THIRTEEN

            

 

On a morning in late October they came for Allegreto. The splotches of colored banners, the movement of a troop—he’d seen them marching also on the fortress across the lake where Franco Pietro lay.

The whole chaotic plan for celebration made Allegreto uneasy. He didn’t approve of opening the citadel to crowds, or of the princess exposing herself at the head of a procession that would begin at Val d’Avina and advance to the city. He’d even sent messages to tell her so. But his cautions seemed to fall unheard. Word came that it was her favorite, the Englishman, who promoted the festivities.  Whatever delight he suggested, the princess granted willingly.

So when the soldiers came without warning on the first day of the event, he understood instantly. If she meant to have an execution as the centerpiece of her entertainment, ridding herself of Navona and Riata at one brilliant blow, he could only admire the drama of it. Such a thing would impress the people beyond measure. She had offered mercy and urged peace—Allegreto and Franco had refused it. So everything came to its preordained end, and this was the perfect time to make it count.

He’d tried to prepare himself. He had some slight hopes, floating half-waterlogged in a sea of desolation. He hadn’t yet received a reply from the Pope on his latest appeal and offerings—perpetual masses endowed at Monteverde and Rome and Venice, all of the isle of Il Corvo dedicated to a monastery, and a stone fragment of the Ten Commandments that he’d managed to obtain at extraordinary expense.

He offered what he had with as much meekness as ink could convey on a page. He’d begged the Pope to forgive his inability to send an army.  He had no army at his command, but to have his ban lifted, to have a slender chance at Heaven, he would abase himself before this absurd madman of a Holy Father in any other manner the lunatic desired.

But it was too late now for the Pope. There would be a priest there for Franco; if Allegreto was fortunate he also might be suffered to receive the sacrament in extremity. He could hope for it.

He stood without resistance as they dressed him in green and silver. It was great finery for a man condemned, but he wasn’t spared the manacles they clapped on his wrists, rendering him helpless for the ride down the mountainside. Allegreto prayed that if it was to be a bonfire, she wouldn’t have the courage to watch, for he wasn’t sure he had the courage to endure it in silence. If he found himself howling in everlasting flames, at least there would only be the Devil and the rest of the doomed to hear.

The city gates stood open for them. Crowds lined the streets, staring as he passed, bizarrely silent under the deep toll of bells from every church in the city. It nearly broke his nerve—he thought he could have borne jeering and pelting with refuse better than the expectant waiting.

They passed Navona’s tower enclave. It still bore marks of smoke and flame from the upper windows, but a new portico was under construction lining the street. He recognized faces—men loyal to his house stood atop the wooden scaffolding. He met their eyes, and they bowed their heads one by one as he passed.

There were other signs of destruction and renewal in the city—empty spaces where buildings should have stood, stacks of rubble and pallets of worked stone ready to be levered into place. But it seemed unchanged in its heart, in its fine tall towers that glared at one another across the piazzas and streets. Long banners hung below every window, a hundred colors and designs to mark each house and guild. The cloth drifted with lazy majesty over the streets, lifting and falling, a soft sound above the clatter of armor and hooves as the bells fell silent.

Allegreto felt a rise of his heart as the street turned. Down a narrow cleft of shadow, the colored walls and golden dome of the duomo stood framed in brilliant sunlight. The crowds parted. In a moment he expected to see what pyre or execution block would end his life, but the sight of the church was a glimpse of wonder through a dark tunnel.

He took courage from it as he rode into the open air of the piazza. From the other direction, in a stir of motion, a troop led Franco Pietro into the square. The mass of the duomo came wholly into view, dwarfing the horses and people, the great steps rising to a gigantic bronze door. The sun struck full on the great mosaic of the Annunciation, a glitter of gold and turquoise above the door. Allegreto knew every detail of it without turning his face, as he knew without looking directly at her that Elena stood beneath it at the top of the stairs.

The crowd began to rumble now. Next to the princess stood the bishop, and behind them a cordon of men. Near to her elbow stood a handsome peacock in a tunic adorned by white fleur-de-lis. Allegreto remembered the English insignia with clarity. He stared with cold venom at Raymond de Clare. It spared him looking at Elena, or knowing if she looked at him.

The Englishman paid him no heed. He seemed more interested in Franco Pietro, watching with a solemn look as the Riata was led to the foot of the steps. Allegreto dismounted under the rough command of soldiers. The noise of the people grew louder, anticipating.

Escorted by the guards, he climbed the steps with Franco. Instead of humiliation, a sense of bitter victory filled him to see the Riata share his fate. She gave him that much at least, that there was some ultimate purpose in the end. There was Ligurio’s peace, this mad marvel of an idea she meant to make real, and a white blaze of hate for Franco Pietro that almost blinded Allegreto as he stood before the crowd. He closed his eyes. He didn’t need to see or hear; for once he needed no caution or defense. Vaguely he was aware that the noise of the assembly began to rise to a roar. The tight grip on his arms loosened and left him.

He felt a cool touch lift his hands. The contact startled him. He opened his eyes in a sea of sound, the bellow of the crowd echoing and washing in thunderous waves from the walls of the duomo to the towers and back.

Elena stood before him. She was looking down at his hands, inserting a key into the manacles. He could hear nothing but the roar; see nothing but the heavy gold circle of her crown over the black braids coiled about her head. The chains fell away and struck the ground, the sound of it lost in the clamor. She turned to Franco Pietro beside him and did the same.

