FOURTEEN

      

 

Allegreto scorned tournaments and the ignorant blocks who galloped about on horses, knocking their heads together for the joy of it. Franco Pietro had accepted the princess’s invitation to participate; he was striding around dressed in full armor, braying to his men like a heroic donkey. He made great show of kneeling before the dais where the princess and Matteo sat, his black armor gleaming dully under the blue shield painted with Riata’s dragon badge.

He was good. It was an old thorn he’d twisted often in Allegreto’s side. Gian Navona had never allowed his bastard son to participate in the lists. Franco had taunted him with cowardice, urging Allegreto to ignore his father and at least join the boys in their practice for the events.

Allegreto had never been such a fool as that. He wouldn’t give Franco a chance to knock him down with a blunted lance, or Gian a reason to doubt his obedience. So he’d stood against the wall and watched, as he did now.

To the low-pitched, eerie moan of the long mountain horns peculiar to Monteverde, knights from Ferrara and Tuscany and Milan fought.  There were even some Germans, and a pair of French knights from the condottieri. It was a hastilude, merely for pleasure, and so the weapons were dulled, but the Riata made an excellent showing by bashing several contenders off their mounts. The walls of the citadel were draped with banners and crowded with spectators who waved colorful flags, shouting wildly at each course.  The cheers rose to a passionate roar when Franco challenged the knight from Milan and rode off the field triumphant, leaving his opponent on the ground and leading away the warhorse as a prize.

Whatever bitterness they might have felt for Franco Pietro before, he was beloved of the crowd now. Even Matteo was standing, shouting with the rest as his father rode to the princess and presented the armored destrier with a bow. The boy said something eagerly to Elena, received a smiling nod, and sprang over the draped railing with a child’s carelessness. Nimue came right after him, under the rail, nearly taking down a swag of cloth as she scrambled from the dais. Matteo took possession of the great warhorse and led it from the lists at his father’s side.

Allegreto stood straight from the wall. He pushed his way through the swarm of onlookers and walked alone up the steep ramp that led from the level of the tournament yard to the main fortress.

He avoided the imposing shadow of the great tower and circled instead through the smithy, where all work was suspended, even the bellows and tools carried down to the tournament grounds to provide repairs. In the deserted precincts of the upper citadel, he passed through the empty guard barracks and entered a small courtyard. The walls resounded with distant sound, a faint rumble in the quiet. In the afternoon light, olive trees and herbs gave off a pleasant scent.

The tourney would be over soon. The princess was to journey part of the distance to d’Avina before nightfall, in preparation for the reenactment of her first glorious procession to the gates of Monteverde. Allegreto thought it a foolish scheme, a dangerous excursion from the city. But her favorite, Raymond, had put the idea in her head, and so country maids were harvesting sunflowers and mending their best clothes all along the road from the mining town, in readiness to laud the princess as she passed.

Allegreto paused in the court, looking at the small door that led to the guards’ infirmary. It was a chamber cut into the side of the rock itself, bricked out by more stones to make a room. Broom weeds grew in the cliff beside the deep passage to the open door.

There was no sign of the surgeon. The single guard was snoring softly, propped insensible against the stone wall. Zafer had made sure of that. Allegreto moved silently into the doorway. Raymond de Clare lay on a pallet, sleeping. There was a bandage about his head, and another across his ribs.

Allegreto leaned on the crude frame of the door. The Englishman seemed to be resting easily for a man who had been almost beaten to death. Zafer had discovered from the surgeon that Clare had no bones broken, and only a few cuts across his chest. From the moment Raymond had stumbled into the presence-chamber, whining as if he were like to expire, Allegreto had been sure he wasn’t gravely injured.

It would be easy to gravely injure him now. Easy enough to take one of the surgeon’s knives from the box by the door and slip it into the Englishman’s heart. The wound might even be overlooked—Allegreto could use the most slender pick and wipe the spot of blood on the bandages. The man died of some internal harm from the beating. And Raymond de Clare would no longer be a question, for Allegreto or anyone else.

For a few moments he amused himself with the possibility. The Englishman was a well-looking harlot. She had written of his first kiss as if he were Galahad.

It was tempting. But she wouldn’t like it if she found out. She believed Allegreto now. Took his word. He discovered that it would be a painful thing to lie to her.

