Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  There was a moment of silence. "I fear I don’t find you well, Ellie," Lady Melanthe said quietly.

  Elayne bit her lip very hard against the unexpected rise of tears in her throat. She did not look up, but only shook her head. She had kept her proud countenance in the face of Cara’s censure, in front of the servants and the priest and the village. She had allowed nothing to show.

  "Your hands are trembling. Mary, take that stool away and set a chair by the fire. Bring two pair of slippers, the fur-lined winter ones. I will wear my green robe. Malvoisie wine for us, well warmed and sweetened. Sit you down, Elena."

  As her godmother turned away, Elayne lowered herself into the chair. She felt the tears escape, tumbling down her cheeks as she stared bleakly into the fire. Lady Melanthe removed her golden belt and pulled the green robe about her shoulders. When the maid had left the room, she sat down, brushing a glowing coal back into the hearth with the fire rod.

  "When you have composed yourself, tell me why you’re unwell," she said, dropping a linen towel into Elayne’s lap.

  Now that the tears had begun, Elayne could not seem to find a stop to them. She took up the linen and covered her face with her hands. The wind moaned outside, sending a cascade of snow crystals against the stained glass behind her.

  "Your hands are thin," Lady Melanthe said.

  "It’s Lent. Nothing tastes, my lady."

  "Are you ill?"

  "No. At least—" She lifted her face and put her hand to her throat. "No." She turned her face to the fire, hiding a new rush of tears.

  She felt Lady Melanthe watching her. Elayne had not intended to speak of it, or admit her despair. But she could think of no excuse for this absurd behavior before her elegant godmother. She bit her quivering lip and held it down.

  "Are you perchance in love?" Lady Melanthe asked gently.

  "No!" Elayne gripped her hands together. Then the tears overcame her again, and she buried her face in the linen. "Not anymore. Not anymore."

  She leaned down over her lap, rocking. Lady Melanthe said nothing. Elayne felt the sobs that had been locked in her chest for weeks overcome her; she pressed her face into the linen and cried until she had no breath left.

  "My maid returns," Lady Melanthe said, in soft warning.

  Elayne drew a deep gasp of air and sat up. She turned toward the fire, keeping her face down as the maid set two ornate silver goblets on the stool between Elayne and Lady Melanthe. She placed the furred slippers beside their feet and then withdrew.

  "Here." Lady Melanthe held out wine to Elayne. "Drink this up directly, to fortify yourself."

  Elayne tilted the goblet and took a deep gulp of the sweet heated wine. She held it between her hands, warming her frigid fingers against the embossing of dragons and knights. "It’s all my fault!" she blurted. "I ruined everything. He called me a sparkling diamond, and an extraordinary woman. And then he said I was arrogant and offensive to him. And I am. I am!"

  "Are you, indeed!" Lady Melanthe sipped at her malmsey, watching Elayne over the rim. "And pray, who is this paragon of courtesy?"

  Elayne took a breath, and another gulp of wine as she looked up. "I beg your pardon, my lady Godmama. I thought he would— he did not seek an interview of you?"

  The countess lifted her eyebrows. "No—none but your sister Cara and Sir Guy have entreated me regarding you of late."

  Elayne blushed. She could imagine what Cara had said of her that had resulted in a summons to Lady Melanthe’s own bury hall of Merlesden at Windsor. "I’m sorry, my lady! I’m so sorry to be a mortification to you!"

  "I am not so easily mortified, I assure you. I quite enjoyed Cara’s history of the blighted poultry. And the Bishop of Salisbury is a reasonable man. With a small token, it was no great matter to persuade him of the absurdity of a charge of heresy over a parcel of chickens."

  Elayne took a sobbing breath, trying to keep her voice steady. "Thank you, madam, for your trouble to intervene on my behalf."

  "But to this paragon again," Lady Melanthe said. "He was to seek me out in audience? I may guess his purpose, as he had pronounced you a sparkling diamond and extraordinary woman."

  "His heart changed from that," Elayne said bitterly. "He said I am sinful, and a liar, and to make no presumptions nor claims upon him now." She took a deep swallow of the malmsey. Then her throat tightened with a rush of remorse. "But it was my fault! I made a love charm to bind him."

