FIFTEEN

            

 

At midnight Elena was lying rigid, listening for anything over the sound of Dario’s feverish breathing. Matteo’s days with Allegreto had been rewarded. In the pitch-black darkness inside the tent, she felt the boy lie beside her and work gently at her manacles with some tool she could not see. The iron fell away. 

Dario coughed, a deathly sound. But he was sitting up as well as he could. She had leaned over him and whispered when she gave him water, and he nodded and opened his eyes. He seemed aware enough to understand her, though his forehead blazed with heat. That he had lived so long gave her some hope, but she didn’t know if he could rise.

Distant bells marked midnight from some village church. Outside, there were still a few voices, a snatch of song from a drunken soldier. Elena clenched her fists.

When it began, she knew instantly.

A noise started, almost below hearing. It was like a trumpet, but playing a note that belonged in hell, an eerie timbre that rose from somewhere far away. She couldn’t tell what direction it was; it seemed to come from everywhere at once, low at first, a wisp of imagination that became real, gathering strength as it echoed through the camp.

She sat up. Matteo leaned beside her. Nimue stood with a growl low in her throat. She barked savagely. And then she sat down and began to howl.

Dogs all over the camp joined her, their mournful voices rising in long uncanny notes, linking with the rising note of the hellish horn.

The guard outside their tent spoke sharply to his comrade. "What is—"

His voice ceased. The other guard cursed and then blessed himself. Elena slipped to the opening and dared to look outside.

Her tent was in a circle that faced the commander’s pavilion. At the entrance to Trie’s tent, she saw a flicker of blue light in the darkness. It became a thing that glowed—a thing, a man—a figure seething with blue radiance. It threw back its head and raised its arms and gave a ghastly roar, a sound like a soul in agony. Vaporous flames shivered up and down its arms. It turned, scanning the tents. With a shock of horror Elena saw the eye-patch that burned in ghostly sapphire across its face.

At the instant that she recognized Franco Pietro, he turned to Trie’s tent. Men were running from out of the dark, but they all came to a dead halt at the sight of him. "Treason!" he howled, a voice that reverberated under the sound of the horn. The dogs moaned in concert. A man’s head appeared at the door of the tent, shouting angry orders.

Franco Pietro’s ghost pointed. "Murder!" it wailed. With a boom and a hollow whoosh of air, the tent exploded in flame.

Elena scrambled to her feet. Screams and shouts rose from the burning tent. One man plunged out, his clothes aflame, another fell and rolled in the burning silk. She stumbled over a body at her feet; realized it was the guard who had cursed only a moment before.

Franco turned, pointing again, and another tent burst into fire. Soldiers began to run, not toward the ghost, but away.

And Allegreto was there, out of the darkness and chaos, with Zafer and men she could barely see. She grabbed his hand without a word, running behind him as he ducked among the tents. They split off from the others, but she had seen Zafer take Matteo, seen Dario on his feet and a glimpse of the councilors running in a cluster from their tents.

All around them, explosions lit the camp. Men were shrieking, sounds of pain and fear and dread. Loose horses bolted, dragging their stakes. Allegreto pulled her behind a tent, holding back for an instant just as a pavilion went up in flames, so close that the heat licked her skin like a white-hot tongue. She caught a glimpse of his face in the burst of reddened light, his features frozen in diabolic beauty.

He gripped her hand and ran, one way and another, avoiding the men who stumbled with sacks and buckets to the fires. At the edge of the camp, he plunged into a black hole, bending low and dragging her with him. Leaves and branches brushed her face, and something soft and weighty bumped against her hair. She realized it was a vineyard, with grapes hanging heavily from the trellis. She could hear others moving around them, crashing through the vines. At the end of the row, she grabbed her skirt and climbed behind Allegreto up onto a bank.

She smelled horses and stale blood. A tiny light shone from a shuttered lantern, just enough to illuminate the door of a stone house.

By threes and fours the others came, a crowd of shadows gathering. From behind, the camp flared with fires, smoke rising in pale gray spires against a black sky.

"Count them, make sure we leave none behind," Allegreto muttered by her ear. "There are horses and mules with the men in the yard. They’ll take you to the city."

Someone opened the door, a sudden square of light spilling onto the ground. In the brief flare, Elena saw that Allegreto’s doublet was soaked in a dark stain, completely covered in it. "You’re hurt?" she whispered, reaching for him.

"No," he said sharply. He caught her hand, putting it away from him. The door had closed again, the light vanished, but she felt him looking down at her. "Elena—" His voice was strained. He pushed her toward the house. "Go. Make certain they’re all there. Hurry."

She obeyed, hastening into the farmhouse. Only a fire was lit in the open hearth, but the illumination seemed to glare in her eyes. Councilmen caught at her hands as she entered, clasping and kissing them. She tore away, pushing through the milling of her councilors and men she had never seen, hushing those who spoke. With a flair of pure relief, she saw Matteo holding Nim’s collar in the corner. She hiked her skirt and stood on a chest, overlooking the crowded room and pulsing shadows in the firelight.

In a low voice she called each of their names. They responded with soft ayes to the roll that she had read at each meeting until she had it memorized. All were there—a miracle. She gave a prayer of thanks and jumped from the chest.

"Signor!" She put her hand on the eldest councilman’s arm. "We have escorts in the yard. Go out the back. See that all have a mount. I’ll return in a moment."

