Shadowheart (12 page)

She reached into her bundle and broke off a bite of the white meat. The puppy rolled upright and took it politely, nibbling the tidbit from her fingers. It sat before her with its tail wagging gently, looking into her face. Elayne sat down and let it wriggle onto her lap. She rested back against the statue, stroking the dog’s soft fur, distributing the cheese between them and biting into the sweet plums herself.

After they had devoured all there was, she wiped juice from the corner of her mouth and sat with the warm weight of the puppy in her lap. The sun heated her bare arms to a flush of pink. Her head ached. She supposed Il Corvo would be searching for her. Let him search. Let him have his wedding feast without a bride.

It was quiet here, and so empty. There was no one to order her or caution her or arrange her future with an uncaring snap of their fingers. There was only the young dog, a friend with no demand or desire but to nestle close and share a meal.

Its nose bumped her in greeting. The pup licked her chin and settled against her, heaving a sigh. She could feel its quick heartbeat against her skin. She bent her head and rested her cheek on fur softer than any costly pelt, smiling in her misery.

When she opened her eyes again, it was to see the pirate sitting on a rock, examining the pages of her journal by the angled pink light of the setting sun. The white puppy was playing with the tip of his boot. She sat up quickly as she realized what he had in his hands. “That is mine!”

He was dressed differently now, plainly, in black hose and a simple white shirt belted with silver and onyx, his sleeves pushed up past his elbows. His hair fell loose about his shoulders, longer and blacker than any Christian man’s should be.

“Then it is you who pines so sweetly for this Raymond,” he said.

It was as if his dark eyes saw through her body and into her past and future. She evaded the look, unsure if it was mock or menace in his voice. “Raymond?” she mumbled.

“The name is not familiar to you?”

She half-shook her head, denying it by instinct.

“Perchance another wrote his name several times in your book, then.”

“He is—a friend.”

The corner of the pirate’s mouth lifted in a knowing smile.

“Very well!” she exclaimed. “Why ask? If you perceive so much by your magic, then I have no secrets!”

“Mere speculation and deduction, Lady Elena.” He smiled again. “But here—” He looked down at a page. “I am grieved that I myself don’t appear in such a kindly aspect in your text. Am I truly such an ugly, uncouth fellow?”

“You
can
read it!” she said sullenly. “How can you read it?”

“I make an earnest study of alien texts,” the Raven said. He flipped through pages of her journal lightly. “As any philosopher must.”

“Philosopher! A mere pirate, who forces himself on unwilling maids.”

He tapped the toe of his boot back and forth as the puppy pounced on it happily. “Alas, no wonder you describe me in such unflattering terms, if that is what you believe.”

Elayne took a deep breath. She twisted the gold band around her finger. “Then you will not be surprised if I do not attend your celebration feast, since—whatever you may claim—I do not believe that we are truly wed.”

“Before you cast off my ring, Lady Elena,” he said gently, “let me survey your situation for you. You have two choices. You may accept me as your husband, or you may be sold to some kind Moor who treats his concubines better than his wives, and no one in Christendom will lay eyes upon you again.”

Elayne brushed a thick strand of hair back from her cheek. “How should I believe that? The girl Margaret declares that you would never sell anyone as a slave.”

“Very well—” He stood up. “If you wish to stake your life upon a maidservant’s notion of me.”

The puppy bumbled over to Elayne. She busied herself in petting it. The pup put its paws on her knee, licking her fingers. Its fur was the softest thing she had ever touched.

Elayne leaned over the pup while it nosed her face. “Are you a lost princess?” she whispered. “Did you refuse to do what you are told?”

The puppy bit her nose. She drew back with a yelp. The pup jumped away and then came back to chew at the hem of her robe.

“Ever naive,” he said dryly.

“Avoi,”
she said, touching her nose and finding blood on her finger. “She is only a baby.”

“Do you always trust what appears innocent?”

Elayne daubed at her nose with her sleeve. “I do not ascribe deep devices to puppies, it is true.”

He squinted at her face. “I hope it doesn’t leave a scar.”

“A scar!” She touched the cut carefully, wincing at the sting.

“It would lessen your value when I sell you to the Saracens,” he said.

She drew her hem away from the puppy’s teeth as she stood. The sun was going down behind a bank of dark clouds, turning everything to brilliant golden light and harsh shadow. His loose white sleeves billowed in the dying breeze.

“May I have my book?” she asked, holding out her hand.

Somewhat to her surprise, he returned the journal without dispute. “How came you to write in that tongue?” he asked.

“Lady Melanthe sent a wisewoman,” Elayne said shortly. “She taught me of many things.”

“You seem to have made a broad study indeed. Wide learning is not common in a maiden.”

“Haps it is not common, but there is nothing wrong with learning.”

