Shadowheart (43 page)

“What of Navona,” Franco said coldly. “You were to kill him, too?”

“Riata… first.” Raymond barely spoke through his pants. “For disorder. To seem Navona …” He passed out again for a moment, swinging like meat on a hook. Then his eyes fluttered open. He tried to lift his head and only flailed weakly, whimpering.

“And my son?”

Spittle dripped from Raymond’s mouth. He made no answer. At Franco’s nod, the wheel began to crank him higher.

Raymond squeaked. “The boy … not me! Not me! I would not kill your boy! The soldiers!”

Franco’s scarred lip curled. “You meant to murder us, and then take Monteverde with the condottieri force,” he said in a deathly composed voice. “Milan paid you to do it. They said you would wed the princess and rule here. Tell me if this is true, and I will let you down.”

“It is true!” Raymond quivered. “I swear on the holy writ, it is true! Let me down!”

“Drop him,” Franco said cordially.

His body fell halfway and caught, bouncing. He screamed and wept and snuffled, hanging limp.

“Is that enough?” Allegreto asked Franco, with a strange sense of helplessness. “Do we need more of him?”

“It is enough,” Franco said. “We must act.”

Allegreto grabbed Raymond’s hair and lifted his sagging head. He put his blade to the Englishman’s bared neck and cut his throat.

Elena dismounted beside a line of gaily striped tents, glad to reach the encampment just at dusk. Fires were already lit, sending smoke into a soft sky above the light-silvered plunge of the mountainside. Captain Guichard of the condottieri welcomed her with flattering words in French, making her free of his camp and his provisions. She thought wryly that he could afford to be generous; she had paid him a years’ worth of Monteverde bullion that had drained near half the revenues from the mines and the taxes. But it calmed the people to have the troops near. She had hopes of creating a civil militia around a core of professional soldiers, according to the plan in her grandfather’s book, but for now, with the strongest Monteverde houses still at dagger-point, they depended for all of their defense on the French mercenaries.

Philip stood talking to Captain Guichard amid a bustle of activity as baggage was stowed and the councilors escorted courteously to their tents by his second-in-command. The old bandit worked well with the French captain; they seemed to speak a common language of martial understanding. But Elena knew that Philip was careful to maintain a distance, and some secrets. He had warned her himself of the dangers. The French were mercenaries, after all. They would sell themselves to the highest bidder.

For the moment, while they grew fat on Monteverde’s silver, they seemed content to lie on the road to Venice and await her directives. But Philip thought they should be better occupied, and was in negotiation with the captain for some raids into the mountains in search of bandits. It did not seem to bother him that he’d been a bandit himself only a year ago. Elena had learned from Philip that soldiers needed to fight, and idle men were trouble.

It was one of the reasons she had finally decided to set Franco and Allegreto free, and try to bring them into voluntary service to Monteverde. There was danger if they were at liberty, but danger, too, if they were at leisure to make mischief that she could not see.

She glanced at Zafer, who stood quietly beside her tent after he had dismounted and made his infidel prayers. He had joined them outside the city gates, waiting on his donkey beside the road and silently falling in alongside the ranks of councilors behind her.

She saw some scowls now from the Riata men sent to guard Matteo, but Elena acknowledged his presence with a nod. She knew who had sent him, and it gave her a warm sense of shelter.

“Give you good eve, Zafer,” she said. “Is Margaret well?”

“Your Grace, she is well,” he said with a precise bow. “God is great.”

“And her babe?”

“He grows apace, my lady.”

Elena pressed her lips together against a weakness in her throat. She had missed them all, Zafer and Margaret and the children. She looked about at the darkening sky and hugged herself. “Send her to me when we return,” she said suddenly. “I would have her in my service.”

His solemn face softened a little as he nodded. “Your Grace, it would give her great joy.”

“And we must find a bed for you,” she said with a half-smile. “I will not have you sleeping on the ground like a watchdog at my feet.”

“It is no matter what I sleep upon, Your Grace,” he said softly. “I will stay by your tent, if you permit.”

She looked about with significance. “I think you will find several Riata men beside you,” she said. “I will suffer no conflict over it.”

Zafer bowed. “As you command, my lady.”

She called Philip and ordered more bedding brought. The older man gave Zafer a brusque assessment and went to do her bidding. When an invitation came to join the supper that the captain had readied for his guests, Elena pleaded weariness, eating her meal in private with Matteo.