Allegreto kicked a pebble across the floor. Raymond jerked on his pallet. The Englishman came upright quickly, reaching for his sword. Allegreto watched him realize that he wasn’t armed, or alone. Raymond stared at Allegreto for an instant, started to scramble up, and remembered he was mortally wounded. He sagged back on the pallet.

"Are you in dire pain?" Allegreto asked, lifting his eyebrows.

Raymond shuddered and laid his head back. "Pain enough. Curse the Riata villains." Then he turned his head with a scowl. "You’re Navona."

"I am." Allegreto gave a courteous nod. "And I won’t dispute your opinion of Riata."

Raymond made a soft snort. He put his arm over his chest, as if it hurt him. "Villains, the lot of you! You’ve done nothing but cause her sorrow. Where’s the guard?"

"Elsewhere," Allegreto said.

Raymond looked up at him. Allegreto leaned in the doorway, his ankles crossed.

"What do you want?" the Englishman said testily, tugging at the bandage across his chest. "Do you also wish to kill me?"

"I desire nothing so much," Allegreto murmured, "but it would cause the princess sorrow. Foolish as she may be for it."

Raymond plucked at the binding. His bare shoulders had begun to sweat. "I could say the same to you, Navona. I could find it in my heart to murder you for what you did to her."

"Get up and try it," Allegreto said.

The other man glared at him, then laid his head back on the wall, his face turned away.

"But you’re injured," Allegreto said. "I beg your pardon. I don’t wish to quarrel with you. Or to kill you. It was a small jest."

"I’m hugely amused," Raymond said.

"Let’s talk a little of money." Allegreto smiled. "By chance that’ll be more to your taste. Who paid you to feign this attack on you?"

Raymond closed his eyes. "Oh, is that what the two of you have invented to mislead her? I feigned it! Does she believe you?" He gave a laugh and caught at his ribs. "And what sinister mission do I have that makes me smash my own head and cut myself open?"

"That’s what I wish to know."

The Englishman turned with a sneer. "I have no mission, Navona, but that I love her, though you’d comprehend nothing of that! I’ll do what I can to protect her from you and Franco. I begged her—but she was so rash as to set the pair of you free to work your evil. She thinks you have some honor in you." He made a commendable groan as he turned his back, lying undefended on the pallet with his face to the wall.

"Honor I may not possess," Allegreto said softly, "but I have five thousand sovereigns for you, if you’ll work for me."

Raymond put his hand over his head. "You make me sick."

Allegreto observed him thoughtfully. "I wish your recovery well, then," he said to the Englishman’s back. "If you think again, you can find me."

He walked quietly out of the chamber. Zafer waited in the shade of an overhanging oak. They moved together just inside the barracks.

"Don’t lose sight of him," Allegreto said.

Zafer nodded. "You discovered anything, my lord?"

"No. Only that he doesn’t believe I have five thousand in gold to line his purse. I set about it badly. I should have played his friend." He shrugged.

Zafer made no remark. He only said, "The guard will awaken soon, my lord. I will keep watch."

 

* * *

 

She summoned them again to the presence-chamber, Franco with his hair still showing damp from a bath, and Allegreto wearing boots as if he meant to travel.

Elena was dressed to ride. Her retinue all stood gathered with Philip and Dario in readiness to escort her from the city. She felt herself grow heated as she caught Allegreto’s dark glance. It was impossible not to think of the night before, of his kisses and his body thrust against hers. She had looked for him all day, and seen him sometimes, leaning insolently in the shadow of the walls, lounging like one of the young bloods of the city who bet their fortunes on the breaking of a lance.

She tried to avoid looking at him now. She complimented Franco Pietro, thanking him for his brave performance at the tournament. It was exactly what she’d hoped for. The people had a new affection for him, and he’d represented Monteverde against Milan, instead of Riata against another house. He was favoring his leg heavily as he walked, but he looked tired and pleased with himself.

"I won’t ask you to mount a horse again, my lord," she said to him as he rose with difficulty from his knee. "I wish for you and Navona to remain in the city while I’m absent. It’s only for two nights—but all of the council will be with me. I’ll feel more at ease knowing that the citadel is in the hands of experienced commanders, even for a such a small duration."

There was a faint murmur in the room. They all gazed at her as if she’d lost her reason.

She made a small shrug. "If you’re going to fight one another, I cannot stop you," she said bluntly. "You could do it as well in my sight as here. But I pray that you will both be alive and at peace when I return, and greet me at the gates together with welcome. It would make the people happy."

