Shadowheart (3 page)

“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.

“That I will, lady,” Willem said. “I want ten crowns of him to repay my fighting cock, and another twenty shillings for the loss of the hens.”

“Ten crowns!” Cara cried. “You not never saw ten crowns in your wretched life. Why Sir Guy should pay for your dead cock that took ill?”

Willem narrowed his eyes. “He’s your husband and master over your sister, now aren’t he not? Me wife says the girl was there, giving her fine gifts for to be let at the hens, and the next day they all die…. ‘Tis witches’ work, and I know it. You kept that foreign witch woman here, and she taught this girl her heretical ways, and now look you! My cock as was to fight at Shrovetide is lifeless as a stone!”

“Mistress Libushe used no heretical ways,” Elayne said firmly. “She was sent by the Countess Melanthe herself, God keep her, to instruct me in herbs and medicines.”

“Aye, and ask what else she instructed you in. Creeping about the countryside and meeting with men at the mill, even this very day!”

At the sudden look Cara cast her, Elayne lost her courage. She evaded her sister’s eyes. “I did naught to harm your fowl, Will,” she said. “Libushe taught me to heal the sick animals, not hurt them!”

“Meeting with men at the mill?” Cara demanded in Italian. “Meeting with men at the mill?”

“I only passed Sir Raymond there on his way to leave town,” Elayne replied quickly in their native tongue. “I spoke to him briefly, to tell him farewell.”

“Elena, you are the veriest little fool,” Cara hissed. “Great God, you will end a whore upon the streets in your recklessness!”

Elayne bowed her head. She had no defense for herself.

“Foreigners,” Willem grumbled, watching them with his jaw pushed forward.

Cara turned to him. “This was certainly not Elayne at the mill,” she snapped. “All day she do my bidding here at the castle. And you—I do not like you with your Evil Eye and rude claims to defame my sister. Be gone now.”

“I will see Sir Guy,” Willem said.

“Be gone at once!” Cara demanded. “Or the guard will cast you from the gate.”

“Foreigners!” Willem snarled, and turned without even a bow for the ladies of the castle. “Heretics! The priest will hear of this.”

Elayne sat on a bench in Lady Melanthe’s solar, her hands locked together in her lap so tightly that her fingers were white. The hard, clear sunlight poured through the tall windows, sparking a ruby in one of her rings, sending rosy rays over her skin. In the background, like a dreary dream, she heard the voice of the elderly Lady Beatrice raised in sharp contention, echoing even through stone walls, but the only thing distinct in Elayne’s mind was the declaration of scornful dismissal in Raymond’s letter.

After weeks she could remember each burning word that Cara had read aloud over their needlework at Savernake. Elayne remembered it upon waking; it was the last thought to haunt her as she fell asleep.

It did not matter that Sir Guy sent word the ecclesiastical court in Salisbury had dismissed the summons for heresy as unreasonable. It did not matter that the dead chickens were replaced and the villagers reimbursed beyond their wildest hopes. A seven-day past at Westminster, Cara read, unfolding the page of Sir Guy’s message and glancing up with significance at Elayne, the banns for Raymond de Clare’s marriage had been asked, the bride to be one Katherine Rienne, widow of a Bohemian knight.

“My lady.” Elayne flinched as a man’s low voice startled her. She looked up to find the chamberlain dressed in red-and-white livery. He bowed. “Her Grace will see you in her bedchamber.”

Through the high oriel window, the sky sparkled with ice crystals, blown snow swept from the rooftops of Windsor Castle by the wind that had brought a Lenten blizzard. Elayne realized that the Countess Beatrice of Ludford and her long-haired spaniel were being escorted from Lady Melanthe’s presence-room. In spite of the choleric tone of her voice, Countess Beatrice did not appear ill-pleased with the results of her interview with Lady Melanthe. Elayne courtesied as the venerable lady limped past, resplendent in her stiff wimple and heavy brocades, and received a disdainful nod and a growling yap in reply.

Elayne kept her face low. Everyone must know she had been sent up to be interviewed by her godmother in utter disgrace. It should have been an honor to be received in Her Ladyship’s privymost room—even Countess Beatrice had only been admitted as far as the presence-chamber—but no doubt it was because Lady Melanthe wished to interview her scandalous goddaughter in strictest privacy concerning her affairs with chickens and gentlemen. Elayne followed the butler through the presence-chamber, past the silk wall hangings and silver candlesticks as tall as she was, the canopied chair of audience. In the bedchamber, Lady Melanthe was just stripping off her ermine-trimmed surcoat, while her maidservant lifted the tall headpiece from her hair—a single peaked cone glittering with emeralds and silver bosses.

She turned, her loosened hair falling down over her bared shoulder in a black twist. With the steady gaze of a cat, her eyes a strange deep violet hue, she watched Elayne curtsy.

“God save and keep you, my beloved lady Godmother,” Elayne said, with her face still lowered, holding her skirt spread wide over the carpeted rushes. She kept her courtesy, looking down at an indigo cross woven into the Turkish rug.

There was a moment of silence. “I fear I do not 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 are 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 is 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 is all my fault!” she blurted. “I ruined everything. He called me a sparkling diamond, and a 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. “Nay—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 am sorry, my lady! I am 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. “Grant mercy, 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 is not meet 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 am 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. 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, by hap—skulking in kitchens and longing for the days when Elayne had been a sparkling diamond at his feet. While she herself, recognized as a 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 is 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. She goes by way of Bruxelles, and Prague. You will not wish to go to Rome yourself; it is 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. I will see that you have an introduction to Queen Anne. She is just come of Prague, and shows an admirable degree of style and understanding for her age.” Lady Melanthe made a little grimace. “Doubtless London must appear a tawdry place to her, but she seems satisfied enough with the King, may God keep him, and he is besotted of her.” She paused, tapping her long fingers. “Tomorrow we will 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!”

“Nay, 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. “You have flower-eyes, like Mama.”

“God grant you mercy, kind sir. You look very strong, like to Lord Ruadrik.”

“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 Elayne, 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.