Even God Himself had stayed his hand. She had not conceived; she had seen the signs denying it each month with regret—but she understood now what mercy had been given her, that she was barren.
Fantasies and a lover she left behind. Only one thing did she do for herself, brutally cruel as she could do it, so that she might have a hope of sleeping. She made him hate her, so that he would not follow.
The moment that they rode within sight of the massive gatehouse and red sandstone walls that guarded the abbey, Allegreto came striding out. He did not keep to a walk—he began to run, avoiding puddles and a flock of peahens, coming to a halt before her horse. "My father," he said.
His face held no expression, his voice no panic, and yet he radiated a fear so deep that he seemed to breathe it in and out of him.
"Is he here?" She nodded toward the abbey.
"In God's name, no!" He seemed to get a little hold of himself and shook his head. He bowed to her. "No, lady. At Bowland. We came away in secret."
"Let us go in, then. Desmond must have rest and food."
Allegreto looked toward her drooping companion. He walked to the horse and took its reins, reaching back to grip Desmond's good hand. "Well done," he said, "for bringing her lady's grace. You see I didn't follow."
Desmond gave a hollow croak of a laugh. "Not for lack of trying."
Allegreto turned and clucked the rouncy into a slow walk. He looked back at Desmond. "How were you injured, when they ask?"
"A mishap," Desmond said weakly. "A mill wheel."
Allegreto nodded. "Clever enough," he said to the boy.
Melanthe saw Desmond smile feebly. He looked at Allegreto with bleared and worshiping eyes.
"I've said a lady doing penance is expected," Allegreto informed them. "A great lady traveling poorly, to atone for her pride and vainglory. A falcon brought the message to her in a dream."
Melanthe sighed. "Ah, Allegreto—and I thought you dead." She pulled her hood about her face and lifted the bird who had delivered the unfortunate news of her pride and vainglory, pressing her horse toward the abbey gate.
She knelt beside Allegreto in the sanctuary, telling prayer beads with her fingers. While the monks sang compline in the candlelit church, he spoke softly to her, his voice a tight undertone to the motet and descant.
"I don't know what you want, my lady. I don't know what you intended by fleeing. I've thought on it these three months, and still I cannot fathom your desire."
"It's not important," she said.
"Yes, my lady, it is important to me. I am yours. You won't believe me. I cannot prove it. But if I must choose between you and my father, I've chosen."
She looked aside at him, keeping her head bowed. He was staring intensely at her, the smooth curve of his cheek lit by gold, his eyes outlined in shadow as if by a finely skillful hand. "You've chosen me?" she asked, with a soft incredulity.
"You don't want my father. That's all I can make of your move. Is that true?"
Such a blunt question. She forced her fingers to tell the beads, her mind to think. Was this Gian, trying to wrest words from her that he would use somehow? Allegreto was his father's creature; he had ever been, born and bred to his devotion. As frightened of Gian as all the rest of them, loving his father as a wolf cub loved its parent, in cringing adoration.
"You need not tell me," he said quickly. "I well know you cannot trust me. What can I do that you will trust me?"
"I cannot imagine," she said.
He was silent. The monks sang an alleluia and response, voices soaring up the dark roof. The straw beneath her knees made but a rough cushion; she was glad to stand when the rite allowed it.
"Lady," he said when they knelt again, "two years ago, my father wished me to journey with him to Milan. Do you remember?"
She made a slight nod, without taking her eyes from her fingers.
"We didn't go to Milan. We spent the time in his palace, lady. He told me I must keep you from all harm. He taught me such further lessons as he thought I needed, and watched me spar and fight, and—tested me."
A tenor answered the treble song. Melanthe started the beads over again, her head bent.
"My lady, there was a man who had done my father a wrong. I know not what. He was loosed in the palace, and my father said I was to kill him, or he would kill me." Allegreto was unmoving next to her. "He was a master, this man. He was better than I. I was at the point of his dagger when my father delivered me." Amid the chants, Allegreto's voice seemed to become distant. "I failed. My father told me that because I was his son, he saved me, but I had to remember not to fail again. And so I was bound in a room with the man I should have killed, and they took his member and parts."
Melanthe shook her head. She put her hand on his arm to stop him, to silence him.
But he kept speaking, trembling beneath her hand. "And while they did it, my father came to me and said to remember I was his bastard, and he could sire more sons, but was better for Navona that I could not. He laid the blade on me, so I should feel it and bleed, but then—because he loved me, he stayed it. He made me know that if I failed him again, that should be my reward. I should not be reprieved." He looked up at her, breathing sharply. "And I have not failed, until this time."
Melanthe's hand loosened. She stared into his face.
"It's been deception, my lady, that I was gelded. He let me go and bid me play it well, or it would be done to me in truth. It was so that you would bear me to sleep near you, that I might keep you from your enemies. He knew—" Allegreto's mouth hardened. "He knew that he could trust me in all ways."
She closed her eyes and drew a shaky breath. "Christ's blood. And I am to trust you?"
"My lady—" He put his hand over hers, gripping hard, desperate. "Lady, this time he'll do it. He promised it."
She shook her head, as if she could deny all thoughts.
"I can't go back without you, my lady!"
"Ah," she said, pulling her hand from under his, "is that all you'd have of me, for your vast loyalty?"
"Not all," he said in a painful voice.
She looked sideways from under her hood. His hands were clenched together on his thighs as he knelt.
"My lady." He bent his head down over his fists. "Donna Cara is there. If you tell my father of what she tried to do to you—"
His words broke off, requiring no completion. Melanthe gazed at his hands and thought, Cara? Cara the bitch of Monteverde, whom he had scorned so savagely and strained so hard to have sent away?
Away, away, out of Monteverde, Riata, Navona. Away, where she would have been safe.
In profile he looked older than she remembered, his mouth and jaw set, his beauty more solid. Growing. And a man, with passions in him that he had kept dark and silent.
"Oh, God pity you," she whispered. "Allegreto."
"She's not for me. I know that. There is an Englishman." He took a long breath and spoke coldly. "I believe he will wed her. But if your lady's grace accuses her to my father—" He shrugged, and his elegant murdering hands twisted together.
She might have thought he was lying. He was player enough, verily, for any part.
He squeezed his eyes closed, lifting his face to the high arches. "I am yours. I'll act only for you. I'll do whatever you ask to prove myself. Only—I cannot leave her there, and I cannot go back without you, my lady."