Allegreto gave a soft snort. "More like they would be struck dumb with wonder, Princess."

She let her eyes meet his. The moments in the dark with him seemed to set them apart, as if everyone else in the room were a stranger to her. The scent of lovers curled about them, so vivid that she was afraid it was more than imagination and memory.

His lashes lowered. He bowed his head and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "But I will remain. And I pledge that I’ll be alive when you return."

She tore her look away, fingering the cuff of her sleeve. It seemed the silence around them was too heavy, too curious. It was as well they would be apart for a day or two. "God grant you mercy for your service, my lord," she said formally, directing a nod to his left ear.

"Will my son stay in the city, Princess?" Franco asked abruptly.

"Matteo has asked to go with me." She forced herself to stop rolling the pearl on her cuff between her fingers. "He would like to see d’Avina again."

"What guard do you take?" he demanded.

"We have ten horse and a company of foot," Philip said. "Captain Guichard has also sent an escort." He nodded toward the French knights from the condottieri. "We’ll break the journey at their encampment, and continue tomorrow to d’Avina."

Franco cast a narrow glance at Allegreto. "I don’t suppose it’s wise to leave Navona at liberty alone here, Princess," he said. "I will remain."

 

* * *

 

The sunset on Monteverde’s duomo was famous. The golden mosaics on the facade of the cathedral caught light and sent a glow like a halo onto the piazza and the towers and into the air itself. The domes and spires glittered like stone-carved ice. Allegreto stood in the deepening shadow among a few pilgrims watching the sight wide-eyed, no doubt hoping for a miracle to appear in that golden mist of light.

He was watching for something else. Gerolamo had brought word that Franco was attending vespers at the duomo—not such an odd thing, for Franco always kept his soul in good standing. Allegreto supposed that it was an efficient habit—not only was Franco cleansed of his grievous sins shortly after he committed them, it also provided a suitable cover for meeting with his partisans and agents. The Riata made sure that he developed no certain routine, changing daily to churches all over the city in some order that Allegreto had never been able to fathom.

The distant sound of the choir floated on the golden air, the last psalm fading into silence. Allegreto could have recited by heart the canticle of Mary that would follow as the priest mounted the pulpit to read in a voice that echoed solemnly through the great aisles and columns. As the sun fell behind the mountains and the halo faded, the pilgrims rose and dusted off their knees. Allegreto keep his head lowered. He could just see Gerolamo and his other man, who stood in the lengthening shadows of the piazza and watched the duomo’s side doors.

The service came to an end. After a pause for thanksgiving, the huge bronze doors swung open and a small straggle of the faithful came out, old women mostly, completely swathed in black veils. They moved as old women should move, with tiny steps and care on the stairs. Allegreto scrutinized them, but they were all too short and feeble to disguise any Riata, or Raymond de Clare.

It was Raymond who had brought him here. He had vanished from the infirmary and the citadel an hour since, like Lazarus from his tomb. Raymond and Franco had both entered before the service, separately. But neither departed with the congregation.

Allegreto walked across the piazza and lightly up the steps. He slipped into the open door, kneeling and crossing himself, his head well down. Gerolamo had told him there was a scaffolding along the south aisle, tall enough to reach the upper windows. 

He turned his back on the sanctuary and pretended to dip his fingers in the holy water, though he did not touch it or the carved stone font.

It was unnerving to enter a hallowed place against his ban. It was the church where his father lay sealed in the crypt below, no easy memory. In the dimness the windows glowed with brilliant color against lacy black outlines. The huge space echoed with whispers that were not quite voices, sounds that carried and reverberated endlessly through the long double row of pillars that marched down the nave.

He moved near the scaffold, quietly dropping an offering in the plate and igniting a candle among the bank of lights against the wall. It would be as well to pacify Gian’s tortured soul. Behind the cover of a massive column, he grabbed a rung of the scaffolding and hiked himself up. The wound in his shoulder gave him a twinge of reminder, even after a year, but he climbed quickly and silently up into the shadows near the roof.

From under the succession of arches that topped the pillars, he could see all the way down the length of the sanctuary. A small knot of men stood near the pulpit, highlighted in the fading radiance from the great rose window over the choir.

Allegreto scanned the empty nave below him. At the edge of one of the ponderous columns, he saw a movement. He stared at it through the gloom, distinguishing the shape of a man’s hand fingering his sword hilt. As he looked along the line of pillars, he saw more—six men in all, concealed against the colossal pillars, waiting stone-still but for that single restless hand.

