There were almost no other women in the castle—none at all of Cara's rank, and she had the upper rooms of the household range to herself. She'd found a place by a window and sat in the embrasure, bending over the vestments in the rain-soaked light and picking the seam loose with her needle.
Allegreto came upon her before she knew he was there. She reached for scissors and looked up, starting to see him leaned against the stone chimney mantel with his arms crossed.
"Blessed Mary!" she exclaimed, her hand on her breast. "You're as sly as a stoat."
He inclined his head, as if it were a compliment. Dressed in the Bowland livery, all scarlet but for a simple gold slash diagonal, he might have been a crimson angel or a devil from the fires below. Cara slipped her needle into the fabric, pretending to go back to work. He came sometimes to watch her, and then left again without saying a word—spying, she supposed, though to what purpose but to unnerve her she had no notion.
The disastrous news they had brought of Princess Melanthe's disappearance had worked heavily on the peace of the castle's constable, as well Cara could imagine. Sir Thomas seemed an able and efficient man enough, to see the sound state of the hold and garrison, but in this crisis his management failed him. She was aware that Allegreto had played no small part in the man's consternation, encouraging him in terrifying notions of who would be blamed if the news spread and the king heard. Allegreto had the natural presence of his father if he pleased to use it, and he did now. A bare sixteen years he might have, but Sir Thomas hung upon his advice as if he were a hundred.
"Put down your work," Allegreto said softly to her. "I have news."
A bolt of fear made her fingers jump. She barely missed pricking her finger. "Tell me!"
"A runner has arrived. The rest of our people will be here before night." He made a humorless chuckle. "And only a month since they left London! Sodorini outdoes himself."
She was glad she did not hold the needle, for in her shaking hand it would surely have pierced her. Allegreto watched, a flame and a darkness.
"I've waited, Cara. Now you must decide."
The castle suddenly seemed a huge weight around her, pressing down upon her.
"Riata or Navona," he said.
She wadded the vestments in her fists. "My sister. My sister."
"We will ruse them. But I must know who it is."
"I can't tell you!"
"Little fool, do you think I can't find out for myself? I'll know by who kills you." He pushed off the chimney. "We came here together. I brought you. Cara, I brought you!"
She fixed her eyes on his crimson figure. With a blinding vision, she understood him, saw how it would appear in Riata eyes. The princess was still alive, free of any nunnery, outside of all reach—and only Cara and Allegreto, together, had returned with the word. Even a child must believe that they had conspired to effect it.
"Only tell me," he said. "I can safeguard you."
She closed her eyes.
"I beseech you. I beg you."
"Ficino," she whispered.
With a soft rustle across the rushes, he came close to her. "You're with us now. With me. I'll keep your sister if God wills."
He stood before her, the devil's perfection, invoking God. Abruptly he went to one knee and gathered the vestments and her hands within his, pressing his face into the cloth. As suddenly he let her go. He thrust himself back, as if he had touched a flame, and went to the passage.
He stopped there. Without looking at her, he said, "You must send him word to meet you in the cistern cellar, the one where the oils are stored."
She stared at him, bereft of words at what he had just done.
"Cara!" he snapped over his shoulder. "Repeat me, that I know you won't blunder it!"
She started. "The cistern cellar, for the oils," she said. Before she was finished speaking, he had gone.
The alarm bells came deep in the night, dread tolling and shouts of fire. All the ladies rushed about in the dark, trying to find their way among the half-packed baggage and chests. Cara was the first down the stairs, knowing her way, holding her candle aloft for the others to see.
The hall seethed with torch shadows and confusion. She tried to stop a servant, but none would mind her, and the ladies were screaming and pressing around, pushing for the door. She was carried with them out into the bailey, where the low clouds reflected light onto a chain of men passing buckets.
No flames showed, only a black boil of smoke pouring from the base of the farthest tower. Even as she watched from the hall steps, it began to dissipate, and then vanished, carried away into the night. A hail began at that end of the bailey, a cheer that rolled toward the hall. The bucket chain began to break and scatter into knots of men.
Cara drew a deep breath. It appeared to be quenched. She almost turned to go in, but a figure caught her eye, a gleam of bright hair among the men. He carried two buckets in one hand, striding out from the crowd. She watched him turn and shout at a page, and trade the empty buckets for a torch.
The brand lit Guy's face, showing him smoke-blackened and his shirt stuffed hastily into his breeches. A sudden cough racked him; he bent over, holding the torch awkwardly as he choked.
Cara forgot her undress and cold feet. She ran down the steps and grabbed up a bucket that still had water in it. She came to him as he straightened up, still spluttering.
"Drink, sir." She set the bucket on the ground and reached for his torch.
He looked down at her blankly. For an instant she feared that he had already forgotten her, but then his gaze cleared and his open grin dawned. "Thank you," he croaked, and squatted beside the bucket, scooping water into his hands. He drank deeply, then splashed it on his face and stood, wiping his arm across his eyes.
Cara smiled at the wild smear of blacking that he made. "Your bath is wasted, sir, I fear."
He rose, making a small bow. "Ah, but I did delight in it," he said hoarsely, "and that's not wasted, good lady." He looked beyond her, lifting his hand in salute to another smoke-blackened man passing.
His companion stopped. "They say there was a poor devil in there, by Christ," he said.
"'Fore God." Guy blew air through his teeth and made the cross. "He's passed to his reward, may the good Lord save his soul. I know not what was in that cellar, but it burned like the flames of Hell."
"It's where they keep the oils," the other man said. "Good fortune that the stock was low—here, ma'am!"
Cara had dropped the torch. She could not get her breath.
"My lady." Guy's face swam in front of her. "For love—John!"
She did not swoon. A horrible shaking fit possessed her. She felt she must scream, but she could not scream. Her knees were sinking beneath her. Before she reached the ground she felt herself lifted up.
"We shouldn't have spoken of it in front of her." She heard Guy's voice, but she couldn't command words. He carried her into the hall, and next she knew the ladies were crowded around him and hart's horn and vinegar thrust into her face as he set her down.
"No—" She pushed them feebly away. "I'm well. I only—lost my breath."
Guy knelt beside her, looking up into her face with a frown of innocent concern, black streaked all across his nose and temple. Cara clutched his hand. She swallowed, trying to command herself. But when she lifted her head, she lost all mastery.
Beyond him, past the ladies in nightgowns and the men in shirts, above the curious faces and tumult, Allegreto stood on the dais, dressed in gold and fire.
He was utterly still, watching her, the only silent figure in the commotion.
She moaned, shaking her head. Guy pressed her hand and patted it. He asked her something, but she did not hear. She pulled away and stumbled from the bench. Guy called after her, but she couldn't stop; she had to run, turning and twisting blindly, like a doe trying to find some break in the deerpark wall.