The noise of the crowd rose to a deafening pitch, a note of confusion and ferment and outrage. They’d expected what Allegreto had expected. Not this. As he stood in disbelief, she raised her hand high, holding the keys.

Sudden silence rolled outward from where they stood, the crowd-sound falling into the streets and the distance like something living that ran away.

"We are all Monteverde!" she called, her voice loud and strong. "All of us." She lifted her eyes to Franco, and then to Allegreto. She held his gaze for an instant, that open level look, the violet-blue depths of the lake. In the quiet she tossed the keys down onto the stairs, a faint clatter in the sudden immense stillness. "You are free. Do what you will."

He was aware of Franco looking toward him, half-turned to see from his good eye. Allegreto looked back, confounded. He saw Franco unbound—a thousand possibilities seemed to threaten on the instant. There were arms, men, riots; she was overwhelmed and taken down in a flood of combat; Franco declared himself in control; Riata took the streets and the citadel...

Neither of them moved. They both stood as if some sorcery held them in suspended motion while Elena and the crowd waited.

The guards had their weapon hands at ready. Allegreto saw that he could not kill Franco, not without ending in both of them slaughtered on the steps before her eyes. He thought it—saw Franco think it. Allegreto was willing to die, but he didn’t believe Franco was. No, the Riata had only to step back, avoid a blow, and watch Allegreto be cut down for trying.

He wouldn’t leave her that way, in the midst of an attempt at murder. He glared at Franco in defiance. It would be both of them or neither.

The Riata’s lip twisted in disdain. He turned back to the princess as if Allegreto were some mongrel growling from the gutter. With a sudden intake of breath, Franco raised his fist and shouted, "Monteverde!" His voice echoed off the wall of the duomo as he went to his knee before Elena, bowing his head down in a clear act of submission.

The crowd broke into an uproar. Allegreto found Elena turned to him, looking at him steadily—expectantly. Don’t believe him. He stared back at her, willing her to see through this mockery. It’s a ruse. It’s a lie.

But she gave him no choice. She made it impossible to reason. He couldn’t refuse in public to give the same that Franco claimed to offer. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head amid the sheet of sound that broke over him. He said nothing, shouted no declaration of loyalty to please the crowd. She had bound him long past.

After a moment she offered her hand. He took it and pressed it to his lips and forehead.

"Gardi li mo," he said against her skin, as if she could hear him. "You know I am yours."

She curled her hand into a fist and drew it away, touching his shoulder, bidding him rise.

It was like a dream as she leaned up to him and pressed her cheek to his. He wouldn’t look at her. He couldn’t. He made her a stranger in his mind, the warmth of her skin a formal touch, the flash of gold and gems from her crown a barrier. He bore it as she let Franco kiss her hand and rise and press his scarred cheek to hers. Allegreto was ready to kill if the Riata made any deceptive move, any hint of a threat. But the soldiers, too, were ready, and the crowd roaring its approval was another safeguard. At their displeasure he and Franco would be torn apart.

She outwitted them all with this unexpected play.  He felt a flash of admiration for the pure foolish boldness of it, and a profound desire to gut the smug Englishman who stood grinning behind her as if someone had just handed him the keys to the mint. When she turned away from Franco and gave Raymond de Clare a shy, conscious smile in return, Allegreto nearly lost his rule over himself.

Only for a moment did she glance warmly at the English pig. But it was enough. Allegreto felt his mind and heart vanish down a black well, a darkness that finally swallowed him whole.

 

* * *

 

A maid adjusted the net that held her hair and replaced the heavy crown. Elena was sick of it, of holding herself straight and unbending under the weight. She drew a breath and lifted her head, signaling the guard to open the doors. The chamberlain announced her grandly. She walked from her privy chamber to the presence-room, where Dario waited with Franco and Allegreto.

She’d designed the events to keep them well-occupied and within sight of one another, with no time to make connection with any of their followers. She might have freed them, but she wasn’t so rash as to give them easy opportunities.

Only Raymond had known of her plan. Philip and Dario were staunch friends, but their understanding was not wide. Philip was a soldier, and Dario a watchdog to his bones—they couldn’t see beyond their concerns to the greater scope of affairs. They were horrified at what she had done by freeing her prisoners. But Raymond understood. He comprehended Prince Ligurio’s words. Milan threatened, and they must—they must—all stand together.

She hoped that when they understood the danger, Allegreto and Franco would relinquish their enmity and work with her to form a defense. She’d discussed it long with Raymond, and he’d agreed that only a daring stroke could break the impasse. But now she saw Allegreto’s face, and her blood chilled.

Franco bowed immediately, a smooth flourish, withholding nothing. Allegreto looked directly at Elena, his face calm. But there was death in his eyes, cold and certain.

He made a mocking bow, not quite complete. In the failing light from the open windows, it seemed to Elena that they were all a set of gorgeously dressed puppets on a rich stage, surrounded by frescoed walls and tapestries, going through motions set by some unseen master. Her heart was shrinking in her chest. She felt a girl-child among men, as if it were an effrontery even to stand in this room and claim authority over them.

"I won’t delay us long before the banquet." She had to force herself to speak. "I can wait no longer for you to agree to peace between yourselves. There’s word that Milan may make an attempt against us. I require the complete loyalty of your houses to Monteverde above all. Do I have it?"

