Shadowheart (36 page)

She heard the words die away in the barren chamber, amid the chests of silver. She could not look at Allegreto.

“Hang us both as traitors,” he said in a vicious tone. “That would be impartial.”

She bore his anger. He had a right to it. He had seen this true, before she had admitted it even to herself. Taken his ring. Advised her to kill him.

“I cannot.” She did look at him then, only for a moment, so that she would not break or show anything before the Riata. One moment, to brand his demon-beauty in her mind. “But you will both remain under close arrest, as possible conspirators, until you agree to what I have asked. Dario.”

The young man strode to the door, rapping on it sharply with the hilt of his sword. The great metal-bound barrier swung open to admit Philip and his men. Elena watched as they came with pikes and swords and clubs to surround the prisoners.

Allegreto paused, under the arm of a guard, and glanced back at her from the door. As his eyes met hers, it was a dread feeling, as if they both knew, as if he was fading from her through a mist, gone already far beyond what she could see.

The guard jostled him. He turned and went through the door.

She rode down from the mountains on a gray palfrey, with only ten of the bandits and Dario for an escort, now dressed in Monteverde’s green livery. She left Philip to guard the mint and her prisoners, and approached the gates of the city alone.

But she was not alone, not quite. People from d’Avina had followed her out onto the road. They had cheered her as she passed the burned-out gatehouse and bridge, the gray tower of Maladire. She had thought they would fall behind, but a crowd of them came with her, walking and riding in her train. Some ran and galloped ahead, easily enough, for she kept the palfrey to a gentle amble. Among them she recognized the young miner who had looked up at her on the dais, striding along just after her bandit guard, his white hood thrown back in the sun. As they moved down through the pine forests and left the snow, they seemed to gather followers. By the time they reached the apple orchards and terraced vineyards, the procession was doubled in size, and people had begun to line the road in each village. In the warmth of an autumn afternoon, a girl ran out and offered Elena a sheaf of sunflowers, their great yellow heads nodding gaily as she kissed Elena’s hand.

Elena felt no fear. She felt as if a trance held her, and everyone. Even when she came within sight of the city below, she was somewhere beyond fear, simply moving forward to a fate that seemed inevitable.

When she reached the gates at sunset, she had a great march of common people behind her. Her small banner, a green-and-silver pennon taken from the magistrate’s hands at d’Avina, drooped in the shadow of the city walls. She could see the citadel, a white glitter of towers and crenellations on the mount, rising above the city. The drawbridge was up, and the smooth rapid water of the river coursed between her and the city, flowing blue and clear into the lake.

She waited. From the gatehouse, she could see faces peering from the windows.

She took the banner from a bandit at her side. She rode forward, into the easy range of arrows and stones, with Dario close behind her.

“I am Elena di Monteverde!” she cried, her voice almost lost against the massive walls. “Open the city! I have come home!”

Behind her, a swell of noise began to rise. She heard the miner’s voice call out her name, and the chant become a bellow from the crowd.

Over the sound of the people came the creaking groan of wheels and chains. The drawbridge lowered, falling into place with a thunderous crash that grew to a roar as the crowd cheered.

With a sheaf of sunflowers, a troop of bandits, and a flood of shouting followers, Elena rode across the bridge into the city of Monteverde.

It was summer, but Her Grace the Magnificent, the Prima Elect, the Most Potent and Just Principessa Elena di Monteverde, could not tell it from inside the council room of the citadel.

Within the huge chamber, it was still as cold as winter. Candles and torches barely lit the high ceiling blackened by decades of their smoke. While one of her grandfather’s elderly councilors held forth with relish on his theme, she sat dressed in miniver and damask, her scepter laid at the head of a table. The board was twice as long as the one in the mint at d’Avina, polished black and carved on the legs. But it reminded her; it brought back that day. She did not think of it often; she tried not
to, and the life of the
Prima di Monteverde was a life of harassment, of meetings and writs and petitions and mercantile matters, judgments and decisions, careful arguments and piles and piles and piles of scrolls and records to be read and pieced together for their history and intelligence. She had no time to think of else, except at night in the moment she lay down to sleep, when she thought of Allegreto.

