But that was not enough now.

  "If God sends that I do not survive, it is your task to continue what Prince Ligurio tried to do," she said, banging the scepter on the table as she raised her voice. As they turned back to her, quieting, she lifted the heavy jewel-encrusted staff, trying to hold it steady, to prevent her voice from breaking. "Choose what man you like for me, but know that I will never consent to wed him. This meeting of the council is dismissed."

  She turned, walking away amid renewed angry murmurs, with the scepter clutched in both hands and Philip and Dario at her side. A guard leaped to open the door for her that led into the privy chamber. As the heavy door closed behind them, she made it as far as the grand desk where Prince Ligurio had signed his decrees in state. The scepter fell from her fingers, making a mark in the wood as it struck.

  She went to the trefoiled window that overlooked the city. The watery green glass was open, letting a warm rosemary-scented breath of summer into the chill room. From here she could look down upon near all the city, the bannered towers, the river that wound to the lake. She could see the cliffs that plunged into the water, with the two fortresses mounted high on them—as high as the citadel stood above Monteverde, on a level with her gaze.

  She stared at the castle on the eastern crag. Somewhere on the cliff below it was a hidden path, a lovers’ trysting-place.

  "They are right," she said helplessly. "I should marry."

  The old bandit came behind her and set his hand on her shoulder, as if he were giving courage to one of his men. He wore fine studded mail now under a green tunic, his broad chest embroidered with the silver insignia of captain of the guard. But he was still Philip Welles of the forest and the camp, smelling faintly of wood-smoke and dirt. "Bless and keep you, Princess," he said brusquely. "It is a hard fate for you, I know."

  She pressed her hands together, rubbing the place where the ring had been. She felt it like a ghost, like Allegreto’s presence. "Sometimes I think he comes here," she whispered. "Sometimes I can feel him near, at night."

  "I do not believe it, Your Grace," Dario said. "He could not enter here even to reach Franco. The citadel has no secret ways."

  She gazed at the fortress across the lake. She only wished that he came, knowing he could not. Knowing that it was she herself who kept him bound there.

  She looked back at Philip and Dario. She closed her hand over Philip’s hard and calloused fingers, pressing them from her shoulder. "I cannot wed another," she said fiercely. "Not while he lives. Let them pass what laws they choose."

  Philip shrugged. "As you will, Princess."

  "We will keep and protect you, Your Grace," Dario said. His bullish face was set in stubbornness, his dark eyes serious. "You need no husband for that."

  "Aye," Philip said simply.

  They stood before her, solid and steadfast. Her mouth quivered. Philip gave her hand a rough squeeze. With a sudden sob, she turned into his deep embrace, weeping as he held her close and rocked her like a child lost.

  * * *

  On the morning after the council meeting, Elena had arranged for the first interview between Matteo and his father. It was not going well. The boy refused to speak, standing with his back pressed to the door and his arms crossed while Nim and the mastiff sniffed and played about Ligurio’s desk in the privy chamber.

  Elena contained exasperation. She had already suffered through a furious dispute with Dario over whether there should be a guard present. He had produced five new men to add to her protection, and insisted that all six of them were to squeeze into the chamber with Elena and Franco and the boy.

  She would not allow it. Even Dario was too much—he and Matteo were bosom friends, and the boy’s loyalties burned yet too fierce to have such competition present in clear suspicion of his father’s intentions. After they had brought Franco Pietro from a search to his bare skin for any weapon or threat, she closed the door in Dario’s face, leaving him near to tears of rage and frustration. He opened it every few minutes and insisted on checking inside, which did not aid the matter.

  Franco was little help, either. He had limped into the chamber and stood in a state of gloomy silence, leaning against the wall opposite Matteo and looking like some fiend from a prayer book with his scar and eye-patch and scowl. He also had his arms crossed, a mirror image of his son’s mute denial.

  Only the dogs were friendly, meeting one another again on more even ground since Nimue had grown to her full size. She stood as tall as the table now, still a bandit at heart, but disguising it in the elegant face and stature of a downy white princess, her soft-lashed eyes full of nobility and joy. The huge mastiff was instantly smitt
en, fawning over her and rolling onto his back in majestic submission, no doubt full of canine hopes of a high alliance.

  "Let us play a game," Elena said, after exhausting the subjects of Matteo’s tutors and how he had grown. Both of the Riata males looked at her without enthusiasm.