"Certainly, Princess," Franco said. "Do you wish us to take an oath before God?"

Allegreto’s mouth curled as he glanced at Franco Pietro. "I can’t take any oath before God, for the Pope says my face offends Him." He lifted his dark lashes and looked at Elena. "You know well enough where my loyalty lies."

For one moment she thought of the room in his father’s tower, the brief days of love and pain. But she put it away from her; she couldn’t bear it and find words to speak at the same time. "I don’t require an oath." She lifted her eyes to Allegreto. "Someone once said to me that they are easily made and easily broken. But I don’t think either of you wishes for us to fall before Milan, and as long as we’re divided, we’re in great danger. So I ask you to hold back from creating discord and insecurity among the people."

"I understand, Princess," Franco said. His scarred face was reddened with some emotion, but she didn’t know him well enough to guess what he truly felt. This sermon on loyalty from the young maid who had overthrown him could hardly be sweet to his ears. But she hoped. The meetings with Matteo had gone better.

She looked to Allegreto. "Will you hold your house in check?"

He didn’t reply, but watched Franco Pietro with a shadowed study, that steady, lethal contemplation like a wild creature hidden in the trees. Then, with a soft laugh, he glanced at Elena. "I’ve played this game with you so far, have I not? Princess."

The title hung in the room, a mockery. She knew she would get no clearer answer from him.

Franco gave him a glowering look from his one eye, his hand at his girdle, as if he wore a sword. Then he turned back to Elena. "What word do you have of this offense from Milan?"

"I mean for Philip to advise you both of all we have heard. The ambassador denies it, of course, but there’s a possibility that they intend to use the lake for an attack from the south. It’s well that we’ve repaired the castles there, but they have little yet to garrison them."

"The condottiere?"

She gave him a level glance. "I’ve felt I must keep the mercenaries close."

She didn’t say openly that it was because she feared an uprising or conflict within the city. But he made a grunt of acknowledgment.

"Hire more," he said. "Though the merchants will groan—if it’s needed for defense, they’ll pay."

"We’ll all pay if I hire more," she said bluntly. "But I’ve decided not to use outsiders for our further defense." She held herself still, fighting a desire to step backward. "The main castles in the south belong to Navona." She looked at Allegreto. "I ask Navona to provide the garrisons."

"Him!" Abruptly Franco’s acquiescence slipped. "You’ll put weapons in his hands? No."

Allegreto made a cool nod, ignoring Franco’s outburst. "I can do it."

"I’ll not endure it!" Franco made a step, scowling. "That goes too far."

"Do you think it might inconvenience your plans?" Allegreto asked in a silken voice. "Why should you dislike the idea?"

Franco flung toward him, breathing hard. "Should I suffer a serpent at my back? Foul enough, that I’ve stood by and let you be raised again at my expense."

"At the expense of what you stole from Monteverde and Navona." Allegreto’s hand moved over his belt where his dagger would have been. He opened his fingers wide, his body still. "If you’ve no intention to steal it again, why should it offend you if I garrison my own property?"

"You devil spawn! If she’s fool enough to trust you, I’m not," Franco declared. "You’d have a knife in my back as soon as—"

A sharp rap on the outer door interrupted him. Franco stopped and turned, striding to the window, taking a deep and furious breath of the soft evening air. He crossed his arms.

Elena wasn’t sorry to suspend the talk. She glanced at the guard, bidding him to open. There was a commotion as the arched doors swung wide.  She heard Raymond speaking hoarsely and saw him half-standing, supported by some of Philip’s men. He was bloodied, his doublet slashed and his face scarred with dirt. When he saw her, he stumbled forward.

"I came to tell you—" He dragged himself up, holding his arm around his ribs and staring toward Franco Pietro. He clamped his jaw closed and leaned onto the arm of the man holding him.

"What’s happened?" Elena hurried forward.

"He was attacked on the way into the citadel, Your Grace," the man said. "Half-killed him, but he’d have us carry him straight to you with the news."

"She must know," Raymond gasped, his face white as he gripped his doublet. Blood seeped through his fingers. His legs were failing under him. "Tell her."

Elena stood back in horror, a sudden coldness gripping her heart. "Tell me," she said.

"It looked to be Riata men, by their insignia," the guard said, averting his eyes from where Franco Pietro stood.

"That’s a lie!" Franco exclaimed. He pushed himself from the window. 

Raymond slid to his knees, panting. "Princess. I came. For you to know as soon as—" His voice trailed off. His eyes rolled and he lost his senses, going slack against the guard’s leg.

Elena made a faint sound, terrified. When his eyes flickered open again, she found her voice. "Bring the surgeon and a hurdle," she ordered, turning to Dario. "Now!"

Dario’s face was brutal, his thick jaw set hard. He went to the door and issued commands, but made no move to leave the room.

"Riata had nothing to do with this," Franco snarled. "He’s English! Why should we attack him?"

Elena glanced at Franco. She’d already thought the same. Her lip quivered with a sudden dreadful weakness. She didn’t think she could look at Allegreto, she was so afraid of what she would see in his face. But she forced herself to turn to him.

He was observing Raymond without any emotion, watching as they brought the hurdle and helped him onto it. But when Allegreto lifted his eyes and met hers, a subtle change came into his face, a defiance. He didn’t flinch from looking at her. He showed no sign of shame or triumph. He seemed to dare her to accuse him.

