THIRTY-TWO

 

 

One tiny miracle took place at Elena’s wedding.

She wore a garland of flowers for her headpiece, and the fine gown of blue damask that she had brought for her audience with the Pope. A brisk spring breeze lifted her loose hair from her shoulders and her long train dragged over weeds and uneven pavement as she walked with Margaret toward the church. The day could not determine if it wished to storm or shine; blue-black clouds rolled over the mountaintops, but the lake gleamed under brilliant shafts of sun. Far out on the silvered surface, the oars of a bright-painted galliot flashed, conveying some rich merchant to the south.

Every Holy Day for three weeks, the Navona priest had given his sermon to a few shepherds and a fisherman’s wife, and then in his quavering old voice intoned the names of Allegreto della Navona and Elena Rosafina di Monteverde and asked if there were any impediments to the marriage.

No one in the tiny congregation had any objection. Elena did not think they had any notion of who she might be—a humbling discovery, when her every word and breath had been the subject of such intense import in the city. But she wanted the banns read and their names recorded. She did not intend to keep her marriage a secret, or allow anything that might put it into question.

She and Allegreto had not spoken of where they would go when they were wed, but it could not be anywhere in Monteverde. She had rejected her office, but married to the head of Navona she would still seem a dire threat to any new authority.

They could not remain here. It was her only sorrow. She had not ever thought she would love the land that her sister feared and despised. But like a swan compelled by her blood to this lake, these drifting clouds and blue mountain cliffs, to the towered city and bright-colored banners, she understood now what had driven Allegreto any length to return to Monteverde. It would be exile, in truth, but she did not know where.

Already the citadel seemed far away. Like a peasant maid, Elena came with Margaret as her only attendant, with no white palfreys or canopies of golden cloth in her array.

Zafer waited a little distance from the church, dressed in oriental finery, a coat of scarlet and heavy gold such as Elena had never seen him wear before. He held Margaret’s boy by one grubby little hand, preventing the child from sitting down in the dirt while wearing his best Sunday smock. Elena glanced at Margaret. But the English girl had her gaze on Zafer, a look of shy and smiling wonder.

Elena thought Margaret showed a little rounder in her cheeks and waist than she had used to. She caught the maid’s hand and pressed it.

Margaret gave her a conscious look, heat rising in her freckled face.

"Zafer is most handsome today," Elena said. "And he is kind to take charge of your son."

"Oh, my lady!" Margaret stopped, "I should—" She bit her lip, and burst out suddenly, "We have done a dreadful thing! I can’t—I couldn’t—" She bowed her head. "I couldn’t bring myself to tell you."

Elena stopped, turning. "Perchance I can guess."

"We are handfasted," Margaret barely whispered, her head lowered in shame.

"He loves you greatly, I think," Elena said.

"But he will not convert," she said miserably. "I have begged him and begged him."

Elena looked down at the maid’s bowed head. There would be no wedding blessed by the church for Margaret, or any charity for her true heart and Zafer’s. "You can stay with us," she said. It was all that she could offer. "Both of you. Allegreto will allow no one to part you."

"Grant mercy, Your Grace." Margaret lifted her face. "Thank you. I am weak. I cannot find the strength to go away from him."

"It is not weakness," Elena said softly. "It is love. I cannot think that God condemns it, even if the world does."

Margaret’s lip quivered. "Do you think so, my lady?" She looked over at Zafer. Her son was laughing, dangling from his hold, grabbing at the horn of a grazing goat. "I cannot leave him," she whispered. "Not even for the sake of my mortal soul."

"I know," Elena said.

Margaret nodded. She returned the pressure on Elena’s hands. "God grant you and my lord mercy, my lady." She smiled a little and lifted her head. "We must go to the church. They await you."

Together they walked across the piazza, passing beneath the huge olive tree, among cloud-shadows racing across the weed-grown pavement. Elena kept her eyes lowered. She did not lift them until she saw the steps of the church before her.