A path opened for her to the door. She slipped out. Allegreto stepped forward, a silhouette against the flaring skyline of the camp. "They’re here," she murmured. "All of them, praise God." She swallowed an uneasiness in her throat, looking up at him. "Allegreto—I saw a thing that looked like—as if Franco had come alive."

"He is alive."

She closed her eyes and let go of a harsh breath. 

"Did you think I’d killed him?" he asked. In the darkness his voice was tense and clipped. "I did not."

"What passed?" She touched his bloodstained doublet.

The faint light glowed along his cheekbones, made his face a sketch of light and shadow. He wet his lips, backing a step from her. "Ask Franco," he said, with a crack in his voice, an anguish that she had never heard before. "Go, Elena. You must leave quickly." He turned from her toward the camp.

She caught his sleeve. "You’re not going back?"

"Dario," he said. "He fell behind." Before she could speak, he had vanished into the black night.

 

* * *

 

All the bells of Monteverde had rung without stopping for two days, calling the people of the countryside to shelter within the city gates. The chaos among the condottieri had broken them into groups and factions, leaderless soldiers, angry and frightened by the uncanny assault, by tales of demons and ghosts and blue flame. Some of them had bolted into the mountains, but most of them remained, seething with agitated confusion.

Elena’s head seemed to ring, too, even though the bells had finally stopped. She hadn’t slept since they had escaped to the city. She sat at Dario’s bedside while he fought off fever, receiving messengers and reports, giving directions for the refugees to be fed and housed, watching to make sure the surgeon treated the terrible wound with useful herbs and elixirs and did no more harm.

"The night patrol has just come in, Princess," Franco Pietro said, entering without formal greeting. They had no time or heart for courtesies. In the dim early morning light his hair and eyelashes still glowed in patches from Allegreto’s strange powder.

"What word?" she asked quickly.

The Riata were yet missing five men, Navona three. Zafer had found Dario at the edge of the vineyard at dawn, just beyond a smoldering tent where four men had burned past recognition. Dario’s clothing was badly singed. He lay insensible and alone.

"We discovered two more bodies, Princess," Franco said.

Elena glanced up in fear.

Franco shook his head. "Not Navona’s, Your Grace. My men." 

She pressed her hands together. "God spare them. I’m sorry." She turned back to watch Dario’s beard-shadowed face. His bones seemed to stand from his skin, making him look years older than the sturdy youth she had met on the island.

"Your Grace, it strains our resource to continue searching," Franco said. "I need what knights and men we can field to patrol the encampment. We can’t let them disperse and raid. While they quarrel among themselves, we’ve been fortunate, but if they begin to band in large numbers, or find a leader—"

"I know," she said sharply. "Philip is coming. His messenger said he was two day’s march."

"Pray God it’s so, Your Grace. This circumstance grows more dangerous. I ask your leave to abandon the hunting. I need all the men that I have to watch the camp."

She rose suddenly. "Because it is Allegreto!" she exclaimed. "You don’t want to find him!" She turned her back. She walked to the basin beside Dario’s bed and began to wring a cloth.

"Your Grace," Franco said in a harsh voice, "if I thought there was a chance that I could find and aid Navona, I would do it."

She twisted the cloth hard in her fists. "There is a chance. He’s out there. He’s hurt somewhere, or captured."

"We’ve searched. He never returned to the meeting point. The infidel has been through the camp and every tent in it these two nights past. There are corpses that can’t be recognized." He nodded toward Dario. His voice softened. "This man’s clothes were burned. The compounds that Navona carried—you saw what they could do, princess."

Elena stood, staring down into the basin.

"My lady," Franco said, "don’t think I’d abandon a search for him lightly. We’ve been mortal enemies, but he stood with me when the Englishman would have cut me down. I remember that."

"Raymond," she said bitterly. "I cannot comprehend it."

"A fool will do much for gold and dreams. The Visconti know how to twist a man’s heart with promises."

"I never saw it," she whispered. "I trusted him. He was my friend."

Franco grunted. "Sometimes it’s those who seem most anxious to give compliment and esteem who must be suspected."

She turned. "He was killed in the church? When you fought?"

"No, Princess, we weren’t so kind to him. We took him to Navona’s tower and showed him some of Gian’s mercy."

"Gian’s mercy?" Elena echoed faintly.

The Riata shrugged. He rubbed at his nose beneath the eye-patch and glanced at the faint glow of powder that came away on his fingers. "We needed to know the whole of his scheme. He would have lied. But he didn’t lie when his arms were torn from their sockets, I promise you, my lady."

Elena put her hands to her cheeks. "Raymond," she whispered.

"Spare no grief for that one," Franco said. "He was a dog, and died as a dog. I might have made him regret his treachery a little longer, but we had no time to spare. Navona slit his throat."

She pressed her hand over her mouth and looked down, thinking of the massive bloodstain on Allegreto’s clothes. Raymond’s blood. Gay, handsome Raymond, with his charming smile. Raymond who had called her a sparkling diamond, an extraordinary woman. She began to shake and couldn’t stop herself.

"I’m sorry if I cause you pain, my lady," Franco said brutally, "but it was better so. If Navona hadn’t done it, the task would have been yours."

Elena made a faint sound, nodding. When finally she’d swallowed down the nausea and found the ability to look up again, he was standing awkwardly, a slight scowl on his face beneath the patch.

"Va bene," he said gruffly. "I’ll appoint a pair of men to continue to look for Navona, if you wish it."