Franco did it for her. "Navona arranged for this, by God! To discredit me before you! We’re not such fools as to kill some foreign envoy without reason, and wear our badge while we’re at it!"

"And I’m not such a fool as to let him live if I meant to kill him," Allegreto said.

"No doubt you intended for him to be left alive," Franco snapped, "so that he could prate of Riata insignia with his last breath."

"He’s not breathing his last," Allegreto said with contempt. "More’s the pity."

The surgeon looked up from where Raymond lay stretched on the hurdle. "Take this man to the surgery. This is no fit place to examine him."

To see Raymond carried out still and bloody wrenched her with guilt. She should never have allowed him near to her, never permitted friendship or intimacy. She’d feared that she’d been unjust to him, using his devotion to sustain her courage when both of them knew his love had no future. But he’d found reasons to linger in Monteverde, and this was the price.

"Send me news instantly," she ordered the surgeon. "No one is to speak abroad of this."

"As you command, Your Grace!" He bowed, hurrying out with the others.

Elena stood looking after them until the double doors swung slowly closed under the hand of the guard outside. The wood made a hollow sound. She was left with Dario and Franco and Allegreto.

"No one is to speak of this outside," she said again, staring at the heavy door.

"I’ll swear on God’s holy writ that I didn’t cause it," Franco said. "Whoever attacked him—it was no Riata."

She turned slowly. A vision was in her mind, of Allegreto’s face leaning close to hers, his hands in her hair. "Someday I may find this Raymond, and kill him," he whispered in her memory. 

She felt him now without looking at him, felt his dark, still presence. She hugged her arms around herself. 

Allegreto offered no oath of innocence. The daylight had almost faded, leaving the corners of the chamber in dimness. The candle flames swayed in evening air, making the faint shape of her shadow bend and rock on the wall.

When she finally looked back at him, he gave a chilly laugh. He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Of course I must have done it," he said. "The Devil knows I wanted to." He opened his eyes with a look of disdain. "Arrest me, then, and let us complete this farce."

Beneath the scorn, there was something else—a barely contained wildness, a despair in him, as if he didn’t care what she did to him.

"Allegreto," she asked, "you didn’t cause it?"

"I did not." His voice seemed oddly helpless. "If I’d aimed to kill him, he would be dead."

She knew that for a certain truth. Yet she hadn’t seen Zafer since the morning; he’d vanished among the crowds before the duomo. She hardly trusted herself or her own judgment. She bent her head, feeling the crown weight it forward.

It was beyond forgiveness, the way she could love him when she knew what he was. She knew he could say false and make an angel believe it true. She had seen him hold a knife at Dario’s throat. She had heard the crack of a man’s neck in the darkness and felt the blood pool at her feet. There was no one else who had reason to hurt Raymond; the Riata knew nothing of what he had once meant to her. It was a senseless attack on a chance victim—for anyone but Allegreto.

In the deepening gloom he waited. He stood apart, her beautiful killer, accused and tried and condemned by all reason. She could hardly check herself from going to him and pulling him hard into her embrace, holding him to her heart.

He said he hadn’t done it. With no reason but that she was blind in love, she chose to believe him.

"It must have been a band of ruffians," she said slowly. "I’ll see that Philip looks out for any further disturbance."

Franco made a growl of protest, uncrossing his arms.

Elena glanced toward him. "Consider well if you have an objection, my lord," she said. "The only witnesses say it was your men."

The Riata scowled at her, his eye-patch a black disfigurement across his face. But he said nothing. Allegreto stood uncertainly, his defiance suddenly vanished, as if he wasn’t sure what she meant. 

From outside the window came the sound of church bells tolling evensong. "Let us proceed to the banquet," she said. "The surgeon can attend me there with news."

 

* * *

 

Allegreto sat next to a young councilman whose father had been tortured once by Gian. They were courteous to one another, having no weapons at hand. Elena used that much sense at least: Dario’s men had searched every guest at the gate for any blade or means of mayhem.

Franco had changed nothing in his years of occupying the citadel. It was all as Allegreto remembered, still a mix of rough ancient stone and the improvements that Ligurio had begun to make, the windows cut into walls that had seen no light through them for centuries. From where Allegreto was seated at the high table, he could see the long line of frescoed drapes that ended abruptly when the painters had put away their brushes on the day of Prince Ligurio’s death. 

He was yet benumbed by what she had done. Even now, even here—especially here—he couldn’t shake himself of Ligurio’s dream and how she stood for it.

He had no part in it, and yet he loved her and this fantasy of a place where it wasn’t tyranny and fear that ruled. He loved the fragile concord that she held together by sheer will and faith and stubborn idiocy. If he’d cast a hundred horoscopes, he would never have foreseen it. His lady queen, she had dared to make things true that no living man had even hoped to dream.

He didn’t know if she believed him or not, that he hadn’t tried to kill her English lover. She had her reasons to ignore such an incident in the midst of her celebrations, to avoid any arrests or storm of accusations. But when she accepted his word, only his word and no more, it had been like one of Ligurio’s windows punched through stone walls, a shaft of sun into a place that had never been lit before. He sat with a hole inside of him, not sure if he was bleeding or burning from the brightness.

