Votive (48 page)

‘Sir Kay!’ barked Earl Farwarn. Sir Kay’s head flew up. ‘You’re a knight of Albion, one charged with protecting the lands and the people. Show some backbone! Throughout history, we’ve been both conqueror and conquered – we don’t pick our battles according to what the outcome will be. We simply fight them. We owe it to the people who trust us to care for them to fight this one too – no matter what the cost.’ He hauled Sir Kay to his feet. ‘You might be right,’ he said, pushing his face into the knight’s. ‘We might all die; our sorcerer queen may rip our souls from our bodies, but that doesn’t mean we don’t fight. It doesn’t mean we
give up and roll over on our backs like a frightened puppy.’ He pushed Sir Kay away in disgust and turned back to the window.

Sir Kay staggered and found his footing. Father Morrison stared at his beads.

‘You’re right, your grace. I am sorry. What I saw –’

‘Would unsettle the most seasoned of warriors, son,’ said the earl. ‘You’re only human.’

‘Unlike our queen,’ added Father Morrison dryly.

‘Indeed,’ said the earl. He spun on his heel and faced them. ‘Which is why we will stick to our original plan. We will use whatever is in our power to bring the queen to her knees, to end her unholy reign.’

‘What about you, your grace?’ said Father Morrison. ‘We know your venture to the Ottomans was … as the queen desired. But how are you? Have you been … restored yet?’

‘You mean, has Her Majesty seen fit to return my soul after sending me through the Limen?’

Father Morrison reached out and pressed his gloved hand against the earl’s broad chest.

‘It’s all right, father,’ said Earl Farwarn, gently lifting the father’s hand away. ‘I’m a fortunate man. The part she has taken, she has returned. I am again whole; unlike some. Unlike those poor children …’

A noise from another part of the castle startled them.

‘We’ve spent too long conferring,’ said the earl, snapping back to attention. ‘But now we have the proof that has eluded us and our motivation for the sin we are about to commit.’

‘Sin?’ asked Sir Kay.

‘Yes, my son.’ Father Morrison spoke gravely. ‘Treason is a sin in the gods’ eyes.’

‘As is taking someone’s soul,’ added the earl. He drew closer to the others. ‘Here’s what we do. Let our allies know
about this abominable act. Tell them to stay strong, to warn the villagers to keep their children safe.’ Light filled the room as the clouds parted and the moon shone. ‘We need to recruit more to our cause. Perhaps we need to look into what these Bond Riders we know so little about have to do with all this.’

‘It’s stopped snowing,’ said Father Morrison. He looked from the earl to Sir Kay and beamed. ‘It’s a sign. The gods have heard us.’ He worried his beads again.

‘So long as it’s only the gods,’ said the earl softly. ‘You will send a missive to Waterford? Tell him what has occurred?’ he asked, tying his cape under his chin and pulling the hood over his forehead.

‘I will make sure he knows what is going on. What instructions do you want me to give him?’

The earl thought for a moment. ‘None at present. Just keep him informed. He knows what to do. The part he must play.’

Father Morrison took the cape from Sir Kay’s shoulders and draped it back over the earl’s. ‘You can do without having to explain why you’re wearing the earl’s wardrobe.’ He smiled at Sir Kay.

‘What about the Estrattore? Where does she figure in all this? The queen is so desperate to have her brought here,’ said Sir Kay.

‘Somehow, I just know she’s the key to all this. We need to work out how to unlock her purpose.’ The earl’s eyes glinted beneath his hood. ‘I am hoping Waterford can help us there. For the time being, he’s the only one in the position to do so.’

‘He understands that,’ said Father Morrison.

‘He’d better.’

Sir Kay slowly lifted the latch and opened the door. ‘When will we three meet again?’

‘Look to the chapel for the usual signal,’ said the earl. ‘For now, lie low and, above all else, show your queen your fealty. We cannot raise her suspicion.’