  Lady Melanthe shook her head. "How depraved of you," she said lightly. "I suppose that was the source of this awkward matter of the chickens."

  Elayne felt her eyes fill up with tears again. "I tried to say that I was sorry! I sent him a letter of repentance. I sent three! I could not eat, I felt so sick after I sent them each, for fear of what he would think when he read them."

  Her godmother stroked one bejeweled finger across another. "And what did he reply?"

  Elayne stared down into the dark hollow of her wine. "Nothing," she mumbled. "He did not answer. The banns were published for his marriage to another in church last Sunday."

  She hung her head, awaiting her godmother’s censure, mortified to admit she had drawn such humiliation upon herself.

  "Avoi—who is this amorous fellow?"

  "He is not a great man, my lady, only a knight." She hesitated, feeling a renewed wave of shame that she had chosen a man so inconstant. "More than that, it’s not proper for me to say."

  Lady Melanthe sat back, resting the goblet on the wide arm of her chair. Even with her hair down and the informal mantle about her shoulders, she seemed to glitter with a dangerous grace. "Yes, I think not." She smiled. "I might not resist the temptation."

  Elayne glanced up. "Ma’am?"

  Her godmother made a quick riffle with her fingers. "It occurs to me to have him arrested for some petty theft and subjected to the trial by boiling water," her godmother murmured.

  "I should not mind to see him boiled," Elayne said darkly.

  But Lady Melanthe merely said, "Do not tell me his name, Elena. I’m not to be trusted, you know."

  Elayne drew a breath, not taking her eyes from the moon-shaped reflection in the surface of her wine. It was true—she had not thought of it before, but one word from Lady Melanthe would ruin Raymond forever. Elayne had revenge at her fingertips, like a tigress on a light leash.

  For an instant, she allowed herself to imagine it. In his letter of dismissal, he had said she was arrogant and offensive to him, after all. She pictured him and his new wife reduced to penury, proud Raymond the boot-kicked messenger boy of some ill-tempered noblewoman—Lady Beatrice, perhaps—skulking in kitchens and longing for the days when Elayne had been a sparkling diamond at his feet. While she herself, recognized as an extraordinary woman by far nobler men than Raymond de Clare, could hardly choose among the proposals of marriage from dukes and princes as far away as France and Italy.

  "We might arrange a prince for you," Lady Melanthe said idly, startling Elayne so that she nearly tipped her wine. Her godmother looked at her with amusement, as if she knew she had read Elayne’s mind.

  In the midst of a small, choked laugh at this absurdity, the tears flowed anew. Elayne covered her face again and shook her head. "I don’t want to marry a prince." She took a shuddering breath. "I want him to love me again."

  "Hmm!" Lady Melanthe said. "I think it’s time and past that you ventured beyond Savernake, Elena. The experience of a worldly court will do you much good." She made a dismissive gesture toward the bannered walls visible over the treetops outside, as if Windsor Castle were a cottage. "You will accompany the Countess of Ludford, who has just been beseeching me to write introductions for her pilgrimage to Rome. You won’t wish to go to Rome yourself; it’s naught but a heap of ruins and rubbish, but you may await Lady Beatrice in Prague, at the imperial court, and then return in six or eight months with a great deal more polish than you have now. There is no place more worthy to refine your education and enlighten you in all ways. It is a brilliant city. Your
Latin is yet commendable?"

  Elayne blinked, taken aback. She nodded.

  "We shall practice a little, between us. The Countess does not journey until Midsummer’s Eve—we have the whole of springtime to prepare you. Meanwhile the Queen is here at Windsor. I’ll see that you have an introduction. " She paused, tapping her long fingers. "Tomorrow we’ll look over my wardrobe and find you some apparel fit for court."

  Elayne sat silent, stunned. She could only gaze at Lady Melanthe as her godmother arranged her future with such casual dispatch. The sound of the door latch barely reached her, but when it swung open and a tall, simply dressed knight ducked through, clad in black and carrying a dark-haired boy child, she rose hastily from her chair and fell into a deep curtsy. "My lord, I greet you well!"

