Shadowheart Read Online Free Page A

fingers were white. The hard, clear sunlight poured through the tall windows, sparking a ruby in one of her rings, sending rosy rays over her skin. In the background, like a dreary dream, she heard the voice of the elderly Lady Beatrice raised in sharp contention, echoing even through stone walls, but the only thing distinct in Elayne’s mind was the declaration of scornful dismissal in Raymond’s letter.
    After weeks she could remember each burning word that Cara had read aloud over their needlework at Savernake. Elayne remembered it upon waking; it was the last thought to haunt her as she fell asleep.
    It did not matter that Sir Guy sent word the ecclesiastical court in Salisbury had dismissed the summons for heresy as unreasonable. It did not matter that the dead chickens were replaced and the villagers reimbursed beyond their wildest hopes. A seven-day past at Westminster, Cara read, unfolding the page of Sir Guy’s message and glancing up with significance at Elayne, the banns for Raymond de Clare’s marriage had been asked, the bride to be one Katherine Rienne, widow of a Bohemian knight.
    “My lady.” Elayne flinched as a man’s low voice startled her. She looked up to find the chamberlain dressed in red-and-white livery. He bowed. “Her Grace will see you in her bedchamber.”
    Through the high oriel window, the sky sparkled with ice crystals, blown snow swept from the rooftops of Windsor Castle by the wind that had brought a Lenten blizzard. Elayne realized that the Countess Beatrice of Ludford and her long-haired spaniel were being escorted from Lady Melanthe’s presence-room. In spite of the choleric tone of her voice, Countess Beatrice did not appear ill-pleased with the results of her interview with Lady Melanthe. Elayne courtesied as the venerable lady limped past, resplendent in her stiff wimple and heavy brocades, and received a disdainful nod and a growling yap in reply.
    Elayne kept her face low. Everyone must know she had been sent up to be interviewed by her godmother in utter disgrace. It should have been an honor to be received in Her Ladyship’s privymost room—even Countess Beatrice had only been admitted as far as the presence-chamber—but no doubt it was because Lady Melanthe wished to interview her scandalous goddaughter in strictest privacy concerning her affairs with chickens and gentlemen. Elayne followed the butler through the presence-chamber, past the silk wall hangings and silver candlesticks as tall as she was, the canopied chair of audience. In the bedchamber, Lady Melanthe was just stripping off her ermine-trimmed surcoat, while her maidservant lifted the tall headpiece from her hair—a single peaked cone glittering with emeralds and silver bosses.
    She turned, her loosened hair falling down over her bared shoulder in a black twist. With the steady gaze of a cat, her eyes a strange deep violet hue, she watched Elayne curtsy.
    “God save and keep you, my beloved lady Godmother,” Elayne said, with her face still lowered, holding her skirt spread wide over the carpeted rushes. She kept her courtesy, looking down at an indigo cross woven into the Turkish rug.
    There was a moment of silence. “I fear I do not find you well, Ellie,” Lady Melanthe said quietly.
    Elayne bit her lip very hard against the unexpected rise of tears in her throat. She did not look up, but only shook her head. She had kept her proud countenance in the face of Cara’s censure, in front of the servants and the priest and the village. She had allowed nothing to show.
    “Your hands are trembling. Mary, take that stool away and set a chair by the fire. Bring two pair of slippers, the fur-lined winter ones. I will wear my green robe. Malvoisie wine for us, well warmed and sweetened. Sit you down, Elena.”
    As her godmother turned away, Elayne lowered herself into the chair. She felt the tears escape, tumbling down her cheeks as she stared bleakly into the fire. Lady Melanthe removed her golden belt and pulled the green robe