“Nay, it is excellent,” he said, nodding. “I hope you will continue apace. Make yourself free of my books and manuscripts. They are full of dust and interesting ideas.”

She was not accustomed to approval of her studies. Nor to men who encouraged her to entertain interesting ideas. “Well,” she said, “for such time as I remain here, I shall.”

“Good. I doubt me you will find much to read in the harem.” He gave her a dark-eyed look. “But at least you’ll have ample hours of leisure to meditate on your vast knowledge, between carnal visits from your master.”

Elayne felt the blood rising to her face. She had no memory of what he had done, but Libushe had emphatically explained to her, for her protection, just what a woman could expect from a man. She wished that he would not be so comely in his body and face as he stood with his boot braced against an overturned block of stone. It made her angrier at him still, that he was not abhorrent, but made her feel hot and willing to be touched by him.

As ever, he seemed to see into her mind. “We will endeavor to find you a buyer not so ugly as myself,” he said. “But I can make no certain promises.”

She turned away, pulling her skirt free of the branch of a windswept bush. “You mock, but it was fiendish of you to do what you did. To put some potion in my drink, and then to—” She pursed her lips and broke off a piece of the branch. “To humiliate me.” She twisted the stick between her hands until it cracked and splintered. “‘And then to announce it before Lady Beatrice and those people, so she will carry the news of it to England, and tell them that I— that I desired it.”

The clouds on the horizon were darkening, rising over the sun. A sharp puff of renewed wind blustered across the headland.

“You told me that you did not want the Riata,” he said. “You begged me to keep you here. Would you have consented to wed me, if I had asked?”

She whirled around. “No.”

“So—I merely spared our recital of that chapter, then,” He shook his head. “Lady Elena. Iniquitous I may be, I do not deny it, but you would be wise rather to reconcile yourself and see what you can make of it, than to struggle against me like some doomed moth in a spider’s web.”

“Reconcile myself to ravishment by an outlaw? What good end could I make of that?”pedestal of the stone head and tossed a stick for the puppy to chase. “And how does my lady Cara appear in these latter days? Is she quite beautiful?”

Elayne tucked her chin at his sudden change of direction. “Cara? She appears as any matron in good health and generous flesh, I suppose.”

“Become a fine English peasant, has she? And what of that churl she chose to wed?”

“Sir Guy is a knight, not a churl.”

The Raven gave a flick of his hand. “Naught but a varlet with the dirt still on him. It is too bad you were obliged to reside in such company as would only grace a sheep sty. No doubt that’s why you conceived this debased affection for some common English fellow.”

Elayne sucked in a sharp breath. “Debased! How dare you!”

He snorted, tweaking the stick from the puppy’s mouth in spite of its quick attempts at evasion. “No? For what purpose did you want him? Not marriage, in the name of God.”

“Of course I wanted marriage!” she said. “I love him.”

He looked at her as if she were mad. “You’re Monteverde.”

“What of it? Cara always said I might marry a man I could love, and Lady Melanthe, too.”

“Bah, you would never disgrace the name of Monteverde in that manner!” He hurled the stick. The pup bounded away after it, sniffing among the rocks. “I would not have allowed it.”

“You!” She stared at him. “What do you care?”

“The devil take your sister and Melanthe! They knew I didn’t save your skin and carry you five hundred leagues to marry some common English muck bucket!”

“Save me?” she echoed in bewilderment. “You haven’t saved me—”

“Ignorant infant! They’ve told you naught in truth, have they? You were toddling poison-bait for the Riata in Monteverde. The last of your line still there, in their hands, while they knew Melanthe had lied to them till her tongue turned black. She didn’t get you out of there. You’re alive by my hand—
I’m
the one who brought you out and conveyed you safe to your sister’s godforsaken mud pit in the woods. Little though you seem to know or remember of it.” His lip curled. “Though I apprehend that Melanthe and your sniveling sister had their reasons enough to keep you unwitting.”

“What raving is this?” Elayne sputtered. “I don’t believe you!”

“Did you think you had been wafted there upon some angel’s wings? I smuggled you out of the Riata fortress in a laundry basket, and a bold child you were too, at a bare six years. We crossed the mountains with a dog for a guide—one just such as this, the white guardians of the flocks—I lost the way and the rain turned to ice; I carried you until I thought we would both be dead. But that dog came to you, and you held on to it, and it took us. You don’t remember.” He shook his head. “You don’t remember any of it?”

“Nay, I’ve never—”

But she looked at him as he stood in the last of the evening light, the fading sun on his black hair and flawless face. With a terrible insight, she saw too clearly what she had struggled to deny. Even curved in disgust, his mouth was well-formed; his features lit with real emotion more beautiful than ever—so like her dark angel, so painfully familiar.