He was incarcerated within sight of the citadel. If she had walked out on the parapets, she could have seen across the city and the lake to the two castles that rose from the promontories and guarded Monteverde’s harbor. Franco Pietro resided in one, and Allegreto in the other.

He haunted her today. The subject of this meeting was her marriage, and her councilors were fervent on the topic.

A number of prospects had been put forth. Princes and dukes from places as far away as Denmark and Spain. Men of high blood and power among the elite of Monteverde. Even one or two of the councilors themselves were proposed, causing them to blush and claim their unsuitability while they vowed they were at Her Grace’s service if she should deign to consider them. The discussion had been intense and brutally blunt, day-long, the favored and disfavored alliances flying back and forth across the table like frantic birds unable to find a roost. The cherished possibility of one faction was deemed to favor the anti-pope; another was too poor a soldier, a third too ambitious for his own power to be allowed a great role in Monteverde’s fragile new Republic. Elena sat and listened to a procession of names and disputes.

But I don’t want a prince,
she thought with a sad inward smile. Lost to her, the girl who had once said those words to her godmother. She had a letter from Lady Melanthe, of fierce support in what Elena had done. Lady Beatrice had returned to England safely—a miracle itself—with news of Elena’s abduction. But no one had conceived that she would fly from Navona and establish herself alone at the head of Monteverde. Ligurio would be proud, Ellie. I am proud. Lancaster is confounded.
Be careful.
Overlook nothing. Trust no one.

Her godmother promised to come in the next spring and spend the summer. Elena longed for it.

But it was not in her character to trust no one. She trusted Philip. She trusted Dario. She trusted a great many things and people, because she had no choice. The houses of Riata and Navona were barred from the citadel, but no one else.

It was trust and not suspicion that Monteverde needed now to heal. It was faith that she restored possessions to their former balance, that she showed no favor to either side. It was a thin thread, liable to be broken by any whisper of treachery. She lived in daily fear of word of some murder or escape from the castles.

But there
had been none. For his son, or for realizing
the popular support of Elena’s cause, or because she kept the French condottiere at hand, Franco Pietro yielded up his Navona holdings without direct opposition. But he would not sign any agreement to cease the blood vendetta until Allegreto did. And Allegreto would not sign.

Elena watched the old councilor in his fur cap and dragging robes. He seemed to be coming to the end of his words, looking toward her expectantly. They all were turning toward her, two long rows of faces, bearded and smooth, elderly and middle-aged and a few near as young as she.

Elena was hungry. She was tired. And she felt utterly alone.

She put her hand upon the scepter. The old councilor nodded around the table and sat down with a fur-trimmed flourish of his sleeve, as if he felt none could dispute his point that Monteverde was in dire need of an heir and the custody of a strong man at the earliest possible moment, and therefore they must not waste their breath in futile arguments. Let Her Grace the Principessa say her wise preference among the prospects put forward, and proceed from there.

Elena stood up. She laid aside the list of names that her secretary handed to her. “I do not intend to wed at present,” she said quietly.

An astonished silence met her words.

Before they could burst into protest, she lifted her open hand. “Monteverde does not need an heir. We are a republic again, and will choose our leader by the laws we have adopted, as set forth by Prince Ligurio.”

The old councilor made forceful motions, requesting to speak. Elena nodded, but she remained standing.

“Your Grace, it is true what you say, it is true. I misspoke myself, perchance, to speak of an heir to rule, though it would be great happiness to all to see the house of Ligurio again bear fruit. And doubtless your prudence and modesty has prevented you from considering a marriage before we received the annulments from Rome. But the Holy Father has given us surety now on that point; there is no question of any betrothal or connection between you and Franco Pietro of the Riata, or your—” He paused, with a slight gesture of distaste, as if he could not even bring himself to speak the name. “Your abductor,” he said finally. “But I cannot countenance that Your Grace remains unwed. It is dangerous. Milan takes notice, that we have no man to order our defense.”

“We have Philip Welles,” she said, glancing down to the gray-haired soldier at her right hand. “He is experienced and loyal. He has dealt well with the condottiere, has he not?”

She allowed them to sputter their objections. Philip was old, he was English, he was a bandit. She stared them down.

“Can you find fault with his ordering of our defense against Milan?” she asked.

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.