‘Or Shazet’s,’ added Sir Kay.

‘Gods, no!’ Raising his hand in farewell, the earl first peered around the door before disappearing into the night. With one last shake of Father Morrison’s hand, Sir Kay followed, sticking to the shadows under the parapet walls, heading for the stables.

Father Morrison waited a moment and then stepped outside and as quietly as he could secured the storage room door. He looked right then left and ran as fast as his fat legs could carry him into the garden, moving off the main path, fumbling through the overgrown sections to the side. Just as he disappeared around a large clump of fruit trees, the guard house doors swung open and the soldiers spilled onto the rampart.

Not wasting a moment, he put his head down and raced to the chapel, praying that the gods and the tangle of branches and bushes would keep him hidden.

H
IGH ABOVE THE GARDENS
, comfortable in the warmth of his bedroom, snug in this long nightgown and cap, Claudio pushed his nose up against the window and watched the moon rise. He kept wiping away the steam that obscured the glass so he could see what was going on outside. There were people out there, and as the moon came out from behind a thick bank of clouds and cast its radiant light, he was astonished to see three of them leave the old storage room one after the other and dash in different directions. He wriggled around on the window seat to try to gain better vantage.

It was such a cold night and it struck him as very unusual that Father Morrison, a man that he knew loved his warm chamber, and more than a man of the gods should, was out in the darkness. But stranger still were the other two who had clearly been with the father. What was going on? What were they meeting about so late at night and in a part of the castle that nobles, let alone a man of the cloth, never had cause to visit? While Claudio was uncertain who the first man out of the room was, he was sure the lean-looking man who departed immediately after him was Sir Kay. He liked him. For some reason, Sir Kay reminded him of his papa.

Claudio bit his lip as a pain shot through his head. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass. He knew he wasn’t supposed to talk about his family back in Serenissima, let alone think of them. Another needle-like pain went through his skull. But it was so … so hard not to.

Tears gathered in his eyes and he squeezed them shut, forcing himself to push aside thoughts of his mamma and papa, his old nursery at the palazzo – the warmth of the sun, the dazzling light, the jade-coloured water – and to think of Sir Kay here in snowbound Albion, the great city, in the wonderful country of Farrowfare. The pain eased and Claudio exhaled in relief and opened his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder and into the darkness of the rooms beyond. He could just see the outline of Lady Mary, bundled under the covers and hear the soft sound of her breathing. She slumbered on. Eagerly, he looked outside again. There was no sign of Sir Kay.

The young knight had, a few weeks ago now, promised to show him a trick or two with his pony. But then he’d disappeared, sent on a mission for Earl Farwarn, one of the stable hands had said when he asked. Evidently he’d returned. Claudio was pleased, but it wasn’t good that he was out in the bailey at night. Zaralina had forbidden that.
Claudio frowned. No-one was to wander the castle at night – only the soldiers who were charged with protecting them all – like the ones he could see now, marching across the walkway, their spears at the ready. Zaralina did terrible things to those who disobeyed her, and Claudio didn’t want Sir Kay to feel her wrath. But why had Father Morrison and Sir Kay risked her anger, never mind the other man? What were they doing?

Claudio wiped a circle in the glass with his sleeve, pushed his face up against it and twisted his neck so he could see better. He shivered as the frost outside ate into his skin. He wrapped his arms around his body. It was unusually bitter tonight, even for Farrowfare. He tried to penetrate the shadows below. For a second he couldn’t find Father Morrison and assumed he must have returned to the chapel. He was about to give up when the bushes stirred. He glanced up at the peripatetic guards. They were in the wrong position to see, thank goodness. Father Morrison bolted from under cover and up the chapel steps. Claudio laughed as the old man tripped and fell against the door in his eagerness to be inside. The chubby priest looked over both shoulders and then squeezed through the gap, closing the door hastily behind him. Claudio chuckled again. The fat father had outwitted Zaralina, and this pleased him.