"Thank you, my lord!" she said. "I fear he’s hurt or trapped somehow."

He hesitated, as if he might differ, then compressed his lips and gave a bow. "I beg your leave, Princess. I’ll make the rounds of the gates now."

She nodded, dismissing him. He walked heavily from the chamber. The guard closed the door behind him.

There was a sound from the bed. Elena turned as Dario struggled to sit up. He winced and held himself on his elbow, panting. "Navona—" He lifted his head a little. "He’s hurt?"

"He didn’t return," she said, kneeling beside the bed. "Do you want water?"

Dario nodded. He took a deep sip from the cup she held to his lips. "He was—with me. In the dark."

"Where?" she asked.

He closed his eyes. He made a grimace and shook his head. "In the dark."

"Outside the camp?"

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "Carried me." He coughed and winced. "There was—fire."

"Fire?" Elena repeated anxiously, but he was fading back into the fever. He sank onto the pillow, his lashes fluttering. With a rasping breath, he turned his head away.

 

* * *

 

By the nighttime, Philip was in the pass to the north, and word had come to Monteverde. The condottieri had heard it, too—there was renewed turmoil in the camp as they found themselves trapped between the lake and the mountains and another force the equal of their own.

Suddenly they sent emissaries and claimed a desire to parley. Elena returned a message with a single word. Go.

But there was nowhere for them to go easily. Philip had divided his company and sent part of it around the mountains, to block the pass to Venice.

The messages became more frantic. They begged the Prima to forgive any trespass. They offered the store of Monteverde’s silver back. They pleaded to join her personal guard. Through the night Franco’s men cut down the soldiers who bolted from the camp, and stories of ghostly visions and angels grew at a rampant pace.

In the dawn Philip’s army was visible from the citadel, like Hannibal marching from the north. Elena sent word to him to halt a league from the city and prepare for battle.

From the ramparts of the great tower she could see the condottiere camp swarm like an anthill kicked open, motion without purpose. She received two of the officers, who claimed to speak for the rest.

They apologized copiously for any crime their dead leaders had committed. They were only simple men, soldiers, who acted under orders. They could see that it had been an ill-advised, impudent plan to meddle in Monteverde’s affairs. They would go, immediately, but for the obstacles in their path.

Elena listened to them. She took them to the western rampart and pointed toward the mountain crags that were already covered in snow. "Every man must swear upon the Lord’s word that he will never raise arms against Monteverde again," she said. "And then you may depart. That way."

To the west. The high, bleak, pathless mountains, where men would have to struggle to even walk, far less gather and fight or destroy what few outposts lay there. And beyond them, for those who made the journey before winter froze the trails...Milan.

Let Milan take back the dregs of what they had wrought, and if the condottieri turned bandit before they reached Visconti lands, then perchance it was God’s judgment on them.

Elena held out her hand and accepted the grateful kisses of the soldiers on their knees. And for nigh a week she stood with Philip in the western reaches of Monteverde’s lands, at a castle— hardly more than a gatehouse—that guarded the remote trails into the mountains. As the condottiere passed one by one through Philip’s ranks, they took their oath to shun any war with Monteverde, relinquished all plunder and weapons but a knife, and received a bag of flour and a flask of olive oil. While Elena watched, one of her bodyguards interviewed each soldier for any news of Allegreto.

There was none. They had seen specters and glowing angels and barking fiends that looked like dogs, but no one had news of a living man with black hair and a comely face, dressed in green-and-silver dyed with blood.

The guard brought a ring to her, discovered in a soldier’s pouch, because it was engraved with Navona’s motto. It had been found on the ground, amid some blackened grasses inside a burned-out tent.

Elena took it from the guard’s hand. The metal was cold in her lingers. In the harsh light of an October frost, she could see that there were letters on the inner curve. Her eyes were not quite clear, they were blurred in the icy air, but she didn’t need to read it.

She held the ring in her fist until it warmed. Then she thrust it on her left hand, her fingers trembling, forcing it over her knuckle though it was too small to fit.

He would come back. She could not believe he was gone. She would not. She dreamed nightmares of men rolling on the ground in flames.

 

* * *

 

Christmas and Easter had come and gone, and letters that had wandered astray for months arrived, informing the bishop of Monteverde that in light of the solemn repentance and offerings made by his worshipful child in God, Allegreto della Navona, the censure of excommunication laid on him would be lifted after he made his penitential offerings and traveled to the Pope for absolution.

At least five councilors were on their feet in objection, but the eldest took advantage of his precedence. "Your Grace! You must not depart on such a scheme! We cannot allow it!"

"Allow it?" Elena said. Her hands were cold in spite of the white fur that draped over her wrists. "Do you think I am a prisoner here?"

"No, Your Grace, certainly not, but—"

"Then I will go."

"Your Grace, we comprehend and share your grief, and understand that you desire the proper observances to be made, but to go to Rome! It’s not necessary. Let us send an envoy to carry our respects and reverences, and beg what you will of the Holy Father."

"I’ll go myself."

The old councilor gave her a reproachful look. "Your Grace has pressing duties here."

"To listen to further debate over who I’m to wed? I will not wed. I will go to Rome. I wish for this letter from the Pope to be made public in every corner of Monteverde, so that Allegreto della Navona may hear it and know."

They only looked at her, their familiar sober faces lined down the long table. Since the night of the escape, they had been more gentle, less contentious among themselves. It had united them as brothers, and their devotion to her had grown to stifling proportions.