Allegreto and Dario stood with the priest at the door. Dario wore the green-and-silver of Monteverde, but Allegreto wore silver only, the glittering tunic of the first time she had ever seen him, when she had wondered if he were a demon or an angel or a man. His hair was uncovered, tied back, a black fall over the silvery cloth. He hardly looked like a man cleansed of all sin—he looked as if he were sin itself, pagan, everything of earthly life and beauty come together in pure temptation.

After his confession, though, he had become as fastidious as a nun. For the weeks while their banns were published, they had camped like a band of tinkers in the empty great hall of the Navona castle on the lake. Its roof had been repaired and the walls rebuilt, but there were no tenants beyond a few lingering workmen and Gerolamo’s sister to cook. Allegreto had insisted that cloth be draped from the workmen’s scaffolding, and the men and women sleep each on their own side. He had not touched Elena, or hardly spared a look at her as he and Zafer prowled in and out on whatever business they found to do.

Margaret lifted Elena’s train as she mounted the steps. The priest smiled at her. It was no beatific beam; to her consternation it was a mischievous, knowing smile, like an old gnome grinning over his newfound hoard. She could hardly help from smirking back at him, as if they were childish conspirators who had succeeded in some clever game.

It all passed quickly then. The priest asked them for their free consent, and assisted them to say the proper vows. Elena had the words ready, but Allegreto seemed to forget them and had to be led through line-by-line. He looked at her, a dark look from beneath his lashes, and then glanced away, frowning out toward the lake and back again.

It was as the priest took Elena’s hand and drew it to her bridegroom that her small miracle occurred.

The day before, she had forced the Navona ring from her finger, with great pain and effort, and given it to the priest. Now the old man blessed it and handed it again to Allegreto, jostling him a little to attract his attention away from the lake.

Twice before, she had put on the same ring, and each time it had been a struggle to make it fit. She held her hand stiff, expecting a difficult moment. Allegreto closed his hand over hers. "With this ring I wed thee," he said hastily. The ring slipped onto her finger without effort, as smoothly as if it had been made for her. "With my body I worship thee."

Elena looked up in amazement. Allegreto seemed not to notice, still glancing in distraction toward the water. The old priest nodded benignly. He smiled at her.

Suddenly Zafer made a low shout from his position a little distance from the church—and it was not celebration.

Elena finally turned to see what it was on the lake of such palpable interest. She gripped Allegreto’s hand.

A painted galliot came rushing into shore, the oars backing water and the scarlet canopy rippling as it swung around for landing. Another was behind it, holding off. She could see a crowd of passengers under the shade. The delicate arched prow rode down the reeds and the oars pitched upward smartly as the first vessel came to rest against the abandoned quay.

"Do not offer violence," the priest said quietly.

She realized that Allegreto and Dario and Zafer all had their hands ready to draw weapons.

It was Matteo who first bounded off the galley, even before the plank was laid. Nimue hesitated, her paws and white head hanging over the side, and then came in a great leap after him, racing across the piazza.

Elena turned as the eager dog bounded up the steps and pressed against her skirts. She looked toward the priest. "Is it done?" she exclaimed anxiously. "We are wed?"

He made a calm nod. "In the eyes of God and the holy church, your union is established and sanctified."

She could see the eldest councilor of Monteverde being helped ashore. There were others standing, preparing to disembark; she could not make out their faces in the shadow under the canopy, but she thought Franco Pietro was there. The law against her marriage to Riata or Navona rang in her head. Thoughts flew into arguments she might use: it was an edict meant only for the Prima, and she had resigned that office. It was a civil motion, and could not be held above the rule of the church. It was complete, and there was no way they could prevent it now. There were witnesses, Margaret and Dario and the priest, who would vouch for the certain truth of it.

The penalty was death or exile—not for her, but for the man she married.

Allegreto strode down the steps without a word. He and Dario and Zafer made a line, a waiting defense, though they did not bare their blades.

The old councilman seemed to be in no hurry to come nearer. He straightened his robes and looked back as the other passengers were helped down the plank by servants.

"It is Lady Melanthe!" Elena gasped.

She gathered her skirt and train and ran down the steps to Allegreto, with Nim cavorting at her heels.