  "Indeed, Princess," Franco said after a moment, standing straight and making a courteous bow. "What game do you propose?"

  "What of morra?" she asked.

  Franco nodded. He lifted his torn lip in something that resembled a smile. "If it would please you, Princess."

  "Morra is for babies," Matteo said with vast disdain.

  "Nay, it is a fine game for anyone. I’ll play with your father, if you don’t like to join in," Elena said, rising from the desk. She stood before Franco Pietro and held out her hand.

  They played five rounds, very awkwardly. Elena won by three. She did not look around at Matteo, but from the corner of her eye she could tell that he watched them, petting his father’s mastiff while Nim sprawled panting at his feet.

  "We should play for stakes, Princess," Franco said. "That is what adds the relish."

  Elena considered, tilting her head. "That is a fine gold button on your sleeve."

  He nodded. "It is yours, if you win in five rounds."

  "And what do you play for, my lord?"

  "Another visit with my son."

  "Done," she said, holding out her hand.

  Their rounds went smoother this time. Franco Pietro won. Matteo had drifted closer, only turning back when Dario opened the door and looked in suspiciously.

  "We are playing morra," Elena said to him. "All is well."

  Dario hesitated, clearly misliking her proximity to Franco Pietro.

  "You may close the door and leave us alone, Dario," she said pointedly. The great door swung closed. Elena gave Franco a small nod. "He is our watchdog," she said. "A little overbearing at times."

  "I understand, Princess," Franco said. "It is more than wise to keep a close guard around you and Matteo."

  "But I have not won my button yet," she said, avoiding darker subjects. "You are too clever an opponent for me, sir."

  "I’m better than him," Matteo said, stepping forward with a proud, stiff move. "I can win the button for you, my lady."

  "Excellent. I have a champion." Elena drew back and seated herself in Ligurio’s high-backed chair.

  Matteo’s cheeks were burning as he stared down at his father’s hand in a boy’s ardent concentration. They played five rounds. Matteo lost.

  "Curse you, Riata!" Matteo said, flinging himself away. "I hate you."

  "Matteo," Elena said sharply. "You will not speak ill to your father."

  The boy glared. But Elena had spent many months in gentle chatter, building a slender bridge to the heart of this high-strung child of hatred. Nim had helped, with her sweet tumbles and happy loyalty, gradually wearing away his desperate displays of what skills he had at deceit and murder. He no longer tried to show Elena how he could have killed both of the guards outside their door with a single thrust of the dagger she did not allow him to carry. He did not question Dario so often on what manner of poison would be best to slay his enemies. He even laughed sometimes.

  She had sent for the rest of Il Corvo’s island household and placed them with the monks and nuns of a double monastery within view of the citadel, advising the abbot that they would be wise to blunt their table knives. But she took Matteo as her own charge, slept with him and ate with him and spoke of her grandfather’s ideas. At night she knelt beside the bed with him and said a part of her own prayers aloud, including Franco’s name and Allegreto’s in the same blessing, along with Dario and Philip and Margaret and the others that he loved.

  "I am sorry, my lady," Matteo said sullenly. He spoke to Elena, not his father, but she let it pass.

  "Another round?" Franco said to him.

  Matteo gave him a seething glance. He had only a week ago added his father’s name to his prayers. That was when Elena had sent to Franco, allowing him to leave his detention for a day and come to the citadel under a heavy guard.

  The boy gave a contemptuous nod, as regal as any prince. Then he looked down and played the finger game as if ten thousand men were in fatal combat at his command.

  He lost.

  Elena could have hoped Franco Pietro would skew the odds a little, but morra was not a game that was easily thrown without being obvious. Matteo stepped back, his cheeks spotted with red. "I can’t win!" he cried. "I never do anything right!"

  He turned his back, marching for the door. Franco moved suddenly, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Matteo stopped, shivering. Tears glittered in his eyes.

  "It does not matter," Franco said.

  Matteo shrugged his hand off. He stood and dashed at his eyes. "It matters! I’m not good at anything! No one will want me. I can’t even win a stupid game for babies! I try and try. And I can’t."

  "It does not matter," Franco said. "You are my son."

  Matteo drew a sobbing breath. His body stilled.