Allegreto held himself in heightened caution, chary of some trap laid for him, a deception meant to lure him here into ambush. But the men looked toward the choir and chancel. Allegreto moved softly along the single board, pausing before he crossed each window to be sure they weren’t glancing upward. He came to the end of the scaffolding, overlooking the transept where Franco Pietro stood with his men.

Allegreto had assumed that Franco came here to meet Raymond by some preordained plan. But there were men hidden, and Franco had a wariness about him; an edged impatience. His four men were disposed in a guarding position, two before him and two at his flank.

A single priest worked calmly in the chapel of Saint Barbara, the patron of miners and Monteverde. He trimmed candles at the altar, then knelt and crossed himself. He walked across the nave, under Allegreto’s feet, and out the side door.

The door closed. As the boom faded away in the sanctuary, Franco said loudly, "Show yourself."

His voice echoed. Allegreto knelt on one knee, watching.

After a moment Raymond de Clare stepped from under the spiraling stair that led up to the high pulpit. "I asked you to come alone."

"I take no orders from spies," Franco said coldly. "If you have news of what Navona plans, then tell me. Or you’ll find yourself assailed by Riata in truth."

"Not I," Raymond said. With a sudden move he lifted his arm and shouted, "For Navona!"

His yell echoed down the nave. Men swarmed from concealment, a sudden drumming of boots on stone. Franco cursed and unsheathed his sword, swinging around to defend himself. He lunged just in time to parry a thrust, pulling back as his closest guard drove a point deep into the attacker’s chest.

Allegreto rose to his feet, staring down. The Riata made an instant ring of defense, their blades flashing in the circle around Franco, catching colored light from the windows. Raymond drew his sword, backing away. They were a dozen to Riata’s five, pushing forward, trying to reach Franco.

Allegreto stood incredulous. It was a church. He heard the flat clanking sound of a crossbow, a hiss—and one of Franco’s men pitched backward with a bolt lodged in his chest. Another assailant lunged into the gap left by the fallen man, his sword tip aimed at Franco’s unprotected side. The Riata turned and kicked the assassin’s exposed knee, stopping the charge. Raymond’s man stumbled and took Franco’s blade through his throat.

Blood began to spread, polluting the marble floor of the sanctuary. Allegreto pressed his hand against the arch beside him, breathing harshly. He’d never thought he would be sorry to see Franco cut down like a dog. He had spent a lifetime hoping for it. But this...in a church, in Allegreto’s name...if Franco died like this, it would be Navona to blame. And it would be war again.

Raymond could mean nothing but war. Nothing but to break the fragile peace of the houses and the republic. Nothing but to make the princess fail.

Rage gripped him. He watched the Englishman stand aside while Franco fought for his life. The Englishman who claimed he loved her, who had fawned on her and kissed her and inspired poems of ardor and devotion.

Franco could take two against one of these hired killers—they fought like cattle, with no skill—but he was favoring his leg, his footwork clumsy, his arm a fraction slow. The tourney had taken its toll.

His men had dispatched four of the assailants. But he’d lost two of his own already. He was going down. In the sounds of blade on blade and the harsh grunts of murderers in a place of God, Allegreto saw Elena’s dream falling to destruction before his eyes.

He looked down between the boards of the scaffold, toward where the bolt had been fired. A man crouched near one of the pillars, hastily reloading a crossbow. Allegreto slid over the edge and jumped down the shaky arrangement of supports. As his boots hit the floor, he was already turning toward the hidden archer. He went in low and at an angle, moving fast.

The man was sighting carefully down the length of the bow, doubtless trying not to shoot any of his companions. A noble thought, for his last. Allegreto slipped behind him, gripped a handful of hair, grabbed the man’s jaw, and twisted his head violently to the left. Cartilage popped and snapped as the archer’s neck broke. Allegreto caught the crossbow as it fell, preventing it from clattering to the stone. He left it on the dead man’s body, already in motion toward the Riata. 

Franco had no guards remaining, but his men had made a ferocious defense. In the light from a tall candelabra, the sanctuary was like a battleground, a chaos of fallen bodies and blood. Franco still fought fiercely against his last two assailants, moving sideways as if in some bizarre dance to keep one of the assassins between himself and the other. If he had been fresh, he would have cut them in pieces, but he stumbled and slipped on the fouled floor, going down on his knee. With a shout, his attacker lifted his sword for a final blow.