She saw what they thought. She braced herself, but she was failing, losing her conviction in the days and weeks and months that passed.

"Your Grace," the old man said, with a kindness that cut her to the heart, "it would be wiser to have a mass said for his soul in every church."

She shook her head, refusing.

He looked up and down the table. "Signori, I propose that we gather a sum and cause an epitaph of intercession to be made on behalf of Allegreto Navona, to be placed in some honored spot in the city, so that all who see it will be reminded to say a prayer for his soul. And in tribute to his valiant action in the recovery of the Prima and all of the council, that we request a special mass to be said for him throughout the realm."

"No," Elena said. Her voice rose a little; she heard the high-pitched note in it herself. "I will not have you speak as if he were dead."

The elderly councilor pursed his lips. He lowered his eyes and sat down without calling for a vote.

She sat still and upright in the huge throne-like chair. "I will go to Rome and make certain that his offerings are carried out properly, and that no faults can be found in them, so that his anathema may be absolved."

No one said aloud that it was too late for absolution. They averted their eyes. The great dark chamber echoed with shuffles and aimless shifting.

"It’s not your responsibility, Your Grace," a councilor mumbled far down the table.

"It is. It is the least—" Her voice caught. She paused. "It’s the least we can do. He saved all of our lives, and Monteverde."

"Franco Pietro did as much, Your Grace."

"Franco did well. But he couldn’t have executed the plan that freed us. He has said so himself. And I’ll leave him in command of the citadel while I’m gone, with Philip under him."

Before the rebellion of the condottieri, they would have gasped in outrage. Now they only murmured, less concerned by the Riata than by fear of her departure. Like parents with a sickly boy child, they dreaded to have her out of their sight. They put forth all of their arguments—she had duties, she would alarm the people, she was acting without thought or prudence. She rubbed her fingers over the ring. They averted their eyes, pretending not to see it, pressing her on and on. Finally she put her face in her hands and ceased to reason with them.

"I must do this!" she cried, her voice echoing from the walls and timbers of the roof. "If it slay me, I must do it!" She lifted her face. "Elect another in my place, if you will, for I cannot give you more."

Twenty shocked faces stared at her.

The elder councilor rose again, pushing himself up with a slow move. "Your Grace, you force me to speak with perfect frankness. It’s apparent that you allow your sentiment to outweigh your wisdom. For you to leave the realm on such a foolish and worthless undertaking is unpardonable. If you refuse to put the welfare of Monteverde first, Your Grace—perchance an election should be considered," he said heavily. "Though it rends my heart to speak of it."

"Then do so." She took up the weighty scepter and let it fall on the table before them with a thud. "Perhaps you’ll find someone wiser than I to lead you."

 

* * *

 

Elena lit candles. She prayed, but it was without humility or gratitude. It was with anger and desolation, with rebellion, and so she knew none of her prayers were heard. But she could not find humility in her heart, or acceptance.

In the small church that overlooked the abandoned piazza by the lake, she prayed. She did not wear a widow’s weeds this time, or veil her face. If the old Navona recognized her, or had any notion who she was, he didn’t speak of it. He only asked her if she wished for confession and absolution, and when she refused, gave her the same unhappy look that he had before. She thought he might have remembered her then, for he gazed down for a troubled moment before he murmured a blessing and turned away.

She’d made Dario and Zafer and Margaret wait with Gerolamo by the lakeside. They were all she’d taken for escort, leaving the pomp and safeguards of Monteverde’s walls behind. Dario was still weak, but he would not be abandoned, moving awkwardly and stubbornly beside Zafer, both of them falling easily back into their old ways of keeping mutual watch.

She knelt at the plain railing before the altar, her head bent. She felt as if there were a hole in her chest, a place where even air could not enter. She pleaded with God, an incoherent prayer that held no sweet expressions of adoration or petition; her prayer was a drum that beat in her heart, Please don’t let him be in Hell, please don’t let him be in Hell, please don’t let him be in Hell.

She had paused at every church and prayed it. But here, where he had entreated her to be shriven when he could not, it wasn’t even words. It was a dagger cutting over and over in her mind, please and please and please have mercy.

She heard no answer. The church was still and cold, the priest gone away to some other duty. Her journey to the Pope seemed futile, a hopeless task, too late and too little. Six months she’d insisted that they search for Allegreto, that they not give up, but there was no sign. Only the two known Riata dead and a score of corpses that had been buried in a common grave, burned beyond telling what they had worn or who they had ever been in life.

The door opened behind her, sending light down the length of the little church. She crossed herself and rose, gripping the rail as she stood. Her knees hurt. She didn’t know how long she’d been there, but her fingers would hardly unclench in the cold.

She walked back with her head lowered, watching the well-worn stone floor beneath her feet. When she came to the open door, she was aware of someone standing in it, waiting. She thought it was the priest, and lifted her head to speak to him as she left.

She stopped. Haloed against the strong light from outside, Allegreto seemed a vision for an instant, an unbearable hope. Then he moved one step inside the church. His outline took on shape and form, simple substance. In the moment of perceiving him, every detail seemed clear and perfect, the dust motes falling slowly about him, his unadorned tunic of blue; his wine-colored sleeves, the plain belt and dagger at his hip. His face; the long eyelashes that brushed downward over his skin; his flawless mouth unsmiling. He only looked at her.