She could not make light conversation with the French captain and the councilors this night. While lamplight glowed on the red silk lining of the elegant pavilion and Dario served her, she sipped at a broth of ravioli and worried. She was in dread that Franco and Allegreto would come to blows while she was gone. And she was uneasy about Raymond. He had been too badly injured to accompany the procession to d’Avina. She had visited him in the spare quarters of the infirmary, but could not convince him to remove to his old chamber in the castle while she was gone. He was wary of Franco, convinced that the Riata had tried to kill him, and Elena could not in truth deny the possibility. She thought of how Allegreto had entered her chamber without even passing the guard, and agreed that the infirmary was more secure. There was but one door, and she had set a sentinel on it day and night.

After prayers, she lay down in her shift amid the furs and silk sheets that had been prepared for her. Here in the camp, with so little privacy, she left her hair modestly wrapped and covered. Matteo and her maid had their own pallets. Nim settled happily beside the boy. The ground was hard even under the padded mattress and furs, but Elena was exhausted.

She did not sleep, though. She lay drowsing in a foolish dream that Allegreto came to her here, too, even through all of the guards that Philip and Dario had set. Through the thin air, somehow, to take her down with him in hot darkness and secret delight.

“How much nerve do you have, Riata?” Allegreto squatted beside the stone well, washing blood from his hands. His sleeves and chest were soaked in it, but he had no time or use for other clothing. He walked in a dream of violence, every step inevitable, the final sum of all that he was.

“Navona’s and twice again,” Franco said, watching the shadows cross the piazza.

Men were already gathering, the clandestine call to both Navona and Riata bringing figures hastening from the dark, men who were mortal enemies, who paused in arrested disbelief to discover Allegreto at the well with Franco.

Allegreto had received no thanks for saving Franco’s life, nor wanted any. “Can you bear fire on your skin, if it does not burn?” he asked, flinging drops of water from his hands as he stood.

“Demon! What scheme do you have?”

“Your hand-picked men and mine. Into the camp, under a diversion that will quail the soldiers’ hearts. We bring out the hostages in one body before they know we are there.”

“There are three thousand men in that company,” Franco said.

“Are you frightened of three thousand men, Riata?”

He heard Franco spit, though it was too dark to see. “Nay, but I’m no fool either. If we fail once, all is lost.”

“You wish to negotiate for Matteo’s life? Sell the city to buy him back, and all you will have is his body for your treason. If you live long enough to see it.”

Franco was silent. It was self-evident. They had no defense, no grounds to bargain. If the French took the city for Milan, Allegreto and Franco would be the first to die, after the council and the princess.

Around them, the still shadows of men waited.

“Tell me your scheme then, you false-hearted bastard,” Franco said scornfully. “If anyone can work a fiend’s ruse, it would be you.”

Shouts woke her as Philip’s rough hand came down on her shoulder. The blaze of a half-shuttered lantern hurt her eyes.

“Hurry!” Philip hissed. “They’ve murdered Guichard.”

“What?” Elena scrambled upright. She lunged out of the furs, but he did not even give her time to find her robes. He was hauling her toward the door as her maid rose with a horrified look.

“They’re coming to secure you. Dario has a cross-bolt in his back.” His gloved hand gripped her. Before she could do more than cast a wild look to see that Matteo and Nim were with them, he had her outside in the starlight. Zafer came running with a pair of horses out of the chilly dark. There were torches rising to life, and she saw men in Monteverde’s livery fighting at the far edge of the tents.

She threw herself onto the horse in her bare shift. Zafer thrust Matteo up behind her. Philip mounted and hauled his horse around, headed in the direction of the city, back through the camp where they had come. She urged her mount after his, dashing past men who were stumbling from their tents and bedrolls.

The road to Venice cut through the encampment, giving them a sudden opening. Elena let the horse gallop, pounding alongside Philip, asking no questions. The dark masses of tents flew past.

Matteo grabbed hard at her. “Hold!” he cried in a high-pitched voice. “Princess! Hold!”

Elena saw it. She dragged the horse to jolting halt, staring at the torches and mounted knights ahead, a dozen of them, twenty—she could not tell in the dark, but they held the road with lances ready. Philip halted beside her.

One of the knights raised his torch and shouted. “We wish you no harm, lady! Surrender, and you will be made safe.”

Elena looked at the blocked road, at the soldiers running toward them from the sides. “Philip!” she said low. “You must go north!”

“Your Grace—” His horse backed against hers. “I can’t leave you.”

“I command it! Now—while you can!”

Philip threw her a wild glance. She turned from him and made her horse walk forward, lifting her hand.

“I am in your protection!” she called. “I surrender myself.”

The knights began to move forward in a line, a dark soft roll of hooves under the glare of torches.