“It is not possible,” she said. She shook her head furiously. That a pirate in the midst of the vast sea would know her past—know more of it than she did herself… She did not want to give credence to what he said, and yet…

And yet…

“No one ever said aught of anyone such as you!” she exclaimed heatedly.

“Nay, I doubt your sister would have the name of Allegreto Navona on her lips.”

“You make no sense. You said me yourself the house of Navona was our enemy.”

“Aye,” he said. “Your mortal foe.”

“Then why would you go to such length for me?” she demanded. “Why?”

“Oh, for love,” he said with a sneer. “I supposed myself in love with your sister.”

Elayne’s mouth dropped open. “With Cara?”

He posed in an ironic bow.

“No,” she said. “I don’t believe it! She would be terrified of you.”

“She was.” He looked out at the horizon blazing in gold and pink above the storm bank. “She was,” he repeated slowly.

“Cara?” Elayne could not even imagine such a thing. Cara, who seemed so sedate; so plump and wifely and bound to Savernake and her home. A pirate had loved her. This pirate, this angel-demon man with his magic and life of hazard. “I cannot conceive of it,” she said faintly.

“No more can I conceive how you want some English peasant in your bed,” he said. “But then, so did your sister. By hap it is some taint in your mother’s blood.”

The manner in which he said it was like a slap across the face. Elayne drew herself straight. “Sir Guy is no peasant, nor Raymond. And who are you, after all?”

“Your husband now, sweeting. You may call me Allegreto—the bastard son of Gian Navona,” he said, “since you seem so woefully untutored in your own history.”

“Whoever Gian Navona might be.”

“A man you may thank the merciful Lord God you could dare to forget. Your sister and Lady Melanthe be in full debt to me for their easeful lives today.” He smiled bitterly. “If I had done my father’s bidding, your sister would have had me after all, in the stead of her English commoner, and Lord Ruadrik would be long rotting in his grave.”

“I don’t believe it! I don’t! How can all this you say be so?”

“No one told you, so you think it can’t be so? Then haps you don’t know that your faithless Melanthe was promised to wed my father after Ligurio died,” he said. “But she was so bold as to run away to England, and foolish enough to find a husband there instead. So Gian ordered me to poison her inconvenient Ruadrik, to free her from that bond.”

“Poison
him!”
she gasped.

“Poison him unto death. But Lord Ruadrik lives, does he not? And he ought to go on his knees every night in dread thanks to me.” The pirate touched his dagger, his fingers sliding over the jeweled haft. “My father was not pleased. He left me to drown in a stone well after he found I had not done his will with Melanthe’s knight.”

“Sweet Mary,” she breathed.

“I betrayed him.” He shrugged and rested back against the statue. He drew the dagger, sending it into a shining spin around his hand and catching it as if it were a plaything. “I was brought up to do exactly as he bid me—to slay in silence, from behind, so that no one knows where or whence it comes.” He gazed at the tip of the blade. “It was said I murdered him myself.”

She thought of him standing at Lady Beatrice’s back, of his casual touch on the knife. She felt the powerful presence of her dark and mysterious angel, and knew now why she had never spoken of those dreams to Cara.

“Did you?” she whispered.

“Nay.” His eyes did not meet hers. He turned the dagger in his palm. “In truth, I doubt I could have killed him. I loved him. I was terrified of him.” He sheathed the knife. “He was my father.”

She wet her lips, taking a deep breath. He lifted his eyes, impassive.

“Ask of your sister how he died,” he said. “No doubt the Devil wanted him in Hell.” He knelt, snapping his fingers at the white puppy. It rose from where it had been lying in the cleft of some rocks, chewing on the stick, and trotted to him. He sat back on his heels. “If Melanthe sent you to me, it is fair payment,” he said.

Elayne watched the young dog lick his hand. “I don’t think she sent me to you.”

“That may be. Still, it is strange that you traveled with such a paltry escort,” he said, “and the brave Knights of Saint John gave you up so easily. But however you came here, I’ll take you.”

“Why? It makes no sense to me!” she cried. “What great use am I to you?”

He looked up at her. “What use?” He shook his head in disbelief. He stood again and swept his hand across the horizon. “Do you still think I am a trifling pirate in truth?” He took a step toward her and tilted her chin up, holding her face hard between his fingers. “For a decade of years I have worked for this, and it matters not if you were sent by Melanthe or fell into my hands by the grace of God or the Devil’s devices. The house of Navona is not finished, though a bastard son be all that remains.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’ll have what my father meant to take. Monteverde belongs to me. You cleanse the taint of my left-handed blood. You seal my claim. So abandon your love poems and do not imagine that you will be suffered to dally with any mongrel such as this Raymond who pants after you.”

Elayne put her hand on his wrist and wrenched free. “If you are not a pirate, then do not handle me as if I am a pirate’s trull.”