She closed her eyes and opened them, and he was still there. Her knees gave way beneath her. The jumbled noises that came from her throat had no meaning; they were his name, and dry gasps for breath, and peeps and sobs of frenzy as she pressed her face to his soft boots. She clung to him, unable to speak, unable to weep, unable even to breathe—able only to touch him and feel that he was alive.

"Elena—" He knelt with her, catching her arms, pulling her up to face him.

She pressed her forehead to his chest. "I thought you were gone. I thought you were gone." Her voice was hoarse and deep. "Allegreto."

He cupped her face. She looked up at him, and the tears came then in a furious burst; she grabbed his tunic and pressed her face to his shoulder, weeping so hard she could barely draw breath, kneading at him with her hands as if she could make certain he was not a phantasm of her desperate mind. Then she sat up, hiccoughing, running her palms over his face and shoulders and arms. The fabric was rough and crisp beneath her fingers. She could feel him. He was real.

He caught her hands in his, looking down at them.

"They found your ring." Her voice shattered into husky squeaks. "Everything was burned around it." She made a little moan. "Oh, God save—you are alive!" She brought his hands to her cheeks and pressed them hard to her skin.

"Elena," he said in a muted voice.

"Where have you been? Why didn’t you come? Everyone thought—you made me think—"

Her words trailed off as he drew his hands forcibly from hers. He lifted his lashes.

"It was better so." His mouth curled into a bitter smile. "But I couldn’t stop myself, could I? When I saw you here." He shook his head and gave a laugh. "God help me, I’ll have to go to the ends of the earth."

He sat back on his knees and rose. He pushed open the ancient wooden door and shoved it behind him, leaving Elena to scramble to her feet and catch it before it slammed in her face. The bright spring sunlight washed the broad steps of the church and reflected off the lake. The mountains still held snow at their peaks, but the air was warm and fragrant as Allegreto strode across the pavement, crushing wildflowers and new weeds beneath his feet. As she watched him walk away, a wild wave of anger rose on the heels of relief.

She ran after and caught his arm. "You don’t think to leave!" she demanded. "What cruelty is this?"

He swung around, his face dappled by the shadows of a huge olive tree. "It’s not cruelty, but mercy. Take pity on me, Princess, for I love you as my life."

She dropped her hand. "And you’ll go away from me?"

He closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. "I should stay, yes. I should stay and guard you. But I have no armor left. Christ, I have no skin left! I’m no use to you." He turned away again and ducked under the porch of a half-ruined house. He disappeared through the doorway, leaving Elena standing in the empty piazza.

In a cold dread that he would vanish again, she hastened after. But he was there; he stood in the remains of what had once been a handsome chamber, though only broken pieces of the tile floor and a ceiling painted in red diamonds remained. But the room had been swept clean. A pallet lay spread in the corner, with a chipped mug and basin beside it. She had sent men to search here, and in the castle on the lake, and even to the island of Il Corvo, but they had found nothing.

He had not wished to be found.

"It wasn’t your usefulness that I wept for," she said. Her voice broke. "Allegreto. It was that I thought I would never see you again in this life."

He propped himself against the wall, crossing his arms. "Or the next?" he asked dryly.

She remembered her journey, and the purpose of it. "Look!"

She reached for the purse that hung at her girdle, where she carried the precious letters always with her. "The Pope has written! He wishes you to be absolved." 

"I know."

She dropped the drawstrings, looking up. "Then let us go to Rome. I’ll go with you."

"The holy vicar of God is in Genoa, not Rome. I’ve been to him there."

"Your ban has been lifted?" she exclaimed.

"He said the words. So I suppose that it is." Allegreto’s tone was ice cold. "He didn’t have much time to spare me. He’d just had his cardinal priests murdered, and their bodies thrown in the bay."

Elena blinked at him. Her lips parted. "You jest." 

Slowly he shook his head.

"Depardeu." She swallowed and crossed herself. "May God forgive him."

"He’s out of his reason." Allegreto closed his eyes. A sudden anguish came into his face. "Elena, I don’t know if it’s God or the Devil who has him. I don’t know if it’s true, what he said." He gave an aching laugh. "I’ve been afraid to go into a church."

She thought of him there, standing in the open door. One step inside, but he had turned and gone out again.

"I went into the duomo," he said. "I went into the sanctuary, and then they attacked Franco, and there was blood all over the floor." He took a shuddering breath. "I shouldn’t have gone in. I’m under anathema, and blood was shed, and now it’s not a true church anymore." He gave her a look of such sorrow, like a lost child, a bewildered angel that had fallen down and picked itself up and found it was a demon.

She walked to him and caught his hands. "Franco told me what happened there. You saved his life. And many more, too, before it was done. The duomo will be consecrated anew—the bishop says by Ascension Day it will be sanctified again and the doors unlocked."

His hands closed hard on hers. He looked down at them, his jaw taut. Outside, birds sang and chattered in the trees, but his face was set in winter cold. "Did they tell you that I killed the Englishman?"

"Yes," she said steadily.

For a long moment he stared down at their hands. "You loved him," he whispered.

She pushed her fingers between his, locking them with hers. "Love?" She felt tears slide down and fall onto her wrists. "I didn’t know what it was until I lost you."

"I’m no loss to you, Princess." He broke away. In the corner of the room he stopped and turned, bracing against the wall. "There’s been peace since I left Monteverde, has there not? You’ve even tamed Franco." He squatted down on his heels, taking up some lengths of rope coiled on the floor. "All the way to Genoa there’s talk that any man who raises his hand against you will be cursed, and perish of some dreadful death of fire. The Visconti can field no soldiers now who will dare it."