Allegreto grasped a tall iron candleholder and hurled it with both hands. The heavy piece of iron caught the man in his belly. He went sprawling, his sword spinning across the floor. He screeched and rolled as burning wax splattered his flesh. Allegreto drew his sword, lunging over Franco just in time to meet the blade of the last man. He struck it aside on his arm bracer and impaled the assailant through his heart.

He yanked his blade free as the body fell, consumed by blood rage. The burned man still rolled on the floor. Allegreto kicked him in the face and killed him before he could rise.

A sudden silence descended, the last echo of the combat dying away to sounds like grieving sighs. Allegreto stood still, looking down at the dark pools and smears of blood defiling the sanctuary floor. He felt covered with it, drowned in it. He could taste it on his tongue. If he had not been so full of rage he would have wept.

The Englishman had never joined the fight. Allegreto glanced up at a motion along the aisle. He saw Raymond slip out the side door—and into Gerolamo’s waiting grip.

Franco had made his feet. He was sweating, his chest heaving with exertion. He looked at Allegreto as if he were some baffling vision that had stepped out of a streamer of light.

"It was not me, Riata," Allegreto said. "Not me." He dropped his sword. "It is betrayal of us all."

 

* * *

 

The three towers of Navona brooded over an open square with a fine stone well at the center. A woman drawing water in the last of light looked up, stared for an instant, and hurried down the steps from the well. She ran away across the square, splashing water from her urn down the front of her skirts.

The great arched doors faced the piazza, walls of wood strapped by iron and marked by old blackened tongues of smoke. Allegreto kicked the half-burned wicket door, holding Raymond by one arm while Franco gripped the other. What was left of the bolt gave with a crash. Gerolamo shoved the entry full open and they passed under the arch of stone.

"Discover a light," Allegreto said. He shoved Raymond up against the wall, holding his hand to the Englishman’s throat. Raymond made rattling sounds as he tried to breathe.

The small flicker of a candle rose in the darkness, illuminating a chaos of burned timbers standing askew where they’d fallen from the floors above. It was old destruction, years gone. A crushed chest lay in splinters, with scorched leather horse trappings spilling from it across the floor. Allegreto cast a glance at Franco, but he had no fury to spare for the Riata at the moment.

"We’ll take him to the cellars," he said, giving Raymond a hard thumb against his windpipe for the pleasure of it.

The Englishman gasped and struggled. As Allegreto released him, Franco yanked him away from the wall. Between their daggers, as Gerolamo held the candle high, they took him in a pool of flickering light down the stairs.

Everything of value had been looted long ago from the towers. But the fire hadn’t reached here; the stone vaults had held up the floor. There were still manacles in the cells where Gian’s enemies had been questioned. And the rack and cudgels; the pulleys and ropes of the strappado.

Raymond was drenched in sweat. He set his heels when he saw the strappado—and so Allegreto instantly reached for the cord. "Who pays you?"

"The Visconti!" Raymond exclaimed, with an upward break in his voice. "You don’t have to put me to question—I’ll tell you all!"

Franco pulled the Englishman’s hands across his back. Allegreto looped the rope and made it fast.

"I’ll tell you!" Raymond cried in panic as Gerolamo began to turn the wheel at the wall and work the pulleys. Raymond’s hands rose backward above him until he was standing on tiptoe. He swung and wailed, foolishly fighting, trying to lift himself on his arms.

Allegreto signaled his man to stop.

"They said they’d pay me to murder Franco," Raymond gasped. "But I didn’t agree. They said they’d kill me if I didn’t!"

Franco made a sound like a snarl. "Raise him."

The wheel creaked. Raymond whimpered as he was lifted from the floor, his head and shoulders hanging forward on his arms. Allegreto had a vision of Elena’s face, a sudden glimpse of her steady gaze leveled at him. He blinked, shivering.

"You finish it," he said to Franco. "I’ll kill him. I can’t kill him."

"Don’t kill me!" Raymond squealed.

Franco laughed. "Has your stomach grown so delicate, Navona?"

Allegreto walked to the stairs and stood staring up into the darkness as Franco ordered Raymond to be dropped. The Englishman fell with a shriek. He sobbed and groaned. "I was to slay Franco...to make way for Milan," he mumbled.

"It was no men from Milan with you," Franco said. "Who was it?"