‘What’s so funny, Claudio?’ asked a familiar voice.

Too late, Claudio understood that the cold he felt, the uncanny pressure in his head, wasn’t coming only from outside. He spun round and quickly slid off the window seat, standing to attention as he’d been taught.

‘Nothing, Shazet,’ he said, glad the creature could not see the high spots of colour that he knew were staining his cheeks.

‘Nothing? Humans don’t normally laugh at nothing.’ Shazet’s tone made the hair on Claudio’s arms stand on
end. The Morte Whisperer detached himself from the dark space near the fire and drew closer. Claudio willed Lady Mary to wake. ‘What was it, Claudio? Tell me.’

‘It was a … a … a bat,’ said Claudio, astonished at how easily the lie bounced off his tongue.

‘A bat?’

‘Sì … I mean, yes. A fat little bat. It hit a tree and became tangled in the branches. It was very funny.’

‘Really?’ Shazet glided past Claudio, brushing against the boy as he did. Claudio recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

Shazet leant forward and gazed out the window. ‘I do not see a tangled bat out there, princeling. Come, show me your bat.’

Reluctantly, Claudio came to the window and pointed to the biggest fruit tree in the garden. An apple tree that for years had failed to produce anything but a few shrivelled lumps. ‘It’s there.’

Without turning, Shazet spoke again. ‘No, my prince. Come closer, come up beside me and point to exactly where the bat was lodged.’

Claudio bit his lip, bracing himself. Slowly, he climbed onto the window seat, being careful not let any part of him touch the creature. He gazed out the window earnestly. What could he do? What could he say? Then it occurred to him.

‘It was there, Shazet. On the third branch from the top. See? The one that forks towards this window.’ Detail. If you want to sound convincing, you must give detail, but not too much. It was all a matter of balance. He’d heard Sir Kay say that only two weeks ago.

‘Really? And where is it now?’

Claudio’s mind raced. He had to be so careful. If he wasn’t, whatever he said next could hurt Father Morrison, and he didn’t want to do that. Worse, it could mean something
dreadful happened to Sir Kay, and he was his friend. For the first time since being in Farrowfare, Claudio did something he’d never done before. He deliberately subverted Queen Zaralina’s wishes.

He cleared his mind of all thought and raised his face to Shazet’s and, his brown eyes wide, answered. ‘Why, I don’t know, Shazet. It must have freed itself and flown away.’

Shazet stared into the child’s eyes. Claudio forced himself not to flinch; not to turn away. His lips and hands began to go numb. His body began to shake.

The fire crackled. Lady Mary slept on.

‘Hmmmm.’ Shazet drifted away from the window. ‘Your little bat best enjoy its freedom while it can, for there is nowhere in Farrowfare it can fly that is completely safe.’

With one last look at Claudio, the Morte Whisperer shimmered and, in a whirl of vapour, disappeared.

Claudio let out his breath. His heart was beating so fast it hurt. He stared at the spot where Shazet had been and his eyes narrowed. Turning, he threw himself against the window, his palms firm against the glass. ‘You’re wrong, Shazet. I know you are. There’s always a safe place – you just have to look hard to find it,’ he whispered, his words turning the glass opaque, imprinting themselves against the dark.

A
S SOON AS
I
ENTERED THE STUDY,
I could tell something was afoot. Signor Maleovelli reclined in the seat behind his desk, puffing away as was his custom on his wretched pipe, the smell of which I had grown to loathe. Sitting in the chairs before him were Giaconda and Jacopo. Neither met my eyes as I sank into a curtsy and greeted them. The fire burned low in the grate and the candles had been reduced to deformed stumps. A long conversation had taken place in this room. I knew that Lord Waterford had only just departed. I had heard Salzi calling for his gondolier.