"If it’s so, Monteverde has you to thank."

"Yes," he said, rolling the pallet and blanket together. "I have a talent for striking terror in the hearts of decent men."

She watched him as he knelt. "Perhaps there’s peace in Monteverde." She stood still, refusing to recognize what he was doing. "But it is not whole."

"What’s missing?" he asked ironically. "Is there not enough evil left for your liking?"

"What is missing," she said slowly, "is a man who has given any price—even his soul—for those he loved. And received nothing in return."

He paused. He looked up at the painted ceiling. Then he turned his face down and slid a length of rope under the roll of bedding.

"If you depart," she said, "I will go with you." 

He shook his head. "Don’t speak like a fool. You’re the Prima."

"I told them to elect another."

He stopped his work. He looked at the hem of her dress, not lifting his eyes beyond.

"I prefer to play morra," she said with a shrug. "I prefer to be with you. In grievous sin, if there is no other way."

He dropped the ties and rose slowly. "Hell-cat," he said incredulously. "You told them to elect another?"

"They made a resolution that the Prima di Monteverde could not wed into Navona or Riata. So they can now find another to hold that office, for I mean to wed you."

He closed his eyes. "Witless babe."

"Even if I must seize you and force you to my will. Don’t think you can justly complain, for you did the same to me. So I’ll serve you the like, if I must go out and command Dario and Zafer to bind you hand and foot to do it." She felt heat in her face and neck. Her heart was beating strongly. She stood between him and the doorway, in full resolve to stop him if he tried to leave.

He gave her such a lethal look that she quailed inside. But she held still, breathing fiercely, daring him. She threw away Monteverde, but she had learned how to stand her ground. Before Franco and the council and ambassadors, before the threat of treachery and poison; in the face of everyone who said she could not do what she resolved, because she was weak and a woman and full of absurd ideas.

But to hold sway over crowds and courtiers seemed an effortless task, compared to facing Allegreto. In the simple chamber the leopard looked back at her, dark-eyed and beautiful, creature of inhuman haunts. She dug her fingernails into her hands until they hurt.

He moved. He walked to her and put his hand behind her neck. His breath warmed her lips. "Oh, you have learned to live perilously, hell-cat. For one who wanted so well to be safe."

"There is no safety," she whispered. "You told me so."

His lips parted a little, showing his teeth. "Not with me," he said.

"Then peril is what I choose."

His fingers tightened. "You would give it all up? Monteverde and your place?" he asked. "When you know what I am?"

She took a deep breath, swallowing tears. "Will you never understand? Allegreto—it’s you I won’t give up, no matter what you are."

His hold on her slackened. "No, I don’t understand," he said helplessly. "I can’t."

"Then take it as a gift. Without understanding." She looked up into his dark eyes. "Like grace."

He stood still. But she felt the tremor in him, deep and silent. He blinked. Then the tension in his body seemed to fail him. With infinite slowness, like a wounded animal sinking to rest, he bent his head into her shoulder. "Elena," he said in a harsh whisper. "I’m afraid."

She lifted her arms around him, pulling him close. His fingers dug deep in her skin, holding her tight as he breathed against her throat. She could feel his heart beating fast and hard.

"Afraid!" she said, pressing her cheek to his. She turned and kissed his ear. She leaned on him, consuming the scent of him, the essence of him, with every breath. "You don’t know how fortune smiles on you. Emperors and dukes stand begging at the gates for my hand."

"Fools," he said into her skin. "You would cut their hearts to ribbons."

"Well for me, then," she whispered, "that you don’t have one." 

He made a groan, catching her closer to him. He rocked her without lifting his face. "You want to wed me?" 

"At any cost," she said.

He held her away. He shook his head, closing his eyes. His fingers opened wide on her arms, as if to set her from him—his beautiful manslayer’s hands, clean and perfect, with no trace of blood on them now. Outside the door a raven croaked, its great shadow passing across the chamber wall and vanishing.

Elena gripped the loose fabric of his sleeves, in dread that he would pull away and turn from her again. She looked up at him, drawing him toward her with a steady pressure. He set himself against it.

"Warrior," she murmured, lowering her lashes. "Will you make me command you?"

He gave a harsh laugh. "My queen." He jerked her close. He slid his hands up to her throat. "You want me?" His voice had a break in it, almost wistful.

She reached up and tangled her hands in his hair, tugging at it. "I will drag you before the priest," she said fiercely.

He stared down at her. His hands barely touched her skin, resting lightly over her pulse "No, I cannot." He stepped back, breaking from her. "Go back. They aren’t so half-witted as to elect another. They’ll fall into turmoil if they try, and Franco will step in."

"Then let them fall!" She sucked in her breath. "They can read Ligurio’s words as well as I. If they can’t live by what he taught, without me to remind them every moment, then let them fall to Franco!"

"No. You won’t let that happen now."

"I have done it," she hissed.

"You must go back!" He turned. "I should never have shown myself. It’s dead, Elena. I am dead to you. Go back."

"No!" she cried. "Why are you doing this?"

He stared down at the clay mug and bowl beside his pallet. He kicked out with a savage suddenness, sending them both smashing into shards and splinters against the wall as the bundle of blanket and pallet unrolled across the floor. "Because I can’t be near you and not have you!" he shouted. "I’m a man, not some block of stone, though God knows I’ve tried to be."