"It is Lady Melanthe!" she squealed, grabbing his hands. She dropped them and rushed to the landing. She came to where her godmother was just setting foot on the stone and fell into a deep curtsey. "Oh, madam!" she exclaimed. "Oh, praise God!"

"Ellie!" Her godmother leaned down and raised her. "You wayward child!"

Elena found herself cloaked in a hard embrace. She pressed her face into her godmother’s perfumed shoulder with a sob of joy.

Lady Melanthe patted her back and set her away. "Pray do not weep all over my wedding clothes. I’m not the only one who comes to see what mischief you’ve made here."

Elena stood back, blinking. Just a few feet from the plank, with cheeks already reddened and wet with tears, her sister waited uncertainly, as if she were not quite sure what country she was in.

"Cara," Elena whispered in wonder. "Oh, Cara!" 

Timidly Cara held out her plump hands. "I wished to see you again."

Elena took two steps and caught her sister’s hands. And then she was locked in a deep embrace, both of them weeping like foolish maids. She could hardly see for crying when Cara finally stood back. "We should not make a spectacle," she murmured, with a little hiccough. She dabbed at her face with the swag of her sleeve. "It is not decorous."

Elena gave a laughing sob. "No." She reached out and squeezed her sister one more time, feeling the familiar, soft comfort of her shoulder. "But you came. Cara! You came here."

She turned back, finding she was surrounded by a crowd of councilmen and attendants, all dressed in their richest robes. A little distance from her, with a space about him, Allegreto watched. He had a wary look, flanked by Dario and Zafer, the three of them standing apart.

Elena walked to him and took his arm, looking back at the others with defiance. They seemed to be dressed for celebration, but she did not know why the council and Franco Pietro would have come to rejoice at her wedding.

"Allegreto," Lady Melanthe said composedly. "Well met."

"My lady," he said, with a slight inclination of his head.

"As comely as ever. The years do you favor."

His lip curled. He made a bow. "And you, my lady."

She gave a soft laugh and a riffle of her bejeweled fingers. "Grant mercy for your chivalry. But has this priest done his business? Have you wed my little Ellie in truth this time? I hardly know what to think from one report to the next."

"In truth," he said shortly, "we are wed."

Elena closed her fingers on his arm. "I am grieved if it displease you or the council, my lady, but—"

Lady Melanthe smiled. "But what? You will put him aside if you are bid?"

"Nay, I will not." She glanced at the elder councilor with determination. "Nor let him be arrested! I am not the Prima, and I will not be bound by their decree in this."

Lady Melanthe shook her head. "Are you certain you wish for such a meek bride, Allegreto? Depardeu, if only she would learn to speak up for herself!"

"I have no choice, my lady." He lifted his arm slightly, with Elena’s hand still on it. "She has abducted me."

Lady Melanthe raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "Elena. You are well-matched with this wicked rogue. As I thought you might be. But the good signor has a declaration to make, and then a feast awaits us on the other vessel."

Elena hardly knew what to expect as the elder councilor stepped forward. He unrolled a scroll, and she hoped it might be a formal dismissal of her from the office of the Prima. But she was wrong. It was not addressed to her at all, but to Allegreto. With all of the pompous words and compliments that could be crammed into every sentence, the wise and magnanimous council of Monteverde invited and urged and begged Allegreto della Navona to return with honor to his native city. On consideration of his service to Monteverde and the Prima, the resolution prohibiting her marriage to one of his distinguished house was rescinded. The council sent their effusive wishes for a long and fruitful marriage, and appointed him to the newly created office of Guardian of the Prima’s Life and Person.

By the time the sonorous voice fell silent, Elena felt a wild urge to smile at the absurdity of this groveling declaration. Guardian of the Prima’s Life and Person! And not even a mention of her resignation—how like the council, to simply ignore what they did not care to acknowledge.

But she looked up at Allegreto, and her smile faded. He had the same lost expression, the same bewildered gaze as after his confession, as if he were not sure where he should look. He seemed like a man who thought it might be some elaborate jest, and waited for the final line that would make everyone burst out in laughter at him.

