Chapter IX: Birthday Feast

Jacques stood in the grand hall of Malatesta Castle, where the air was alive with the sound of laughter, music, and lively conversation. The entire space had been transformed for Alisa's birthday celebration. Banners of the Malatesta family colours – white and green – hung from thewalls, draped elegantly across the high arches, while chandeliers glittered above, casting a warm golden glow on the guests. The tables were laden with fine foods: roasted meats, stewed vegetables, fresh breads, fruits, and sweets, all arranged with great care. Goblets of wine and Prosecco, Valdastico's own, were passed around liberally, and the scent of exotic spices lingered in the air.

Guests of high rank filled the hall: nobles from neighbouring fiefs, representatives from Venice, and Alisa's friends and relatives who had travelled from afar to celebrate her. The atmosphere was lively, joyous even, but Jacques found it hard to enjoy any of it.

He stood at a respectful distance, leaning slightly on his good leg, his still a bit sore thigh a constant reminder of the accident that had nearly taken his life. Despite the injury, he was here, at Alisa's request, unable to deny her anything. His heart was heavy, still filled with the longing he'd been battling for what felt like an eternity. His decision to leave Valdastico had taken root firmly in his mind, yet each time he had tried to speak to Alisa about it, the words had failed him. It seemed that every time he had mustered the courage, she had smiled at him, or glanced in his direction with those warm, caring eyes, and his resolve had crumbled to dust.

And so, here he was, dressed in formal attire, standing as part of the grand event, when all he wanted was to remain in the shadows, unnoticed. Yet, Alisa had been kind, as always. She had introduced him to several guests, explaining his position as her captain of the guard, and, to his chagrin, recounting how he had nearly given his life to protect her. Every time he met with a new guest, the praises came. Men of high rank clapped him on the back, speaking of his bravery and how lucky he was to have survived. Women of noble birth looked at him with admiration, calling him a hero.

The attention grated on him more with each passing moment. He hated being paraded like a trophy, admired for something he had done instinctively, for Alisa only. It wasn't glory he sought, or praise. He didn't care for the high opinion of these nobles. All he wanted was the one thing he couldn't have: Alisa's heart.

His gaze drifted toward her, and as always, she stood at the centre of the celebration, graciously accepting well wishes from guests, laughing with friends and relatives, and sharing kind words with each person who approached her. Alisa, resplendent in a gown of deep burgundy, looked radiant. Her hair was styled beautifully, with soft tendrils framing her face, her eyes sparkling with joy and warmth. Jacques's heart ached as he watched her from afar. It was as though a knife twisted in his chest every time another man approached her with compliments or admiration. He envied them, envied their ease around her, their ability to smile and flirt without the burden of unspoken love weighing them down.

The night dragged on, each moment feeling like an eternity. Guests continued to praise him, comment on his heroics, and talk about how fortunate he was to be in Alisa's service. Each compliment was like salt in the wound, reminding him of the growing distance between him and the woman he loved. Alisa was surrounded by well-wishers, many of them men who were likely considering their chances with her.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. He had practiced the words he needed to say to her over and over, rehearsed the moment when he would finally tell her he had to leave Valdastico. But every time the opportunity arose, every time he found himself alone with her, the words dried up in his throat. He couldn't bring himself to say them, to look into her eyes and tell her that he was leaving because his heart couldn't bear to stay. And so, he kept his distance, pretending to be the dutiful knight, when all he wanted was to be free of this torment.

But even now, as he stood in the crowded hall, watching her from afar, his resolve faltered again. He couldn't leave. Not yet. Not when just the sight of her, the sound of her laughter, filled him with both pain and joy.

Three noblewomen approached him at one point or the other, their intentions clear from the flirtatious glances they cast his way. Dressed in fine gowns, their smiles were inviting, but Jacques had no interest in them. He offered a polite bow and explained that his injury prevented him from dancing. It was a poor excuse, and he knew it, but the last thing he wanted was to engage in idle flirtation when his heart belonged to someone else.