My heart began to thump and, despite the cool, I felt a trickle of sweat slide its way between my shoulder blades. I waited for Signor Maleovelli’s invitation to sit. It was not forthcoming. I stood in front of him, Giaconda to my right and Jacopo where I didn’t like him – behind me. I could feel his eyes staring, probing like fingers. I lifted my chin.

‘You called me, Signor?’

‘How long have you been with us now, Tarlo?’ began Signor Maleovelli.

Taken aback by the question, I did a quick calculation. I came to Casa Malevoelli in autumn last year. It was now winter. ‘I believe it would be well over a year ago, Signor.’

‘And, during this time, have we done anything other than what we promised?’

‘Signor?’ I didn’t understand.

‘Have we not educated you, introduced you to society, asked you to make your candles to help us achieve great power so that, in turn, we might help you?’

‘Sì, Signor.’ I resisted the urge to look at Giaconda. What was going on?

‘Our plans, our colleganza, which you signed and of which I have a copy here –’ He pulled a piece of yellow parchment out from under the pile in front of him and slid it across his desk. I looked down at the agreement. My signature was a crude cross at the bottom beside Signor Maleovelli’s elegant flourish. ‘Clearly states that you will work for us towards a common goal: bringing the Maleovellis to power in Serenissima, sì?’

‘Sì.’

‘Don’t just parrot me, read it,’ he said, jabbing his finger into the centre of the document.

I quickly read the contents – something I could do with ease.

‘Sì, this is our agreement, Signor,’ I said cautiously.

‘Molto bene. We have concord.’

He sat forward suddenly, his fingers intertwined, eyes fixed on my face. ‘And you have always worked towards this, have you, Tarlo? At no time have you broken or undermined our pact? Our signed business arrangement?’

‘No, Signor. Of course not.’ I was proud of the way I held his eyes, that my voice was so steady.

‘For, if you have, if you ever did, then everything we have agreed upon becomes void, capisce?’

‘That is what I signed, sì Signor.’

He kept his eyes locked on mine for a few seconds longer and rolled the agreement back up, closing it with a fresh wax seal. There was a movement at the rear. Giaconda had left her chair. She went behind the desk and stood beside
her father, her hand resting on his shoulder. He reached up and twisted his fingers through hers. Giaconda stared at me, her eyes dark and unfathomable in the dim light, her face a forbidding landscape.

‘Bene,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘The time has come to grasp the power that, together, we have been working towards, Tarlo. Whereas we have been cautious until now, events are moving and, as a consequence, we must act swiftly.’

He put down his pipe. It teetered on the edge of a porcelain dish, the smoke rising in a small cloud.

‘You are to make a candle, Tarlo. A special candle that you are to deliver to the Doge during your next assignation at the Palazzo. When is that exactly?’ he asked Giaconda.

‘Next week, Papa. The ball that marks the beginning of Carnivale.’

‘Ah,’ said Signor Maleovelli. ‘Then it is fitting, is it not? Last year, we used the same function to introduce you to the Doge. Only this time, when you meet him, you will kill him.’

It took me a moment to register what had just been said. ‘Kill him? The Doge? But …’

‘You can’t?’ Signor Ezzelino brushed away Giaconda’s hand and stood up. He hammered his fist onto his desk. I jumped. ‘Don’t give me that! I know you have killed before now! Save me your precious semantics – your
candles
killed. It’s the same thing, is it not? You made sure the four men who raped you would never do that to anyone else ever again, didn’t you? Do you think we didn’t notice? That your attempts at revenge were lost on us?’ He studied my face. I tried not to give anything away.

‘You did, didn’t you?’ He laughed. ‘Well, Tarlo, those men only died or left Serenissima because we let them. We allowed it to happen.’

‘
Let
them?
Allowed
?’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘You
let
them violate me, allowed
that
to happen and then you did nothing. Nothing.’ My eyes became glassy. I fought back the tears.
I would not cry. I would not show my emotions. Not in front of these people.