His voice died away in the empty room. A goat bleated in the piazza. Its bell tinkled, soft above the sound of his uneven breathing.

"I told you that I renounced the office," she said quietly. "There’s nothing the council can do to keep us apart now." 

"The council be damned," he said. "It’s not them."

"What then?" she demanded.

"I thought I would be absolved," he said tightly. 

"You said—"

"I don’t know how that creature could forgive any sins," Allegreto sneered. "He screamed at the clerk—I thought he would have killed the man for speaking my name. And then he looked around at me and turned red in his face and shook like a demon had his throat. He made some sounds and went out, and the clerk told me it was done."

She wet her lips and shook her head, knowing nothing to say.

He leaned his shoulder heavily against the wall. "Elena, it was like an audience with the Devil," he said between his teeth. "I think it was the Devil." He stared at the floor as if he saw into the Abyss. "I don’t think God will come to me, not even in the Holy Father."

"No," she said faintly. "It cannot be so."

"I want you to go back," he said. "There is one thing true in my life, and it’s what you’ve done in Monteverde. Don’t let it fail."

"And leave you here as if it made no matter? As if you were some rag that I’ve cast off and forgotten?" 

"Yes. Forget me."

"Oh, God." She closed her eyes and gave a laugh. "As well command me to forget to breathe," she whispered.

He made a wordless curse, turning toward her. He spread his hands like a man who didn’t know what to do with them.

Elena walked forward to him. She took the loose cloth of his tunic in her fists and buried her face in his chest. "I will live with you in iniquity if you will not let us wed."

"No," he said. "I won’t drag you down to Hell with me." But his arms came up around her, searching into the coil of her braids, denying what he said.

She lifted her face for his kiss, knowing it would come. She opened her mouth and arched her body into his, greedy for the feel of him, for the hard way he dragged her against him, for his taste and his heat, for everything they did together in shameless sin.

"It’s too late." She let her lips drift over his. "Take me down."

"I cannot bear it." He released an agonized breath, turning his head a little away. But still his body denied his words. She could feel him hard for her; in the empty chamber, his hands pulled at her skirts, taking them upward to the curve of her back. He let them fall and ran his palms up her sides and under her breasts. He set her back, but only to look at her, his gaze hot.

She lowered her lashes and traced her fingers along the skin below his ear. He gave a harsh breath, leaning into her hand. His mouth held a derisive curl. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth like a man wounded, pulling her down with him, one step from the wall to the floor.

She spread her legs as they went down to the pallet, rose on her knees over him in a tangle of skirts and blanket. He leaned back on his hands, thrusting his tongue in her mouth. His heavy groan vibrated under her, against her breasts. He arched his head back as she drew her lips down his throat, tasting him, kissing the pulse beneath his skin.

He held against her, resisting as she pressed forward, shoving at his shoulders. She slid her hands down his arms, feeling the shape of his dagger and the arm-guards beneath the cloth. He lifted himself to turn her beneath him, but Elena locked her hands in his and kissed him, leaning her weight on him until he gave way and let her push him down.

For a moment she hung over him, holding his arms spread, her hands braced on his wrists.

He looked up at her, his chest rising and falling, darkness and male heat at her command. His shaft pressed against her naked thigh under her skirts, with only the thin veil of his tunic between them.

She leaned forward over him and felt the tunic fall away. The tip of his cock touched her bare skin. He shuddered under her. The contact was intimate and secret, hidden between them.

"Elena—" His arms tightened where she held him. "The others are outside."

She smiled. "They can’t see," she whispered wickedly. 

"Hell-cat." He swallowed, panting.

She spread her legs and pushed down on him. "Come into me."

He strained, his body arching upward for release, but she didn’t let him go; she held him pinned as she rolled her hips to take him deep inside. She held herself just above him, feeling the muscles across his chest work as he shoved himself up into her.

She sat back then, bringing his hands to her breasts, closing her eyes and reveling in the thick intrusion, in the sharp sensation in her belly from holding him at such a slant. He plunged his hands under her skirts, running his palms up her bare thighs to her hips. He held her down as he thrust upward, moving in her in a way that brought her instantly to gasping. She licked her lips and whimpered, riding herself down on him, feeling his legs come up behind her to force him deeper, so deep that it exploded at once with a cry of ecstasy from her throat.

He rolled with her, pulling her under him down on the pallet. He came over her and thrust inside again, ramming up hard in her body. He braced above her, his throat exposed. She arched up and felt a throbbing climax come on her again as he groaned and held himself forced deep, a sound of agony and pleasure. He jerked and shuddered, his teeth bared, and then dropped his head to her shoulder.

Elena clasped her arms about him. Her ability to reason slowly returned—she saw the room again; the painted ceiling above, the web of shadows on the wall from the branches outside.

She held him in her, as if she could keep him that way, and feared when he pushed up on his elbow. His hair had fallen loose. It brushed her cheek, and she turned her face into it, breathing deeply.

He bent down and brushed his lips gently at her forehead. "You see," he said softly. "I can’t be near you."

Elena squeezed her eyes shut. Then she opened them and stared up at him. "I see only that you lie when you say you love me. That you’ll use me and then abandon me like a lover with a whore."

"No," he said.

"How not?" She pushed at him, struggling to sit up. "I’m in sin like the lowest prostitute, to lie with you as we have done."

He let her go, sitting with his back to the wall. "Then go and repent of it," he said.

