Melanthe hid the jolt of discovery about Ficino in a brief laugh. "You've found yourself a useful friend in Allegreto, it would seem."
The maid kept her eyes lowered. She did not answer.
"You'll go between us. He must stay near his father and away from me," Melanthe said. "He's told me I may trust you, which is why I do, and the only reason, since you give me none other. But remember that Gian is here, and at your least indiscretion I'll give you to him, and even Allegreto could not save you then."
"Yes, my lady. I could not forget it, my lady."
She received Gian in the chamber that had belonged to her father, with its paintings of jousts and melees all along the plastered walls, a newer wainscoting below them that she didn't remember and a line of diverse shields hung above. Again it seemed not so vast as it ought, the colors duller, the curtained bed smaller and the red and blue ceiling beams not so high as she recalled. But her father's chair still stood near the chimney, with a cushion in it that was shabby and almost worn through, an imperfect embroidery of the Bowland arms that Melanthe recognized at once.
Every year since her marriage she had made him a new cushion, and sent it. This one had been the first. Some others lay about the chamber, early efforts, when she had been so sick for home that she had spent hours at the task. In latter years she'd chosen elaborate designs and caused the best craftsmen in the city to execute them in expensive materials, but she saw none of those richer pillows in the room.
She was glad. The thin cushion worn through in her father's chair was better comfort and courage. She did not rise from it as Gian entered, but only indicated a lesser chair drawn up near.
He bowed to her. Melanthe went through the ritual of ordering spices and drink. While a servant waited at the door for any further charge, they exchanged greetings of exquisite courtesy. Gian sat down.
"My lady's father left his holding in good order, may God absolve him," he said in French. "I've seen nothing but signs of the most excellent management here since he passed to his reward."
Gian was a master. Word of that compliment would soon spread throughout the bailey.
Melanthe smiled. "I think you're a little surprised, sir. Perhaps you thought we lived as savages here in the north."
"My dear, none such as you could have sprung from savages, or from any but the most noble blood."
"I told you that my English estate was well worth my journey. This hold is but a fraction; I have numerous manors to the west and south, and five good castles, garrisoned all. I've made homage for them to the king, but there's much work yet to be done—I must meet my vassals and tour my holdings. I'll be truthful with you, my lord, and hope that you didn't come sallying north in the expectation that I would return immediately."
He was silent, looking at her in an unfathomable way. She tilted her head and put a question in her glance. She'd worn a high-necked gown and dressed her hair in a wimple of purple silk, so that the pulse in her throat would not show.
"I'd have thought you well occupied at home," she added, defying caution to make a swift attack.
He grinned, lifting his eyebrows. "And well you should, my lady. After such a kindness as you did me with your quitclaim."
He appeared quite at ease, even amused. But of course that could hide anything. She shrugged. "A mischief, I'll admit—but not too great, I hope. I regret I hadn't time to warn you, but I was pressed upon too closely, and then of course—this fearful adventure I've experienced—"
She left it there, without supplying details that might entangle her.
"We must thank God that you're safe," he said. "These other matters are trifling. The Duke of Lancaster has graced us with a company of men and lawyers in Monteverde, to press the claim you gave his father. My son tells me you've met the duke?"
There was the heart. His real concern, in a casual question tagged to the end of his words. Armies might move and lawyers argue over the paper claim she had given away, but the real threat she still carried in herself and her marriage. Lancaster was ambitious and powerful, with the throne of England behind him; if already he sent a force to assert her quitclaim, how much more aggressive might he be with the princess of Monteverde as his wife?
"Indeed yes," she said, "I stopped at Bordeaux until the new year. A gracious and hospitable man, truly. His brother the prince is sore ill, I fear, and so the duke takes all the burden of Aquitaine upon his own shoulders. I'm surprised he had the resource to pursue any business in Monteverde."
The refreshment arrived, saving her from saying more. When the drink was poured, Gian dismissed both servants with a flick of his hand. It was the first usurpation of authority he had taken—not having been so tactless as to lodge himself in the lord's chambers or issue orders to her attendants. Melanthe made no remark on it, but she did look deliberately at his hand and up at his face.
He smiled. "Forgive me. I'm an impudent fellow—but how shall I not be anxious to have you to myself?" The door hasp clanked shut like the bolt on a prison. For a long moment he sat with his wine cup in his hands, gazing at her. "My life has been a joyless desert without you."
"Come, Gian—we're alone. You needn't exert yourself to love-talk now."
He rubbed his thumb over the rim, looking down at it. "It's no exertion," he said softly.
She realized that he wished to play at love-amour. She thought of his perfumed kiss, and a terrible loathing of the course she must take came over her. He was no Ligurio, to leave her in peace in her bedchamber, but the man who had made sure by murder that she took no lovers. He had waited for her—without a legitimate heir, for his own enigmatic reasons, for a logic she had never plumbed, nor ever would.
"It would be exertion for me," she said. "I'm too weary now to trade compliments."
His eyes lifted. He smiled and drank. "Then I'll waste none upon you, without my fair share in return. Tell me of your dread adventure, if you cannot praise my manly beauty."
"No, I shouldn't like to disappoint you, if it's compliments you desire," she said. "Shall I say that your own son could not flatter that elegant garment better?"
He didn't move, but the pleasure seemed to flow through him, from a slight twitch of his spiked slipper to a deeper expansion of his chest when he inhaled. "Don't say it, my dear lady, if it would tire you too much."
"I am weary in truth, Gian." She nibbled idly at a cake. "I really don't wish to hold a long conversation."
He rose abruptly, walking to her father's little chapel where light from a narrow window of stained glass dyed the altar and rood. He was handsome enough, in his own way—older than Melanthe by near a score of years and yet lithe as a youth—an Allegreto with the sureness of age and power on him. Gluttonous indulgence was not his vice; he lived austere as a monk but for the fashions in clothing that he liked to set. For their interview he'd abandoned the staid floor-length robes in favor of the single color of Navona: white hose and a short white houppelande. It showed the lean legs of an ascetic—and his masculinity—very well.
"Concede me just a little description of your ordeal, my love." He smiled. "Your escort comes from an abbey, they tell me. Have you been safe all along in a religious house, then, while our Allegreto tore his hair?"
"Why, yes—has he not recounted to you?"