‘You are a courtesan. Your client’s desires are therefore yours. They are ours as well.
Let
is a word that does not exist in a courtesan’s vocabulary. Not even you can control desire once it is unleashed; on the contrary, as a courtesan you cater to it, whatever form it takes. But sì, we did not stop them either. That is not our way. You learnt this, Tarlo, and it was a good lesson for you.’

Good?
I clenched my hands into fists.

‘Yet you still have not learnt, have you? Despite being so clever, so talented. Everything you do in this casa is watched, reported back to me. I know exactly what you’re doing and when you’re doing it – from your morning wash to what goes on in the workshop, to what you whisper into the ears of the men who adore you, who seek your services night after night after night.’ He locked his eyes onto mine, those deep-set yellow eyes that were so cold, so lacking in humanity. I felt my knees begin to tremble.

Don’t Tallow, don’t,
I said to myself. I longed to extract from the hard surfaces in the room, draw their strength and solidity into me now, when I needed it most. I must not crumble.

As much as I wanted to tear my eyes away, I would not. I looked at first Signor Maleovelli and then Giaconda, met their gaze. I took a deep breath and exhaled. The candles spat, the pipe smouldered. In the grate, the embers coughed. I heard Jacopo shift in his chair behind me.

‘I will not kill the Doge for you, Signor Maleovelli. If I do, then I will be exposed and that will make the contract you
obligingly showed me redundant. It will make everything I have done, everything I have risked, irrelevant. Therefore, in order to preserve our colleganza, I refuse to do what you ask of me. There must be another way.’

‘Refuse?’ His voice was as chilly as the ice that coated the canal.

‘Sì.’

Both Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda began to laugh. Behind me, Jacopo chuckled. I wanted to swing round and slap the smug look I knew would be there from his face. How dare they laugh.

‘You cannot make me,’ I persisted. ‘And, if you try, you will only uncover me and therefore yourselves.’

‘Jacopo,’ said Signor Maleovelli, waving his hands.

Jacopo leapt to his feet with a swiftness I didn’t think his deformity would allow and, before I could stop him, grasped my wrists and pulled my hands behind my back.

‘What are you doing? Release me at once!’

He clamped his huge, sweaty palm over my mouth.

‘Let’s go,’ said Signor Maleovelli, rising and leading the way out of the room. Jacopo wrestled me out the doorway. Giaconda followed. She stooped towards me as I was forced into the corridor.

‘You’re a fool, Tarlo,’ she said.

I had no idea where we were going as I was pushed and pulled, Jacopo taking pleasure in my stumbles and muted cries as we went down the stairs and into the area reserved for business. Lit only by the candles carried by Signor Maleovelli and Giaconda, it was difficult to see where we were going. At first I thought they were going to throw me in a gondola, but we went through a doorway near the water-gates and down another flight of stairs, ones I never even knew existed.

They twisted around sharply and I could smell centuries of damp. In the pale light, I could see the moss and lichen growing between the cracked stones, spreading like a canker over the walls.
What was this place?

Finally, after spending what seemed like minutes descending, we stopped. Signor Maleovelli stood beside an enormous, ancient door. He drew a key out of his pocket and passed it to Giaconda. He held the candle close and she placed the key in and turned it. The door opened quietly and I knew then that, wherever they were taking me, it was a place they used frequently. The key was not rusted, the hinges oiled.

The door opened onto a corridor. A frigid wind greeted us and I shivered. The cold was like a barrier we had to pass through. I began to shake. My heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. Jacopo’s breathing was harsh in my ears while my own strained in my throat. I could feel his stubble pressed against my cheek, the way he used this opportunity to press himself against me even though I had stopped resisting long before.

A light flickered at the end. As we stepped in, Signor Maleovelli used his candle to light a torch that sat in a sconce above us. He lifted it down.

‘Take her to him,’ he said gruffly.

Him
?

Jacopo grunted and pushed me towards the light. We passed what appeared to be cells, their iron bars sparkling in the flame of the torch. They were all empty.