  "No, rise, my lady," Lord Ruadrik said, extending a large, weapon-hardened hand to Elayne even as he easily deposited the wriggling four-year-old in Lady Melanthe’s lap. He had the north country in his speech, and an open grin. "Take this goblin, lady wife, ’ere it slays me!"

  The boy slid immediately from Lady Melanthe’s lap and ran to cling to his father’s leg. He stared at Elayne. She spread her skirt and made a bow toward the child. "My esteemed lord Richard, greetings. God bless you."

  The boy nodded, accepting the salutation, and then hid his face against Lord Ruadrik’s black hose.

  "This is your kinswoman the Lady Elena, from our hold at Savernake," Lord Ruadrik said to the child. "It would be courteous in you to hail her warmly."

  The boy peeked again at Elayne. A warm greeting did not appear to be forthcoming, but with downcast eyes, he said, "You look alike to my mama."

  "And you look very like to your lord papa," Elayne said.

  The boy smiled shyly. He gripped his father’s muscular leg. "Gra’ mercy, lady," he said solemnly, and seemed to feel that this concluded the interview, for he turned, gave a fleet kiss to his mother, and ran from the chamber through the way they had come.

  Lady Melanthe moved quickly, half-rising, but Lord Ruadrik shook his head. "Jane hides behind the door—that was the bargain, that he would come and meet his cousin Elena, did I vow a line of retreat remain open the whiles."

  Elayne realized with shame that she had yet even to inquire about Lady Melanthe’s daughter and son, she had been so swept up in her own wretchedness. Knowing her face must be ravaged by tears, she stood with her head bowed as she asked after the young Lady Celestine.

  "She is learning to dance," Lady Melanthe said. "I doubt me we shall see her again before Lady Day. My lord, what think you of a journey to the imperial court at Prague for Elena?"

  Lord Ruadrik looked sharply toward his wife. He frowned slightly. "To what purpose?"

  "To enlarge her wisdom and instruct her in the wider ways of the world. Some hedge knights hereabouts seem to believe they are worthy of her attention, but I don’t believe the Donna Elena di Monteverde is temperamentally suited to become wife to a rustic."

  "Too much like you, I’m certain," Lord Ruadrik said, nodding soberly.

  "Fie," Lady Melanthe said, flicking her hand. "I adore bumpkins."

  He laughed. "To my misfortune! Wella, if it is your desire that Lady Elena be trained to bring poor rustic knights to their knees, after Your Ladyship’s heartless manner, then let it be so."

  Lady Melanthe smiled. She looked toward Elayne with a little flare of mischief in her languid glance. "What think you, dear one?"

  Elayne pressed her lips together. "Oh, madam," she murmured. "Oh, madam!" She could not even imagine herself with the elegance and bearing, the confidence of Lady Melanthe. To inspire awe among rustics like Raymond! It was worth any price, even a journey with Countess Beatrice. She sank to her knees, taking her godmother’s hands. "God bless you, madam, you’re too kind to me."

  "And when you return, we shall look you out a husband who can appreciate your superiority," Lady Melanthe added serenely.

  "God save the poor fellow," said Lord Ruadrik.

  * * *

  After a fortnight Elayne still had not become accustomed to her court headpiece. It was a double piked-horn, only modestly tall, but she felt her neck must bow under the weight of the dense embroidery and plaiting that seemed to tower above her head. Cara’s strictures on a proper pose and attitude became practical at last—when Elayne could not remember to hold herself perfectly erect and turn with slow grace as her sister had charged her to do, the headpiece swayed in perilous reminder.

  The new queen of England, younger by several years than Elayne herself, seemed to have no such difficulties. She moved with confidence under a looming creation the height and breadth of a tympan-drum, encrusted with jewels and topped by a golden crown. As the Queen stepped up to her throne, the trumpets announced the King’s approach.

  The fanfare seemed tremendous to herald a mere boy. Elayne had seen King Richard before; he came often to visit his queen, running in to embrace her with all the fondness of an adolescent youth for his sister, but this day was a formal visitation. Everyone fell to their knees as he entered, a slender figure flanked on one side by his mother and on the other by his uncle, the Duke of Lancaster.