There were murmurs from the long tables below, as there had ever been. His presence, and Franco’s, was no doubt a topic of heated argument. As the sweet fried bread and meat jellies were served between courses, a trio of carolers presented a ballad that described the triumphant entrance of the Princess Elena into Monteverde. The singers added some flourishes to the story—Riata and Navona came away with more credit than either deserved. He supposed that the princess had made her wishes clear. She’d been utterly determined to drag him and Franco Pietro to seats at the high table.

Raymond de Clare would live. She’d had word of that before the first courses began. Allegreto had seen the relief in her face when the steward came to whisper in her ear. It cleaved him with jealousy, but he was still bewildered by the strange kernel of joy at her trust in him. It tempered malice, made it difficult to understand himself. Made it difficult to eat. Difficult even to breathe.

Dario and Matteo and one of Franco’s men performed credence at the high table. Matteo had grown. He had more assurance now, only tipping the wine a little too far the first time he came to Allegreto, spilling a few drops over his towel. The boy took his ritual sip, looking over the rim of the cup at Allegreto with a particular unblinking look.

It put Allegreto instantly on guard. He realized how he’d been drifting on some thoughtless cloud. Long-ingrained habit made him attend always to what passed around him, but he had let his concentration slip too far in such an exposed place.

He realized that Dario, too, was noting Matteo’s subtle move to place the clean silver trenchers and blunted knives.  Allegreto drew the platter toward him, lifting it just enough to feel the slip of paper beneath. He pulled the trencher slightly over the edge of the table, and gave his neighbor a wry smile for his clumsiness as the message slipped unseen into his lap. 

 

* * *

 

Nimue leaped and cavorted, a pale shape in the moonlit tournament grounds. Allegreto walked freely beside Matteo— hardly allowing himself to enjoy the sensation after the months of captivity. He had no doubt that there were watchers on him, but Matteo had chosen his ground well. As soon as they reached the lists, Nimue bounded immediately out onto the wide grassy yard, beyond the bedecked scaffolds standing ready for the hastilude in the morning. Allegreto and Matteo followed her. There were others strolling in the grounds and standing on the walls that overlooked the city, but no one in the center of the great open space. A half-moon gave light enough to see Nimue trot along the line of the wooden lists, investigating smells.

Allegreto stopped and leaned against the heavy railing. He had a moment’s thought to say how tall Matteo had grown, and then recalled the disgust of his own childhood at the mention of such a thing. "What passes?" he asked instead.

"You don’t have to be afraid of me," Matteo said, hiking himself onto the single rail. "If you are."

"I don’t?" Allegreto looked aside at him solemnly. "Have you forgot all the means to kill me that I taught you?"

"No!" The boy jumped down, and then hiked himself back up again. "No. I meant—don’t suppose I’ve turned to Riata."

"You are Riata," Allegreto said quietly. "I never meant you to forget that."

"No, I—avoi, I am. But—" He had an unhappy break in his voice.

Allegreto waited. He hadn’t expected that Matteo would have some truly serious message for him, but he wasn’t averse to causing Franco to writhe and fret over whether he meant to steal the boy again. And Elena had seen them leave together. She hadn’t prevented it. She trusted him. The gap in his soul drank in the strange sensation.

"You must know that she wants me to be great friends with my father," Matteo said anxiously.

"I heard such."

"Do you mind?"

Allegreto shrugged. "He’s your father. The Bible says to honor him."

"Were you friends with your father?"

Allegreto lifted his head and gave a short laugh. "No." He curled his hands around the railing. "But I was a bastard son." 

"I suppose that’s different." 

"Very different."

Matteo dropped to the ground. He squatted on his knees and pulled at the grass. "Did you like your father?"

Allegreto began to wish he hadn’t come. He watched Nimue gallop across the yard to some other scent. After a long moment he said, "I loved him."

Matteo ripped up a handful of grass. "I wish you were my father," he said in a muffled voice. "I love you."

Allegreto felt the gap inside himself tearing open. Like a vision through it, he could see wheels beyond wheels of hate and scheming, of never-ending fears. He could see how he had been Gian’s tool, and had made Matteo his. All driven and pursued and drawn by love.

"Franco doesn’t mind if I make mistakes," Matteo said, as if it were an affront. "He says he doesn’t care, because I’m his son."

Allegreto was silent, gazing up into the dark. The stars were cold points of radiance hanging against the deep black arch of the air.

"I don’t want to like him," Matteo hissed miserably. "I’m afraid that Englishman is going to kill him."

Allegreto turned his head. "Englishman?"

"Signor Raymond. When I was out with Nim one night, I heard him talking to someone. They were speaking low, but I heard my father’s name. And they were trying to be secret."

Allegreto stood straight. "Who did he speak to? What language?"

"I couldn’t see who it was. I climbed up to look, but they were above me on the ramparts. They spoke in the French tongue. I could tell it was the Englishman because of how he says the words."

"Did you hear else?"

"Only Franco’s name, and talk of money. The other one spoke of gold." 

"When?" 

"Ten nights past." 

"Did you tell Dario of this?"

"No. I don’t care if they kill Franco. He’s Riata." His young voice shook a little. "But I—" He stopped and then said, "I thought I would tell you."

Nimue suddenly ceased her investigations of a fluttering cloth that adorned the viewing stands. She turned and took a bound, standing stiff-legged, her plumed white tail curled up over her back. Her deep bark echoed in the yard.

From the top of the steep pavement that led down into the tourney yard, torches flared. Men came striding, their shadows a wild dance against the castle walls. Nimue ran forward, a rumbling growl in her throat. She stood between Allegreto and Matteo and the newcomers, barking a loud warning, until suddenly her ears lowered and her tail waved in welcome as she ran to make her greetings.