She pressed his arm, to remind him to reply.

He glanced up, scowling. "You mock me," he said. "Or it is a trick." He looked toward Franco Pietro. "You never agreed to this."

The Riata narrowed his good eye. "No trick. I saw but disadvantage in the barring of our houses from marriage into the highest office of the Republic. It was a foolish act. As to the other—that you return covered in honors—" He shrugged, as if it were a trifle he disdained. "My son has asked it of me, as a boon."

In the space between them, Matteo stood beside Nim, not looking up, stroking his hand hard through the dog’s thick fur.

She felt Allegreto’s arm tighten and work beneath her fingers. She saw what he thought. It was a strange proclamation. A ruse, to bring him into the city where he could be arrested and even killed. This sham of celebration and feasting—they might do it; the marriage was completed, and it would be the only way to free her now for some alliance more useful to the council. It was the old way, the Monteverde that Cara had feared, that had made Allegreto what he was, that Prince Ligurio had fought and failed to overcome. Lies and treachery and murder behind the smile—as Raymond had smiled at her.

Allegreto stepped forward suddenly. The Riata touched the hilt of his sword; a ripple of motion and reaction that went through the men around.

In the taut silence, wind blew a strand of Allegreto’s black hair across his face. He held out his hand. "Peace forever between our houses, Riata. I want it. Let the priest bring a Bible, and we will have it done this instant."

Elena blinked. She stared at Allegreto.

He did not look anywhere but at Franco Pietro. He waited, with his hand held out across a lifetime of hatred, an abyss of suspicion.

The Riata made a sneer with his twisted lip. He reached out and gripped Allegreto. Their fists locked together. "Let it be done."

Elena did not dare speak or even move, for fear of somehow altering their minds with the wrong word. But when the Bible was brought, and the priest stood between Allegreto and Franco, she found Lady Melanthe at her side. They stood and watched while Riata and Navona swore on God’s word that they were no longer enemies.

There was a silence after they spoke. The galliots bumped with hollow wooden thuds against the quay, moved by a rising wind. A few raindrops spattered over the ground. The clouds rumbled with thunder.

"I believe that is Prince Ligurio, looking down in wonder," Lady Melanthe said, casting an amused glance at the sky. "I hope he will not shed tears of joy all over our feast."

Matteo suddenly made a cheer. "Bravo!" he cried in his boy’s voice. "Monteverde!"

Elena turned and knelt down and hugged him while he leaped and danced in her arms, hardly aware of Nim’s black nose at her cheek and the voices raised in jubilance around her.

 

* * *

 

Allegreto kept his gaze on Elena, avoiding any other encounter, still half-lost and uncertain of his place in this new circumstance. He watched uneasily as she received congratulations and honors and even embraces. When Prince Ligurio’s oldest councilor turned to him, reaching out to catch his shoulders, it was an effort to hold himself still and not reach for his dagger while the old man kissed both of his cheeks. But when the others seemed inclined to follow their senior’s example, Allegreto stepped back, unable even for courtesy to tolerate such close quarters.

Lady Melanthe beckoned him, offering reprieve and excuse with a knowing smile. He returned a nod, relieved to attend her. Melanthe understood him well.

She extended her hand as he went to his knee before her. He touched his lips to her fingers, the gesture and the scent of her so familiar that he could almost imagine his father standing by them, feel again the terror of discovery if Gian should guess how they had cheated him of all his aims.

Long ago now, that moment when both of their futures had dangled on a sheer thread of lies and fear. But Melanthe had never faltered in her nerve. Not once. Allegreto rose, meeting her eyes. She seemed smaller, even with her proud bearing and tall headpiece. He had to look down at her, something he never recalled before.

"My lady," he said coolly, exposing nothing of the unexpected emotion that rose in him. "Your husband is well?"

"Lord Ruadrik is well, God be praised. And my son and daughter." Abruptly she held his hand so hard that her rings cut into his fingers. "I wish the same blessings for you, Allegreto."

