The Exiled Blade (The Assassini) - By Jon Courtenay Grimwood Page 0,81

do. He wished Duchess Alexa were alive. At least Lady Giulietta imagined he did. He sounded like he wished something.

“She’s alive,” Frederick said.

“Your highness . . .”

“I’m telling you. Giulietta lives.”

“She has been examined by the best doctors. She has neither heartbeat nor reflexes. Her eyes do not react to the light.”

“Her body is uncorrupted.”

“The vitality of youth and the sanctity of a life well lived. She will be buried tomorrow . . .” The chamberlain caught himself. However much he obviously wished that to be true, the ground was too hard for burial. He amended his words to “She will be taken to the crypt tomorrow to await burial.”

“I saw her breathe.”

“I’m sorry, your highness.”

“Just now. I’m telling you. I saw her breathe.”

“The doctor held a mirror to her mouth and nose. The glass remained clear and unfogged. I’m afraid . . .”

“He should have held it there for longer,” Frederick said fiercely. “You must summon him now so he can try again. I’ll wait here.” His voice fierce. “I’m not moving. You’d better understand that.”

The chamberlain sighed.

It was a sigh of half-surrender. In demanding the return of the court doctor Frederick had earned himself the right to hold vigil over her body. Lady Giulietta listened to the chamberlain explain politely, because this was the Emperor Sigismund’s bastard, and it paid to be polite, that the doctor could not be sent for twice. Her death had already been recorded in the Golden Book and the warrant announcing it sealed with the great seal of Venice, which showed the winged Lion of St Mark holding the shield of the Millioni. Sadly, tragically, Lady Giulietta was dead.

“You’re wrong,” Frederick said.

The chamberlain left muttering some commonplace about the harshness of death and the kindness of time. And, dare he say it, how much harder the young found the thought of death than those of his age. Then he shut the door of the great hall behind him and left Frederick to his grief.

The old tales of souls remaining chained to their bodies for three days had to be true because Giulietta felt inside her body and yet not. Her fingers would not move when she flexed them. Her tongue refused to frame words. Her eyes would not open. And her heartbeat was slower than time. Either she was dead, or this was the subtlest of her aunt’s poisons. Though Frederick said he saw her breathe she wondered if it were true.

“I’m so sorry,” she heard Frederick say.

For what? Giulietta wondered.

“I should have said . . .”

The bier on which her coffin rested creaked as he knelt beside her and though she floated without feeling she guessed he’d taken her hand. Her guess proved right, when he said, “So cold, your fingers . . .”

Perhaps she was dead after all?

“I should have told you my father sent me. I wanted to tell you from the moment we met. You looked so cross at having to meet me and every bit as beautiful as Leopold boasted.”

Leopold had thought her beautiful? He’d written to say that? She’d known the half-brothers wrote to each other but not what their letters said.

“I’m sorry Leopold died and Leo was stolen. I’m sorry Tycho left you and changed sides. I shouldn’t be . . . Because it let us be friends, but being friends wasn’t enough, was it? Most of all,” he said, “I’m sorry I caused this.”

She heard a sob.

“My father told me to make you fall in love with me – and all that happened was I fell in love with you instead.” His voice choked, and Giulietta could imagine his bitten lip and tearful face. “I know my being here is based on a lie. But the rest is true. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I know what it’s like to lose a child. To want to be dead.”

He was weeping openly, she realised.

“If Leo’s alive I’ll find him for you, I swear it. And I’ll kill Alonzo.” He hiccuped. “For all the good that will do.”

Through his sobs, she heard the words of the Creed, then the words of the Pater Noster and finally those of the Ave Maria. She thought it odd and touching the prayers he spoke from instinct were those she’d said before poisoning herself. The prayers you learnt in childhood and knew by heart.

It’s not your fault, she tried to say.

Frederick was sniffling and swallowing, and sounded so much like a young man trying to pull