Franco Pietro ignored her, pacing forward aggressively, still showing a slight limp from the sword wound in his leg. He had four of his men at his back. Allegreto held himself still, lounging against the railing, measuring the distance.

Franco halted, just far enough away. "Matteo," he said. "Leave him."

Allegreto put his hand on Matteo’s shoulder and gave the boy a push. "Go."

Matteo resisted, leaning back against Allegreto’s hand. Nimue turned from fawning and sniffing at Franco’s knees and bounded happily to the boy.

"Go with him, Matteo," Allegreto said, giving him another light shove. "Honor thy father," he said mockingly. He didn’t care to linger in such an uncertain position, with no weapon on him. Matteo took a step forward. The boy grabbed Nimue’s collar and stood sullenly.

Allegreto nodded once to Franco. "I bid you eve." He rested his hands on the rail and vaulted it, walking away into the dark.

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t breach the citadel from outside, but once he was within the gates, Allegreto knew how to move through every corner and stone of it. He covered his candle and walked softly through the dark rooms that occupied the upper floor of the great tower. The alchemical tools were long vanished, but Ligurio’s library was still intact, the boards lined with books and unbound papers. Allegreto stood a moment, remembering the prince and a boy hungry for gentle words and wisdom, for things he had never known. They’d spoken of science and history and politics. They’d even argued sometimes, a thing Allegreto would never have dared with Gian.

Here amid Ligurio’s books, his thoughts, Allegreto tried to reason what the prince would say. Allegreto didn’t understand Franco Pietro now. A year had passed. Franco should have made some move long since to reclaim Monteverde, to purge Navona in a final sweep.

This attack upon the Englishman—it was a clumsy attempt, pointless, far too inept for Franco. Matteo thought Raymond de Clare had accepted money to kill his father, but from what little the boy had heard, it might as easily have been the reverse, a pact for Raymond to perform some deed for the Riata. The Englishman was close to the princess; the word was he saw her daily. It could have been murder or information or only another meeting with his son that Franco desired.

And now someone in Riata livery gave the English whore a warning, but let him live. Or it was Franco’s attempt to blame the thing on Allegreto and have him arrested again—a poor gamble with witnesses who had seen Riata badges on the Englishman’s attackers.

Allegreto stared at a map of Monteverde that hung upon the wall. No thoughtful voice from the past spoke to him. No ready answers came. He only thought that Franco Pietro must be failing in his mind. They were both of them breaking somehow, splintering in directions that had no logic.

From the boards under his feet, he felt the faint vibration of doors closing in the chamber below. He blew out his candle and let his eyes adjust to darkness. After a few moments he moved quietly out of the library.

In the bathing room, faint moonlight from a narrow glass window fell on the naiad that still presided over the basin, spreading her marble arms and offering to pour water from her mouth. It was one of Ligurio’s inventions, a piped system that would bring water down from a cask heated on the ramparts to Ligurio’s bath and the ladies’ quarters on the floor beneath. Allegreto walked to the statue and put his ear to the nymph’s cool stone lips.

From this place, it was possible to hear all that passed in the ladies’ chamber below, where Melanthe had once resided.

Elena’s voice came to him, her affectionate chiding voice that she used with unruly dogs and children. He closed his eyes, leaning his shoulder on the wall to listen. She had a diversity of voices—the unyielding tone of the Prima di Monteverde, the brave cry that echoed over the crowds and claimed they were all one, the husky whisper that bid Allegreto take her deeply, rolling in his arms to arch and tremble beneath him. Now she harried the dallying Matteo to his prayers, leading the boy in a recitation of names of the souls they asked God to bless and absolve. Allegreto heard Franco’s name, and even his own.

Perhaps it would have some sway with God, the prayers of a boy and a maid—no matter the maid was no pure virgin and the boy had already tried murder. To Allegreto it seemed there was an innocence, a sincerity about their voices that might have some effect. He didn’t suppose anyone else alive had ever raised a prayer in his behalf. He felt vaguely ashamed, and grateful to be included. He didn’t even begrudge Franco’s name in the roll.

After prayers there was a small commotion as it seemed that Nimue tried to climb onto the bed with Matteo, and had to be cast out sternly and sent to her mat. Then Matteo wanted to talk to Elena of the hastilude on the morrow, but she answered only with mumbles that Allegreto couldn’t discern through the muffling bed-curtains. The boy’s voice finally faded away.

Allegreto waited a long time. Then he rose, his eyes well attuned to the darkness now, and went softly down the stairs from Ligurio’s chamber. He knew the way by feel, knew the door at the foot of the stairs had no lock or bar; that it would open silently with the right steady pressure.

As he came into the bedchamber, Nimue lifted her head, a pale outline in the dark. She knew better than to bark at him—from the time she was a pup, she’d learned to give silent greetings to Allegreto or Zafer. Allegreto stood still as the dog rose and padded to him, sniffing and pressing against his legs. He rubbed her ears and scratched the place under her collar that she liked. Together they moved across the chamber to the window embrasure where Allegreto had always slept when Melanthe ordered him out of her bed.

He was taller now, and the stone had no pillows or cushion on it. He drew up one leg and let the other hang over the edge, resting his foot on Nimue’s warm coat. From the bed came a faint, steady sound of sleep. He laid his head back against the window and kept his vigil, as he always had.