"The French! The condottieri!" Raymond screamed, gasping as the wheel began to crank, lifting him again. "Love of Christ, don’t!"

"What do the French care for killing me?" Franco demanded. 

"French captain...they’ll murder him—tonight. His second takes command!" Raymond wheezed. "Milan..."

Allegreto swung around. Comprehension washed over him, a huge dark wave, as Franco met his eyes. "The condottieri," Allegreto said. "They’ve turned. God save, she’s gone out there."

"Matteo!" Franco breathed. He took a step toward Raymond’s dangling figure.

"Drop him!" Allegreto shouted, striding forward. The rope went slack, and then caught hard, jerking Raymond’s arms from his frame as the Englishman shrieked. "You worm, you knew it! You knew it all along." Allegreto drew his knife. He stood where Raymond hung moaning and put the blade to his throat. "You said you loved her, you puling maggot, and you sent her out there to them."

"Don’t!" Raymond gasped, rolling his eyes at the dagger. "I’ll tell you! My signal..."

"What signal?" Franco demanded.

"Two lanterns...please, please God don’t...in the tower—the prince’s chamber."

"What of the princess?" Franco asked, while Allegreto’s hand trembled, drawing blood from the tip of his knife.

"She’ll be safe! They promised me...rule here. Marry her. But I didn’t want to!" he screeched as Allegreto moved.

Fury held Allegreto mindless; he was just sane enough to know it. He looked at Franco, finding some reason there—the Riata put a hand on his shoulder, staying the blade.

"When do they expect the signal?" Franco asked.

"This night," Raymond croaked. "It was to say...Riata is dead. Then the French captain—they’ll murder him. Rally—" His head fell slack as he lost his senses.

Franco signaled to Gerolamo to lift him again. He came awake at the pull of the rope on his ruined arms, making gibbering sounds of pain.

Franco looked up at him. The Riata’s scarred face was like stone. "And then they attack?"

"Send a message. Open gates or...slay councilors—one by one."

"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’ll 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’s 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’d 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.

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.

"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. 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 won’t have you sleeping on the ground like a watchdog at my feet."

"It’s 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’ll find several Riata men beside you," she said. "I will suffer no conflict over it."

Zafer bowed. "As you command, my lady."

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 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. There was but one door to the infirmary, 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 doesn’t 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’re 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. "No, 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’ll 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 didn’t 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’d 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 a jolting halt, staring at the torches and mounted knights ahead, a dozen of them, twenty—she couldn’t 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 pierced 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 hadn’t 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. 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’m in command of this company now, under the order of Bernabo Visconti of Milan."

Elena gazed at him, saying nothing.

"It grieves me to report that we have sorrowful news from your city—Franco Pietro of the Riata is dead, God spare 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 don’t 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’m 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t 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 didn’t trust the condottieri to restrain themselves even if they met no resistance. She’d 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.

It was a cruel jest now, the silver she’d spent on the French company. She had no doubt that Trie had taken his share, and stolen Guichard’s, too. She would have denied them entry, stood before the gates and cried out to her people to fight, told them there was hope of rescue if they could hold out—and let the soldiers hang her for it if they pleased. But she could not live and let them take Matteo first.

He was very quiet, sitting beside Dario and looking down at his chains with a scowl. Nim lay sprawled beside him, resting her head on his knee. The dog had wandered out on her own in the evening, as the sounds of men drinking and laughing grew louder, and then come back, flopping down beside Matteo as if she had no cares.

Elena bent her head into her hands in despair. She thought of Allegreto, who had warned her and warned again not to leave the citadel. He might finally have killed Franco, but she had done far worse a crime.

"Princess," Matteo whispered, without looking up at her. He gazed down, holding the back of one hand in the depths of Nim’s thick white fur.

He kept his head lowered, turning his arm a little. She saw him fold his hand, twist it, and slowly withdraw it from the shackles. He opened his fingers, gave Nim a long quick stroke, and slipped his hand back into the iron cuff. He lifted his face then and gave Elena an impish smile.

Her heart lifted with a bound. If Matteo could get himself free...

But before she could even think of more, he suddenly bent over Nim. He turned her collar, sliding his hand under it, his face intent. He glanced toward the opening of the tent and then back at Elena. With a quick move, he reached out and pressed a rolled slip of parchment into her hand.

Elena’s pulse began to thud. She held the slip down close in the folds of her skirts and unrolled it.

Midnight, it said. Be ready.