At the end of the corridor, Jacopo stopped and then, with cruel force, slammed me into the railings, pushing against the back of my head so my face was pressed against their algific hardness.

It took me a moment to register what I was seeing.

In the small, freezing cell was a dark shape. It was curled
over on what appeared to be a large bed of straw. The smell was dreadful – a mixture of urine, faeces and sweat. I coughed and tried to breathe through my mouth.

‘Do you know who this is, Tarlo?’

I stared and blinked. ‘No,’ I said, my voice cracking.

‘Tallow?’ said another deeper and familiar voice.

I caught my breath.
No.

I saw Signor Maleovelli make a gesture with his hand and the pressure on the back of my head went away. I tried to see through the darkness. Signor Maleovelli stood beside me, his torch held high. The gleam from it radiated into the cell.

Rising from the straw, the shape detached itself from the shadows and slowly lumbered towards us. The light hit its face and it threw up an arm to protect its eyes. I saw through the dirt, the clothes that were mere shreds, the food and other stains that covered almost every inch. Then the hand fell away and I had no doubt. A pair of faded blue eyes in a face ravaged by sores and scabs blinked lovingly into my own.

No. No. No. No.

‘Pillar?’ I said disbelievingly. I reached for him.

‘Tallow,’ he sighed. His voice unpractised, hoarse. He did not move.

‘Hold her!’ snapped Maleovelli.

Jacopo grabbed my hands, banging them into the bars as he wrenched them behind my back. I did not give him the pleasure of knowing the pain he caused me.

‘Oh, God, Pillar!’ I said softly, ‘What have they done to you?’

Pillar stumbled closer and I heard the splash of water, but he did not come within reach. He’d been told what to do. I could feel that now. He did not say a word. He just stared. He looked me straight in the eyes and, in that moment, I used every ounce of my talent and, resting my
cheek against the iron that I now knew he too had held, plunged into his soul.

I saw pain, fear and, above all, guilt. Guilt over me. I felt the agony of his indecision, of his restlessness once I had gone. He did not know what to do, where to go. The Signori were coming; the Cardinale. He could not, would not betray me, but he was afraid he would not be strong enough to withstand their punishment. He drank and waited. Inert. Terrified. Then I saw Baroque. Baroque had persuaded Pillar to come with him; Pillar had believed him when he said he knew were I was, that I was safe. He promised to bring Pillar to me. And, cruelly, he had. Pillar had seen me from a distance – in the window of the piano nobile before he was taken, by Jacopo and Salzi, and locked in this damp, cold place. He’d been here ever since. Ever since I had been at the Maleovellis.
For over a year …

They had beaten him, starved him, fed him, tormented him with what I now was, my success, with what I had become. I saw myself, the grand courtesan, through Pillar’s eyes and what I saw sickened me. The price for this was too high. The Estrattore were my people, sì, but Pillar was my family. The only family I had ever known.

The knowledge brought me to my knees. I slid down the bars, my eyes still fixed on Pillar. Sorrow poured out of me; I begged his understanding as I gazed deep into his essence. What I saw almost undid me.

He did understand. He did forgive. He was proud of me, bewildered by my beauty, the talent I know he could sense. In his eyes I saw belief. The Maleovellis had not broken him – or the love he still had for me. The love I did not deserve.

Don’t. Don’t. Don’t love me,
I silently begged.

‘Now will you do what we ask?’ asked Signor Maleovelli, squatting beside me, speaking directly into my ear. ‘For if you don’t, I think you know what we’ll do.’

I didn’t need to extract to know the answer.

‘Sì,’ I said. ‘I will do whatever you ask of me.’

I could not let Pillar – this man who had already suffered so much for me – suffer any more. I would not.

Above my head, looks of triumph were exchanged. I no longer cared. I would kill the Doge and then I would figure out what to do about the Maleovellis, Pillar and Baroque.

He had warned me not to trust him. Now I knew what he had meant.