“Now!” she hissed to Philip. “Go!”

He turned his horse. He spurred it, driving back along the road as renewed shouts broke out. The line of knights parted, galloping toward her, some of them hurling past after Philip while others reined their horses beside hers. Matteo hugged her hard around the waist. In the flashing shadows mailed hands gripped her bridle. She looked into the armored faces of her captors and prayed to God that Philip had not paused too long.

She understood Allegreto’s dread of chains now. To be manacled was more frightening than she had ever imagined. She felt utterly helpless, left alone with Matteo in the same silk-lined tent, knowing nothing of what passed outside. Dario lay grievously wounded from the bolt that had pieced him through; they had torn it from him and carried him into her tent in the night, as if to show her their intentions.

She had done what she could for him, though she could barely work with the way her wrists were chained and fastened to the heavy pole in the center of the tent. She bound his wounds as best she might with the length of cloth that had covered her braided hair. He nodded and blinked up at her in the lantern light, drifting in and out of his senses. She had not thought he would survive the night, but in the dawn he was alive. Every breath was a labor for him. Matteo gave him water and stared at him, reciting silent prayers.

The camp outside was restless, with men on horses passing up and down the road, distant shouts and arguments. But there was no open fighting that she could tell. She thought once she heard the voices of her councilors, raised in fury, but then they were silent and she heard them no more.

The day passed in such terrible waiting, with only Matteo’s wide eyes and Dario’s hoarse breath and the dread that Philip had not made it out of the camp. Her maid and Zafer were gone. Elena stared at the bread and wine they brought her and could not eat it.

In the late afternoon a guard yanked back the covering on her tent. She recognized the officer who strode inside— Guichard’s second captain, the tall and lanky officer who had so courteously led his guests to their places.

He looked down at her where she sat on one of her chests. Elena lifted her chin by instinct, refusing to lower her eyes.

“Your Grace, I am Pierre de Trie,” he said with a deep bow, baring his head, as polite as he had been in the evening before. “I am in command of this company now, under the order of Bernabd Visconti of Milan.”

Elena gazed at him, saying nothing.

“It grieves me to report that our good Captain Guichard has returned to his maker, may God forgive his soul. And we have sorrowful news from your city—Franco Pietro of the Riata is also dead, God assoil him.”

Matteo made a small sound. He grabbed Nim and hugged the great dog to him.

“Your Grace,” Trie said, “it seems some disorder has broken out in Monteverde. We ask your permission to enter the gates and quell it.”

She stood up. “What happened to Franco? What death caught him?”

“We were told it was his enemy, the Navona.”

Dario ceased his harsh breathing and made a sound, a word lost in a groan. She stared at Trie. The condottiere looked back at her, a little bent under the tent-cloth, his thin eyebrows and trimmed beard like ink drawings on his face.

“Why am I confined?” she asked.

“For your protection, my lady,” he said. “We were sorry you were so imprudent as to try to flee last night.”

She knew what they would do if she allowed them into the city. They would loot and pillage at their will, burn what they would, and worse. Far worse. She had heard of what the Free Companies would do if they ever breached a city’s walls.

“If I do not permit you to enter?” she asked coldly. “What then?”

“Then I will take one of your councilors before the gate, and ask for entry. If I am not permitted, he will be hung there for the city to see. Each time I ask, and am refused, I will hang another.” He glanced at Matteo. “I will begin with the boy.”

She gazed at him, speechless. He smiled a little.

“You have the night to consider it, Your Grace. My men wish to celebrate their new command this eve, and I will allow them the indulgence. In the morning I will return to hear your decision.”

Elena knelt before the little altar in her tent, her hands gripped together as if in prayer. But she was not praying. She was thinking, trying to set aside the horror that wanted to rise up in her throat and choke her.

She had no surety that Philip had escaped. If he had, there was some hope, some faint hope, but only after a delay that would be too long to save many lives. If she ordered the gates open tomorrow, she might spare Matteo and the councilors—if the condottieri did not kill them all anyway after they took the city—but at a cost of destruction that she could not even bear to contemplate. Three thousand armed men among the undefended people of her city—she pressed her fists against her teeth until her knuckles bled.

Even if everything had gone as she hoped, even if Allegreto and Franco had kept peace, they could not have shielded the city against this. She saw no way to protect it. She could agree to the demand, go before the gates and order no one in the city to fight. Let them loot. Let them burn. But she did not trust the condottieri to restrain themselves even if they met no resistance. She had read of France and Burgundy, where women were raped and children cut to pieces before their father’s eyes for trying to hide a few coins from the brigands.