She had no desire to linger until her mistress returned from the king's audience, having leave to go at once to Guy. He was to take the horses to some castle Cara knew not where, but not too far away; he had a letter commanding that he be given charge of the stables and stud there, a great advancement, he had told her, an unbelievable stroke of fortune. They could marry immediately, thanks to her mistress's benevolence.
Such favor did not come free. Cara had a charge on her—but only one, and not difficult. She was to make certain that, after Princess Melanthe and Gian had left the country, Allegreto freed the poor chained madman in the abandoned brewery. When she saw that it was so with her own eyes, Cara was to write a letter herself to her mistress, and that letter was to contain three times the words by the grace of God, and then the princess could be sure.
Cara thought that when she could pen the last "God" of the three, it would truly be by His grace. She made a cross and said a prayer of thanks, begging Him to let her somehow free her sister, too. And she felt a strange certainty that it would be so. Allegreto had promised, and against all reason, Cara believed him.
But there was the way Gian had looked at her. She knew she had aroused his suspicions. If only he hadn't mentioned Allegreto to her. But surely, he would only think that she disliked him speaking of love with another, when Guy was so near.
She finished filling the chest, spread strawberry leaves and rose petals over the top layer, and hastened downstairs to call a page to bind and carry it. For a moment, on the stairs, Cara had a moment's vision of what life might be without the princess and Gian and Allegreto. Without thinking each thought in fear of their response, or listening each moment for some fatal word. At this time tomorrow, they would be gone. She would be almost alone in an alien land, but they would be gone.
A tremulous joy filled her. She took a deep breath, thinking of Guy with secret pleasure, and hastened down the curve of the stairs.
At the bottom Gian waited. He stood in the open door, looking out at the barges and the river. His cape swept about him as he turned to her, the golden bosses clinking heavily against one another. "Donna Cara," he said, smiling. "Well met! It's you I came to see."
TWENTY-SIX
She had thought of throwing herself in the river. She had thought of calling out to the single boat they had passed. She had thought of refusing to speak, pretending she didn't recognize the place. She thought of everything, but in the end she only wept.
She could not lie. She had never been able to lie perfectly, and with Gian she was beyond even being able to think. Her sister, he murmured, and she babbled out what he asked to know. Guy, he said, and she went with him when he commanded it, without a word to anyone, without a scream or a plea, a rabbit carried helpless away by the wolf.
He would kill the poor mad knight who loved her mistress. She did not want to see it, and put up her greatest resistance at the old stone wharf, half-hidden in reeds. But he laid his fingers close about her neck and crushed her throat until she gave in to pain and fear. Gasping air into her bruised throat, she crawled out of the boat and led him up the path through the reeds.
The wicket door to the brewery passage was unlocked, standing slightly open. Cara had a moment of wild hope. She drew a breath—a scream, a warning—but Gian's hand came across her mouth. He stroked his fingers over her neck, pressing lightly.
"Silence," he said into her ear. "Please me. That's your only hope now. This open door—has he escaped?"
She shook her head.
"Then someone else is here. The princess?"
She wet her lips and made a small shake.
"Your Englishman?"
Cara shook her head violently. Her nose seemed full of the scented oil that he used. Allegreto's voice drifted from the wicket door, far away and echoing, a faint derisive laugh.
His father didn't move. He turned his head. Allegreto's lazy tones were beyond doubting, and yet Gian squeezed her throat and hissed, "Who is it?"
Then he suddenly shoved her down through the door. She fell onto her knees in the sloped passage with a yelp, her palms scraping. Gian had already passed her, dragging her up with him.
"Allegreto!" he shouted, a sound of savage anguish that reverberated down the passage and rolled back from behind them. The brewery door hung a little open; he hurled it wide and stood on the landing, staring down at the huge chamber: Allegreto beside the well, the mad knight with his fettered arm resting against the wall. The last of Gian's voice still muttered frenzy back from the hollow spaces.
"Allegreto," he whispered.
In her desperate hope Cara had been glad to see the doors ajar. Allegreto, who could frighten demons—but he did not move. He sat on the edge of the well, his eyes on the water. An orange rind dropped from his motionless fingers. It fell far down below his feet and hit the water with a faint plink, a bright patch floating on the surface of a huge black moon.
Gian said softly, "Look at me."
Still Allegreto did not move. He closed his eyes.
"Not even this?" Gian said. "Not even this that I ask you? My son." His teeth bared. "My son. Look at me."
Allegreto turned his face upward. He saw Cara. A faint sound, like a dreamer's whimper, came from his throat.
"Now stand up."
"My lord—"
"Do not speak to me. I don't wish to hear your voice. Stand up."
Allegreto raised himself. He wore a sword and dagger, but he touched neither. He stood up, and then, as if his limbs failed him, he fell onto his knees.
Gian turned to Cara. With a courtly gesture he directed her down the stairs. She went in helpless tears, the only sound in the great chamber. He brought her before his kneeling son.
"Donna Cara—look upon a great love," he said. "For you, he has betrayed his father. For you, he has slain himself."
"Oh, no," she mumbled. "No."
"No? It's not for you? But it must be. He looks at you—you're somewhat fair, no great beauty, but such sweetness, such innocent light—and his heart turns to treachery. But what has he bought with it? Your safety, your life...ah...those poisoned mussels, that he told me you were so clever as to save your mistress from. Perhaps you didn't save her? I've been a little stupid. I've loved my son, and been stupid."
Allegreto was silent, his eyes glazed dark and empty.
"But perhaps I'll forgive him. Perhaps someone else has been more false even than he. My betrothed was in such concern to hurry me toward home." Gian turned his back on his son and walked to where Princess Melanthe's knight stood watching. "I may thank what wit I retain, I suppose, that I'm not chained up like this poor hound, to await her pleasure. Does she love him?"
He observed the knight, who looked back with a grim and even stare.
"Does she love you?" he asked in French.
"She's my wife."
"No, but does she love you?"
"Ask her."
Gian tilted his head. "She denies you. And yet—you're here, instead of under a pile of dirt where I'd have you. She forgives Donna Cara for poisoned mussels, because she can buy my son's service by it. She's lain in bed beside you, and feared for you, and lied for you!" He put his fists to his head. "Melanthe!"
The knight moved. His steel fetter caught light, a flash and slam, the chain hitting the end of its length a bare instant before it would have struck Gian's temple. The sound went around the chamber in discharges like hands clapping.