"Blessings." He gave a slight laugh as he looked away from her, out toward the lake. "That is a strange thought."

"It will soon feel more familiar," she said. "I pray so. For my Ellie’s sake."

He looked back at her and tilted his head. "Do you care so much? I’ve wondered at the incompetence of those knights you chose for her protection."

"The Hospitallars? Ah. Yes, hopeless fools, indeed." She watched Elena laugh as Matteo and Nim cavorted before the crowd, then added softly, "Are all accounts in balance between us now?"

"Damn you, my lady," he murmured. "What a risk it was."

She gave a small shrug. "A chance. When there was no other. Elena was equal to it."

"Aye, she is worse than you in her daring, God defend me."

Lady Melanthe smiled, still watching Elena. "And are we even now, Allegreto?"

"We are, my lady," he said.

"Take care of her," the countess said fiercely. Her rings glittered as she pushed a silken veil back from her shoulder. "There is no other I would trust as you to do it." She turned away, leaving him standing alone amid the gay assembly.

 

* * *

 

In Gian’s tower Elena held open the shutters and looked out at the sunset over the lake. The chamber was cleaned and refurbished, draped in white Damascene silk with red roses woven through it. Nothing was the same—all of Gian’s furnishings were gone. Even the bed had been replaced, and the floor covered over in soft rush mat. But the clear rain-washed air and the mountains looming far across the water were still bathed in pink and gold like a vision of eternity.

She wore a loose robe. She had not allowed Margaret or even Cara to attend her in the tower. She felt fortunate that the whole of the council had not decided to lend their dignified presences to the bedding. But they seemed content to confine themselves to rowdy song and the clatter of metal pots and spoons in the courtyard below. Even in the tower, she could hear Nim’s barking and Matteo’s excited voice among the others. It was the first wedding he had attended, and he found the gay feast and noisy mattinata much to his liking.

Allegreto did not. By the time he came into the chamber, still dressed in his wedding clothes, breathing deeply from the steep flight of stairs, he leaned back on the door and glared at her bale-fully. "God spare us," he muttered. "When did your sister learn to become amorous in her cups?"

"Oh, was she?" Elena asked airily. "I did not notice."

"Only because I would not allow her to sit in my lap." He pushed off from the door, looking at Elena as if she were to blame.

"I think she was a little—nervous."

"No doubt she thought I would poison her wine. Although that did not prevent her from drinking a vat of it."

Elena clasped her hands. "So you did not find your love for her revived?"

"Hell-cat," he said darkly, "I will poison her wine, if she does not comport herself with better modesty."

Elena pressed a smile from her lips. "I know you prefer modest females."

He stalked to the big traveling chest that held her clothing and sat down on the game boards painted on the top. He pulled off his soft ankle boots. Then he sat up, keeping his gaze averted from her. He seemed to find the black-and-white dagger points on the playing table to be of great interest.

She kept her hands clasped together. "I thank you for the vow you made. With Franco."

"It was my penance from the priest." He lifted his head, his look traveling from her toes up to her face. "It was that or walk barefoot to Jerusalem, so..." He shrugged.

Silence prevailed between them. Elena stood by the window, her hair all down about her like a virgin maid’s, her chin lowered a little. From under her lashes, she looked at his feet clad in the silvery-white hose.

"You are not trying to appear modest, are you?" he asked suspiciously.

Elena blinked, her eyes wide.

He rose with an easy move. She lowered her face even more as he walked across the chamber to her, until she could only see his belt and daggers hung low on his hips, and his feet set apart as he stood before her. She kept her fingers clasped and her eyes down as he lifted her chin on his thumb.

"Mary!" he growled. "Have me thrown in some dungeon, before I suppose I’ve wed the wrong bride."

She ran her tongue over her upper lip. "You would like that?"

"Oh, yes." He lowered his mouth to hers, barely touching. "If you will come and torment me there."

"Allegreto," she whispered, looking up into his dark eyes. "I love you."

"My heart is in chains, hell-cat," he said. He pulled her close, his hands in a merciless tangle in her hair. "If I had one."