 

* * *

 

Elena stared through the crack in the bed-curtains. She lay tense, telling herself there was no one there. She didn’t rest well; any small sound could have woken her from the first light drowse of sleep. Matteo was breathing steadily, a child’s soft comforting snores. Nimue drew a great breath and let go a sigh from somewhere by the window.

There was no one. The outer door was under guard all night. The dog wouldn’t have suffered any intruder. But she sat up, trying to see into darkness.

The attack on Raymond had unnerved her. She chose to believe Allegreto, but if he hadn’t done it, then someone else had. Monteverde had its boisterous youths and a few street thieves, but they did not wear Riata’s colors.

Nim sighed again, her toenails scraping wood as she turned on the floor and resettled herself. Elena tried to calm her thumping heart. She caught the edge of the bed-curtain and drew it open as silently as she could.

She distinguished Nim’s white shape beneath the window. And a shock of fear flashed through her to see the shape of a man against the glass.

"Do not fear, Elena," he said softly.

She made a faint sound, holding her hand over the pulse pounding in her throat. "Allegreto?" she whispered. 

"Yes."

She let go a great breath of relief, trying to gather her wits. Then she carefully laid back the sheets and slipped from the bed.

She wore only a light shift. The night air outside the curtains was cool, the Turkey carpet soft against her feet. Nim scrambled up as Elena drew near the window. She saw Allegreto rise, a black silhouette against the round panes of glass.

"What is it?" she asked, a bare whisper.

"Franco is at liberty," he said, so low she could hardly catch it. He shrugged. "So I’m here. Gardi li mo."

"You can’t stay here." She couldn’t judge the distance in the dark, and her leg touched him. She felt his hand on her arm.

He made a faint sound, like a slow moan in his throat, moving his hand up her shoulder. "I should not."

Her body took instant flame at his touch. He pulled her against him, enfolding her in his arms, crushing her to velvet and silk and his solid shape.

Elena allowed it, going pliant in response. Her head fell back as he kissed her, his hands sliding down her back, tangling in her loose hair; heat and desire like smoke rising through her brain.

He broke away, breathing deeply. "Elena," he whispered beside her ear. "You’ve driven me mad. I know not what I do anymore."

Matteo turned and shifted in his sleep, causing the bed to creak. Elena slid her fingers into Allegreto’s hair. She held him close, tracing her lips over his jaw, barely touching. She could feel him restrain himself, his breath caught, his hands motionless, pressing into her skin.

Suddenly a shudder ran through him. He gripped her close, bending to her throat. "Come up the stairs." His whisper was hoarse against her skin.

She nodded, her spirits lifting with reckless joy. It was madness, after all. He twined his fingers with hers and led her. He closed the door behind them, leaving an inquisitive Nim in the bedchamber with Matteo.

Elena ran lightly up the chilly stairs. She felt enlivened, almost weightless without the crown and the furs and the heavy robes of office. It was a secret thing, a mystery between them. She turned at the top, shivering. He caught her in his arms and spun her, drew her unerring to the bed alcove in the dark.

She fell upon it with a sound of delight, stifling her hand over her mouth like a silly child in mischief. All fear and care and worry fell away from her as he came over her, pulling the shift over her head, kissing her throat and her breasts. He tore back the sheets and turned her with him into the depths of the bed.

She quivered, his touch pouring like light through every limb. She sought eagerly for his lips, drawing him close, naked beneath his weight.

There was more moonlight here. When he pulled back, leaning over her on his arms, she could see his face and the gleam of silver threads on the collar of his tunic. His beauty yet stunned her, even more now, when she hadn’t seen him for months.

"How I love you," she whispered, touching his face.

He groaned and kissed her palm. Then he rolled away from her, casting a glance about the silent chamber. "It is folly. God shield us, this is folly."

She knew it was. She didn’t care. She caught the folds of his tunic and worked at the light belt that crossed his hips. She drew the velvet tunic upward. He sat upright suddenly and tore it over his head, taking his shirt with it. She pulled him to her, kissing his chest, running her fingers along the fine shape of his collarbone and shoulder.

On a loop about his neck hung a ring, a soft flash of gold. She caught it in her fist and held it to her lips. Then she flung her arms about him and drew her teeth over his nipple.

He gripped her hair, his body going still. "Don’t," he whispered hoarsely. "Have mercy."

She would not. She twined her leg with his, pressing up against him, opening her body for him as she closed her teeth.

He gasped for air, holding her head against his chest. Elena slid her hands down and dragged at the ties on his hose. She slipped her fingers beneath into the hot gap, seeking the heavy shape of his manhood. She did not hurt him, but caressed the tip gently while his mouth pressed hard into her hair.

He made sounds of desperation, holding himself taut. He shivered as she ran her hand down the length of him. Then he wrenched away, pulling her upright. "Turn over," he hissed, rising. He made her roll away from him, quick and brutal, dragging her up by the waist and shoving his cock between her legs from behind.

Elena knelt, eager to be penetrated. But it was his hand that found her place, sliding over her, partly inside, sending waves of pleasure through her body. She arched against it, closing her legs on his shaft. He began to move hard against her, thrusting against her buttocks, sliding on the exquisite wetness between her thighs.