At that moment, he saw one of these ladies walking over to him for the second time. He recalled her name: Amalia Fontana, eldest daughter of the Alisa's neighbour, Guglielmo, Count of Thiene. She was almost the age to be called a spinster, despite her prettiness. Jacques mused that she could either have a poor dowry, or a bad character.

"Sir Jacques!" she greeted him flirtatiously. "As much as I understand your reticence to dance because of your injured leg, I cannot fathom what makes you glower in such a beautiful night of merrymaking. Here", she gave him a goblet brimming with Prosecco. "Drink this excellent wine: I am sure 'twill improve your mood."

Reluctantly, Jacques accepted the offered wine, as he couldn't refuse without looking rude, and he surely didn't want to offend any of Alisa's guests. "Thank you, Lady Amalia", he said politely before taking a small sip.

Amalia instead took a hearty draught. "I understand you're French", she chatted on. "They tell me that Frenchmen are very... well-mannered with ladies", she added in a meaningful tone, batting her eyelids coquettishly. "I would very much like to see personally if 'tis true..." she concluded with a suggestive smirk.

Taken aback, for a moment Jacques was unable to reply. "Ah..." he struggled to find a way as not to seem discourteous, refusing her not-so-subtle offer. Although there had been a time in his life when he would jump on it, he wasn't going to bed her; or any of Alisa's other female guests, as for that. "I'm afraid 'tis an affirmation that doesn't apply to me, Lady Amalia", he finally managed to say. "I am not very good at talking to noblewomen like you."

It was no lie, technically: he had had plenty of women throwing themselves at him in the past, so he never had to sweet-talk them into bedding.

"Oh, I am sure you're being too modest, Sir Jacques", Amalia giggled, unfazed. "What about finding out together somewhere more... private? " she teased him brazenly.

Jacques was very uncomfortable: in his entire life, he had never been in this situation, namely wanting to refuse a woman's love offers. Rather the opposite, to be honest.

He bowed with a flourish. "It would be a privilege, Lady Amalia", he said, forcing a regretful tone in his voice. "But I would never attempt to bring shame on such a noble maiden as you are, especially as you are under my mistress' roof and protection."

With that, he walked away, trying not to run as his instinct actually wanted him to.

OOO

The party was in full swing, much to Alisa's satisfaction. The neighbours with whom she went along well had come to wish her their best, as well as three cousins with their families, and even her second cousin the Bishop of Asolo, Francesco, who washer favourite among her relatives, the one who had warned her about Bembo's obnoxious deeds against her.

They had had a wonderful banquet, with rich and exotic food, musicians gently playing in the background. Now it was time for dance, and therefore, the servants cleared the tables and carried them away to create the space for the entertainment. Alisa was of course the most sought after female dancer and she had great fun in dancing several saltarelli and tresche, which were typical Venetian dances. All along, she observed that, despite several ladies approaching him, Jacques was standing aside, keeping to his own and never joining in the dances, nor he looked as if enjoying anything of the celebration. His obvious dark mood shadowed her own, his uneasiness making her too uneasy. If she couldn't have him love her the way she longed to, at least she wanted him to be happy, or at least content.

Then, it occurred to her that perhaps he didn't know the Venetian popular dances. This, she could fix though.

Alisa excused herself to her current dancing partner and crossed over to the musicians, speaking to their leader. Moments later, they started to play a basse danse, a French dance well-known in the Republic of Venice too.

Smiling, Alisa walked up to her captain. "Care to dance with me, Jacques?" Noticing he was clearly taken aback by her request, she chuckled. "'Tis unusual for a lady to ask a man to the dance floor, but I am an unusual lady after all, right?"

Jacques couldn't help but chuckle in turn: she had always this way to get straight to him, that he simply couldn't deny her anything. He bowed to her with a flourish and offered her his hand. She took it and, smiling radiantly, she followed him to the dance floor.

Amalia Fontana watched them preparing for the dance, her eyes narrowing. Earlier, he had excused himself from dancing with her becauseof his still aching leg. However, now there he was, dancing with Alisa.