He spread his fingers. The wind blew his hair back from his face as he stepped away. For an instant he had such a look that she did not know if he would reach for his dagger and use it upon her. She held herself rigidly still, like a rabbit beneath a circling hawk.

Slowly he smiled. “You remind me greatly of Melanthe sometime. We will deal favorably together, I think.”

“Favorably?” She gave an incredulous laugh. “I did not consent to be your wife.”

“You prefer Franco Pietro?”

“I wished to wed a man I could love.”

“And I wish I were the Pope,”‘ he said. “You remind me as well of your witless sister.”

“It may be I am witless, but I don’t want Monteverde,” she said savagely. “I want nothing to do with it. Or poison and murders and—what you are.”

“Of course,” he said in a cold voice. He turned away from her and walked to the edge, looking down into the blue depths of the ravine. “I do not ask you to be what I am.”

Elayne sat down hard on the ground and let the puppy crawl over her. “That seems to be the only thing you don’t demand, pirate.”

He tossed a stone into the chasm and watched it fall. “Call me Allegreto, if you please.”

“‘Allegreto!’” Elayne gave a scornful sniff. “‘Tis hardly a fitting name.”

“Indeed, I’m not the most merry of fellows, am I? I should have been named Destruction instead. But my mother was fond of me when I was an infant, as mothers are wont to be.”

“Oh, did you have a mother?” She rubbed the puppy’s ears vigorously.

He looked at her aslant, his silver earring dangling down on his cheek. “Nay, I sprang full-grown from Hell, of course.”

Elayne hugged the pup to her. “I thought so.”

His black hair swept over his shoulder as he turned to face the sunset. In faultless profile, he seemed like a vision suspended between the black storm depths and the lucent sky, something painted for a king’s pleasure, too perfect to be real.

“The sailors say a tempest brews,” he said coolly. “It is time to return, before dark.”

Elayne buried her face in the young dog’s fur. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Why do you weep? Your future is not yet writ,” he said. “At six years you were a hellion, not afraid to scale mountains with me.”

“And now a pawn to anyone’s ambitions,” she said, muffled.

“You are not a pawn, madam, but a queen upon this board.” His voice hardened. “Commit yourself to the game, or you will find yourself a hostage to fortune in truth. I cannot indulge sentiment this time, even if I desired to do it. It is not within my power now. Melanthe owes me this. Cara owes me this. Before God, you owe me this! I carried you to sanctuary once, at infinite cost to myself. I cannot do it again, and will not.”

She remained with her cheek pressed to the warm furry body, refusing to look at him. When she finally raised her face again, he was gone, leaving her with the sea breeze growing colder as the storm clouds rose to swallow the sun.

The gale came on with the lowering night, turning the headland to a roaring mass of gloom, of whipping branches and glistening rocks. The statue provided some shelter, but not enough to prevent the wind from blowing cascades of stinging drops against her cheek as she sat hunched in angry grief, struggling to relinquish the final delusion that she had been watched over by an angel of shadows; a fearsome angel, dark but good.

He claimed that Elayne had a debt to him; a debt for her life. As if the sweet safe years in Savernake—so brief they seemed now, as if all her memory of girlhood crystallized into one endless, merry day in May—had been a bargain made without her knowledge. A bargain with this devil, and now she had to pay.

A brigand, a bastard, a murderer. And Lady Melanthe … she knew not what to believe of her godmother. Things that had seemed forthright before now appeared sinister. Why had no one told her of her past? That she had been left behind in the hands of her family’s enemies? She had not inquired, but the silence around the subject of how she and Cara had come to England had felt like a barrier that forestalled questions before they were asked. Somehow, without thinking of it clearly, she had known that any query would make Cara angry, and so she had not questioned.

The last outlines of her surroundings disappeared with the light, lost in the tempest and black night. As the darkness thickened, rain began fairing in sheets. The statue no longer offered any protection. She rose, keeping her face down, holding the wriggling puppy close as the downpour soaked them both. Wind caught her thin skirt and tangled it about her legs.

She had no idea where the path might be, only a sense that the cliff lay to her left and the castle somewhere ahead. She hardly cared. The cold rain pounded her head and bare arras, pouring down her back. It seemed fitting that any step she took would only bring her to ruin.

But the pup rested its chin on her shoulder, its paws splayed in a heavy, trusting hug about her neck. She took a few steps where she thought the path should be, ran into the thrashing branches of a bush, and edged her way around it. The wind pushed her hard, as if to insist on a direction, then veered capriciously, propelling her another way.

Another few steps, and she knew it would be impossible to find her way. She turned back into the wind, seeking the scant refuge of the fallen statue.

But it was invisible in the black rain-driven obscurity. She edged carefully, blindly, her head lowered against the wind. With each step she slipped on the uneven stones. She had not moved far from the statue. It seemed she should have reached it in a few paces, but when she searched forward with her toe, she met nothing.