She pressed her face into a velvet pillow, panting, swallowing the whimpering cry that rose in her throat. She bent down before him, her hair falling around her, taking his thrusts, each pressure of his hand carrying her closer to ecstasy. When it came, it burst over her, a throbbing rupture that seized her limbs and made her cry out into the pillow. He held her hips and made a stifled groan, a sound deep in his chest as he arched, his body surging against her. Warmth flooded her belly, his seed spilling free as he gave a hoarse sob.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her up against him. They knelt together in the bed, the last tremors of his climax still flowing through him. Elena leaned her forehead on the pillow, all her strength gone. She breathed deeply and pressed back up against him for the lingering pleasure of it.

For a long time he held her under him, his shaft growing soft. The wet sign of his completion slid and tickled between her thighs. He exhaled in a harsh breath, a warm flow over her back and her hair, and pushed himself upright.

Elena turned over on her side. The scent of him covered her. He pulled her back against him, lying close.

"Christ, we’re fools," he whispered. "I will have to go away."

She caught his hands and gripped them against her. "No."

"I cannot endure it," he said, pushing up, pulling free of her hold. "I can’t leave you to Franco. But I can’t stay by you, or we’ll..." He looked about at the disarrayed sheets like a man who had just woken from a nightmare. "This is too great a hazard. Someone will discover it."

His seed had stained the bed; even in the dimness Elena could see it, and feel it spread slick on her belly and thighs. The musky perfume of coupling was strong. But she turned over and pulled him down again, holding him to her, drowning in the feel of his skin and the heavy heat of his body on hers.

He kissed her open-mouthed, resisting her pull even as his tongue searched deep. He wrenched free and rolled over, rising from the bed. As he grabbed his shirt and tunic, he murmured, "Wait here."

Elena watched him vanish through the dark mass of a doorway. She lay among the tousled sheets and breathed the scent of what they had done. She thought of the rest of her life without this, the rest of her life as the past year had been; a cold pretense of power, uneasy vigilance, never allowing what she felt to show. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned into the pillow.

She understood Cara’s fears for her now. She knew why her sister had wept and turned away, as if Elena were already lost to life. And yet each day that she looked out of her grandfather’s window over the city and the lake, she felt an ache in her, a love for the stern beauty of the stone towers, for the people crowding in the narrow streets below, the chaos of color and sound as the merchants shouted and donkeys brayed. The common people were like children, living each moment readily; quick to laugh and argue, to drop their work to gather and cheer whenever Elena showed herself in the city. The nobles and merchants of high family had more reserve, but they too lived with vigor, with a delight in paintings and gorgeous clothes and the eternal competition to build the most impressive tower. She had met men of education who spoke to her with respect, and talked to her of books as if she were a man able to have judgments of her own.

She didn’t hate Monteverde. She could not. It was hers. Her home and her own people, and the very thought of Milan ruling over them made her sick and angry.

She hugged the pillow to her breast, feeling the gold embroidery scratch her skin. When he said he would go away, she knew where he would go. Into exile again. Il Corvo and the black castle. Exile. As long as she had been able to look out the window, across the lake, and know that he was there, she could endure it. If he went beyond where she could see, she didn’t think she had the power to go on.

She could turn away from all of it. She thought of it sometimes in the dark, hearing the guard change outside her door. She thought of it now.

His silent silhouette passed from the door and moved across the chamber, returning. "Bathe with this," he said softly, passing her a dampened towel. "Then you must go. I’ll do what I can to arrange the bedsheets."

Elena used the towel to wash herself. She sat up, cleansing away the traces as she could, and stood. "You will not go now," she said anxiously, holding his arms.

"Not yet." He brushed his lips to her forehead. "There is Franco. And—something else." He paused. He held her cheeks between his palms, frowning down at her. "For the love of God, be wary, Elena! Let me send Zafer to you."

She stood in his hold. "I have Dario."

"Dario is too trusting," he said. He gave a dry laugh under his breath. "He even trusts me. If Zafer were with you, I’d never have been able to reach your bedchamber."

She swallowed. "Do not send Zafer, then."

He clasped her tightly to him, pressing his lips to her hair. Elena stood holding him hard, trying not to believe that she might never have this moment again.

"You must return," he said. "We’ve been too long here."

"Allegreto." She lifted her head. "Let us go back." She wrapped her fingers around his arms. "Back to the island. We can go together, and leave all of this."

His body grew still. He pushed her away, looking down at her face.

"We’d be safe there," she said. "I could be with you."

He tilted his head a little, gazing down at her as if he looked at something far away and lost. "There’s safety there no longer, Elena. There never was." He traced his finger down her cheek. "Wherever I am is hazard for you."

"I don’t care," she said desperately. "Am I safe here without you? No—it’s as you said—there’s no place in the world without jeopardy."

He closed his eyes. His black lashes rested on his skin. "Elena, you tear my heart. And I don’t have one."

"You do," she whispered. "You gave it to me to guard." She made a small sad sound, pressing her hand to the shape of the ring beneath his tunic. "I’ve done poor work of it."

He shook his head, lowering his forehead to hers. "My only queen." He took her chin and kissed her gently. "You’re all that I will ever love, in this life and beyond."

She clutched the loose folds of his unbelted tunic in her fists, leaning to him, burying her face against him. "Do not desert me," she breathed.

"I’ll be here." He set her away, pushing her chin up with his thumbs. "Even if you cannot see me. Now you must go down, before Matteo discovers you gone."