  Elayne had not expected to see the Duke arrive with the King. Quick fear seized her, that she might see Raymond among his entourage. She bowed her knee in a deep courtesy as they passed, straining her neck to balance the headpiece. As the courtiers arranged themselves, she rose and walked backward in her turn—a skill that she had never mastered and mismanaged badly, becoming so entangled in her train that a page had to hold her elbow while she freed herself.

  In a mortified flurry she found herself pushed out by the others coming after her, pressed bodily into the waiting throng in the anteroom. Just outside the Queen’s chamber, attendants were packed together like gaudy sheep. The rumble of voices echoed to the heavy rafter-beams. She glanced over brightly clad heads and shoulders, looking about the crowded chamber with a growing sense of dread.

  Lancaster’s men wore the red-and-blue of England quartered with France. English colors merged with the purples, silvers, and blacks of Queen Anne’s retinue, creating a flow of bright confusion. Elayne felt hot and flustered in the press. More and more people seemed to be pushing into the room. The air was warm and stifling. She had never been in such a close and crowded quarter. A rising unease gripped her throat, a powerful sensation that she must get herself free. She began to edge toward the entry to the great hall, holding her hand to her headdress in an attempt to avoid entangling herself with the elaborate peaks and horns of the other ladies.

  It was a vain effort. She found herself caught in the netting of an Englishwoman’s steeple-crown. With forced smiles, they worked to free themselves of one another and gave stiff, upright curtsies to avoid repeating the predicament.

  As she straightened, still trying to free her train from beneath someone’s slipper, she saw Raymond staring at her from not half a rod distant.

  She lifted her chin, turning quickly away. It was evident from his expression that he was astonished to perceive her there. To her consternation, her passage toward the door had vanished. Her hem was still caught, no matter how she tugged. She could not move a step in the throng.

  She tried to slow her breathing, feeling suffocated in the press. The need to flee Raymond and the entrapment of the crowd made her feel light-headed. She closed her eyes and then opened them wide at the touch of a hand upon her shoulder. She glanced back. He stood next to her, impossibly close.

  "Elayne!" He bent to her ear. As she pulled back, his fingers closed on her arm. "Elayne, for Christ’s pity, why didn’t you tell me?"

  She yanked her elbow free. "Do not speak to me."

  He let go, but a courtier forcing his way through the mass of people pressed her back against his chest. She arched upright, trying to shun touching him.

  "You should have told me," he hissed in her ear. "I would have done all differently."

  "God’s mercy, Raymond—what could I tell you?" she exclaimed between h
er teeth.

  "Who you are," he said, his voice very low by her ear. She could feel his breath on her skin. "That you are Lancaster’s ward!"

  She cast a glance back at him in spite of herself. His words made no sense, but the din of talk was a tremendous roar in her ears. She struggled to turn clear, her nose at a level with his chin. On all sides people pressed against her, shoving her inexorably against him. There was a strange horror welling up inside her, the growing sensation of being crushed to death. She began breathing in short gasps, shaking, wishing desperately for clear air.

  He frowned down at her, his mouth a set line. "Come."

  He gave the lady standing on her hem a brisk elbow in the ribs. The woman turned with a sharp curse, freeing Elayne’s skirt so suddenly that she tumbled hard against him. He began to move, his arm at her waist, using his leverage to breach an opening toward the door. Raymond was the last person she wished to converse with, but it was his strength that maneuvered them toward escape from the throng. She did not think she could endure this congested place one more moment.

  They reached the entry to the anteroom. The guards allowed them out, pikes lifted and then lowered quickly to prevent access to any of the hopeful petitioners pressing forward from the great hall. Raymond guided her swiftly among them, sidestepping the King’s subjects of every class and description. He pushed her into a low doorway and up around the first curve of a spiral stairwell.

  Elayne slumped her shoulder against the wall, feeling the blessed coolness of the stone under her flushed cheek. She drank in fresh air that flowed down from the tower above, overwhelmed with faintness and relief.

  "Thank you," she said, taking a deep breath. Raymond’s hands were at her waist. She leaned against him, grateful for the support. "Depardeu—I was near to falling in a trance in there."

  His hands tightened. She opened her eyes. He looked up at her, his features in a shadow that hid his expression. Suddenly his arms slid around her, and he pressed his face into her breasts. "Elayne," he whispered. "Oh, God forgive me, I have missed you."