  "My heart died when he stole you from me," Franco said roughly. "And then he made you hate me." He drew a breath between his teeth, as if he would say more, but stopped. He looked toward Elena. "You have no reason to trust me, Princess, and yet you have. It has been a revelation to me."

  She lifted her face. He leaned on the table, still favoring his leg. She might have had him for a husband, a strange and difficult thought. "I have been fortunate, I know," she said. "By God’s grace, I thank you that you have not—done what you might have done."

  He gave his twisted smile. "I thought you plain mad," he said. "I do yet, I think. But you hold Navona in check, it seems. I did not think it possible. You have kept your pledges to be impartial thus far."

  "I am trying. If you have any complaint, then tell me, and do not brood on it."

  "Oh, I have brooded. I do not care to be penned up at the hest of a mere maid. But my son would have killed me, and you stopped him by your own hand." Franco turned as Matteo made a faint sound. "You think you cannot do anything," he said harshly to the boy, "but you would have had a blade through my throat if the princess had not saved us both. You have courage, Matteo, and that does matter. Listen to her, and learn how to use it better."

  He took one limping stride to the door and gave it a hard blow. Dario opened it instantly, his sword on guard. The other men surrounded Franco, swiftly penning him between his jailers. The mastiff growled, but Franco silenced it with a word. The dog trailed close as the Riata was escorted out.

  Matteo held Nim’s collar, watching until the door closed behind them. Elena let go of a muffled breath and sat down again at her grandfather’s desk. She had a list of her afternoon audience; she opened it and pretended to read.

  "Would you like to see him again?" she asked casually.

  Matteo shrugged. "Nim likes his dog."

  "By chance I will ask him to come back, and bring it."

  Matteo made himself very interested in rubbing Nimue’s ears. "I’ll practice at morra. I can beat him, I think."

  "Good," Elena said. "I have conceived a great desire for that button." She sighed and glanced down at the list before her. "Now I must put on my crown, and be courteous to a great number of very wearisome people. You may come if you like."

  Matteo grinned suddenly, going on one knee with a flourish. "My lady, I beg your indulgence. I’d rather take Nim to the tilt yard."

  "Desert me in my hour of need, then," she said, waving him out. "Tell Dario where you will be."

  He promised it and left, calling Nim after him. As the door swung closed under the hand of the standing guard, Elena looked down at the parchment. The Venetian ambassador, again. The representative of Milan, who would speak to her as if she were a three-year-old child who would not behave. A sainted envoy from the prince-bishop of Trento. And an emissary from His Grace the Duke of Lancaster, Sir Raymond de Clare.

  * * *

  "Little cat!" Raymond murmured in Eng
lish, kissing her hand as he knelt before her. "What have you done here?"

  "Don’t say such things," she said below her breath. She pulled away, walking to the window of the privy chamber. In the public audience they had exchanged nothing but exquisitely courteous formalities and the Duke’s letter, and even here Dario stood impassive by the door, a wooden guard on such virtue as she had left. "Rise," she said, speaking court French, turning from the view of Monteverde. "I am pleased to see you, Raymond."

  He came to his feet with a familiar chivalrous ease and a little sideways smile at her. "It is beyond telling how I thank God for my fortune, Your Grace."

  "I pray He grants you and your lady wife good health and gladness."

  He lowered his eyes. "It grieves me to tell you that my wife Catherine returned after the spirit to her heavenly place, these five months since, may the Lord give her soul rest."

  Elena was already discomposed, hardly knowing what to say to him. This news left her without speech entirely for a moment. He stood before her with his head slightly bowed, dressed fine in his black-and-red doublet and scarlet cloak, as if no day had passed since she had last seen him.

  "God assoil her," Elena said, making a slight recovery. "It is grievous news."

  He bowed his head further, and then looked up with an expression that said it was not grievous news at all. "Grant mercy for your compassion, Your Grace. Her passing was quick. She did not suffer greatly. As my lord the duke knew me at liberty, and near enough to come with speed, he chose me to convey his greetings." He smiled openly then, the same playful grin. In English he said, "It was a boon to me!"

  She found that he embarrassed her. She had loved him and hated him; all those rash and untamed feelings, with nothing left of them now. And yet it was like a comfort to see him, to hear English words, to speak to someone who had no part in the hazards that surrounded her.

  She found her lips turning upward and heat in her cheeks. "Raymond," she said, keeping to English, "truly it is good to see you."