She pushed down her skirts and cast him a fierce glance. "Not without you," she said. "I’ve waited for you."

"Oh, you’ve not been such a fool." He scowled. "Do not tell me—all this time—you’ve kept to that thoughtless promise?"

"All this time." She pushed herself to her feet, shaking her hem. "Yes, I am such a fool."

He sprang up. "You’ve not confessed since we were here before? It’s nigh two years!"

"I’m steeped in mortal sin," she said violently. "I hope that I am! Perhaps then I will see you in another life, since you must go away from me in this one. And it will not be in Heaven."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "Don’t jest of such a thing. Go into the church and do it now!"

She tore away. "Willingly! If you will go before me."

He stepped back against the wall.

"The priest here is a good man," she said despairingly. "If you spoke to him—"

He closed his eyes, resting his head back with a slight uneasy laugh.

"Allegreto—you asked me this once—if I would spare my own soul at the cost of what I love." She lifted her chin as he opened his eyes. "I didn’t know my answer then. But I know it now."

He stared at her, a lock of his dark hair falling down over his temple. His breath grew shallow and uneven, like an animal in distress.

"I’ll risk eternity for you. What will you do for me?" she asked softly.

He looked down at her beneath his lashes, standing frozen, his body pressed back against the wall. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them, as if he tried to see what was before him, and couldn’t make it clear. "Must I go in the church?" he asked ruefully. "I’ll be struck down by lightning bolts."

All the air seemed to slide out of her. She hadn’t known that she feared to breathe. "Then let them strike me, too," she whispered.

"Elena." His voice cracked. "Help me."

 

* * *

 

He strode toward the church as if into battle.

Elena had gone before him, to find the priest and make sure he would hear a confession at once. Mad and murderous the Holy Father might have been, but none could doubt the sanctity of the sweet and patient old man who clasped her hands in his blue-veined fingers and smiled with honest joy to have the privilege. She thought he knew Allegreto well; there was a perceptiveness in his face when he looked at her, though he asked no questions.

The priest stood watching for them from the porch. Allegreto went up with light steps, but his determination seemed to desert him at the door. He paused uncertainly. The old man stepped forward and took him by the elbows. He pulled Allegreto close with a strength that belied his age and pressed a kiss of welcome on either side of his rigid jaw.

Elena stood back. Allegreto looked around for her with an expression that was suddenly distraught, as if he had just realized where he was, but the priest held his arm and guided him slowly under the portal and into the nave as if he couldn’t find his way alone. In truth, she didn’t think he could have.

The priest knelt. Allegreto went to his knee, his head bent, and hastily crossed himself. There were no bolts of thunder or explosions of wrath. There was only the twitter of common birds from outside, and the cool silence of the church, and the harsh sound of his breath, halfway to weeping with fear.

After a moment the old pastor rose, pressing his hand under Allegreto’s elbow. As if he guided a blind man or an untutored child, he took him down the church toward a corner near the altar.

It was too poor a place to have a screen for privacy. Elena made her own obeisance and waited by the font, far enough away that she could hear only indistinct murmurs. She saw the priest touch Allegreto’s shoulder. He dropped suddenly to his knees, his hands gripped together. He bowed his forehead onto his fists. His shoulders were shaking.

In Elena’s life she’d gone through the ritual many times, heard the exhortations and suffered the examination of all her venial sins, even resented the persistence with which the priest at Savernake had insisted on prying into her every thought. But she had never been afraid. She had never thought that Hell awaited her.

She watched Allegreto, too far to catch what he said with her ears, but hearing with her body what his body spoke—courage and despair and shame—his mumbled words tumbling over one another as he began: Forgive-me-father-for-I-have-sinned...He bent down nearly to the floor, his face in his hands.

She tried to say a prayer to aid him, but she found no prayer. She only watched, her fingers clasped hard, as the priest looked over his head and listened. The old man didn’t flinch all through it. He asked no questions. He seemed like a gnarled tree robed in dark vestments, standing still and crooked against the background of the simple altar and the cross above.

What mortal sins and murders that he heard, what of vengeance and wrath and hatred, it caused no horror or despair on his face. The confession fell in uneven torrents, like a storm beating against an enduring wall, words and hesitations and outbursts. Elena felt love and grief rise up in her until it spilled over into tears and she could not see either of them clearly anymore. Only light and shadow.

She didn’t know how long it lasted. Finally the broken sound of Allegreto’s voice drifted to a whisper, and then to silence.

The priest said nothing for a long time. Elena blinked and cleared her eyes. Allegreto sat on his knees, leaning his mouth on his locked hands, rocking himself a little.

Then, with amazement, Elena watched the old man do something that she had never seen any priest do before. He knelt down onto the floor and took Allegreto’s face between his hands, speaking earnestly close to his ear.

Allegreto listened. He nodded, and then nodded again as the cleric murmured to him. When the priest let him go, he caught the old man’s knotty fingers and kissed them reverently.

With an effort, holding to the rail, the pastor rose to his feet. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost," he intoned in Latin, making the sign of the cross over Allegreto’s bowed head. "I forgive you."

Elena murmured amen along with them. Allegreto rose and turned toward the door. He looked as if he did not know himself. He came down the nave, walking with his graceful stride, dangerous and tear-stained.

He stopped beside Elena. She gave him a tentative smile.

He caught her arm hard, pulling her near. "You’d best have yourself shriven quickly now," he said hoarsely. "I’m not going to Heaven without you, hell-cat."