Thirty years old, Amalia was still unmarried, despite the noticeable dowry she could bring to a husband. She looked pretty enough, but her bad temper,sour and mean, had deterred many a suitor. Amalia had always been envious of Alisa Malatesta, partly because of her beauty, but especially because of her sharp mind and determined attitude, as well as her independence as the lady of a fief in her own right, not subordinated to marriage to gain status or wealth. Alisa was everything Amalia wanted to be, but would always be unable to become.

Amalia had come to Malatesta Castle for Alisa's birthday feast – invited with her widowed father like every year – where she had been introduced to Jacques Le Gris, their hostess' present captain of the guard as well as right-hand man. She had never met him before, but the name rang a bell in her brain. He was a quite attractive man and a brilliant conversationalist, and soon Amalia had found herself drawn to him, charmed even. Thus, she had tried a move, sure he would grasp the opportunity of an easy bedding like all the men she had dallied with before. However, most to her chagrin, he had rejected her. Very civilly, but still, the disappointment was stinging.

Meanwhile, the sound of music filled the air, performed by the group of talented minstrels Alisa had hired, who were playing a lute, harp, and flute.

The dance that Jacques and Alisa engaged in was a far cry from the exuberant styles of thepeasants; this was a stately affair, marked by elegance and refinement befitting their noble status. The basse danse was a slow, graceful, and measured sequence, where both men and women glided rather than stepped, their movements light and almost floating as they swept across the floor. The dance was focused on posture, decorum, and subtle gestures rather than fast footwork.

Jacques, as Alisa's partner, began by offering a formal bow, his eyes lowered respectfully before he straightened and extended his hand to her, inviting her into the dance. Alisa curtseyed elegantly in return, her gaze soft but confident, as she placed her delicate hand in his. They started to move together, side by side, in perfect harmony.

The dancers moved in a long, sweeping arc around the room, their feet barely lifting from the floor as they stepped in sync, the men leading with controlled strength and the women following with poised grace. The basse danse was a dance of understated intimacy, where each step and each turn were an opportunity for subtle exchanges: glances, light touches, and the unspoken connection between partners.

Jacques and Alisa's steps were deliberate and smooth, as they gently rose and sank in time with the music. Their hands never parted, though their arms were slightly extended, the touch between them more a suggestion of connection rather than a firm hold. Occasionally, their hands would meet more fully, fingers brushing in the lightest of grips before separating again as they circled one another in elegant patterns.

As they glided across the polished stone floor, their eyes met frequently. Each glance spoke volumes, though neither of them dared voice what truly lay in their hearts. Alisa's gown flowed around her with each step, rich burgundy silk shimmering in the flickering candlelight, while Jacques, ever the composed knight, maintained perfect form, his steps matching hers without effort.

At intervals, they would pause for a brief moment, where Jacques would turn to face Alisa, both partners lowering their heads in respectful acknowledgment of one another before continuing their steps in tandem. It was a dance of courtship and respect, where passion was conveyed through restraint rather than abandon.

The dance was as much about the elegance of movement as it was about the noble etiquette that dictated their every interaction. Though their movements were formal, there was an undeniable closeness in the way they moved, the silent understanding that passed between them in each fleeting moment.

Sipping at her wine, Amalia watched the two of them dancing, the frown marring her brow deepening with each passing moment. Jacques Le Gris... where had she heard that name? When?

For the few minutes that the dance lasted, the rest of the world faded away for Jacques: the music, the dance, and Alisa were all that mattered. But Jacques couldn't entirely shake the nagging sense that he was being watched, closely, with malice. Despite his best efforts to remain focused on Alisa, his mind kept drifting back to the woman who had approached him twice in the evening: Amalia Fontana.

Amalia had been bold, unashamedly bold. Twice she had insinuated her interest, first with casual touches, a hand on his arm that lingered too long, and then with more direct words, offering him her company, her charm. Both times Jacques had politely refused, keeping his tone civil but making it clear he was not interested, especially the second time. Yet apparently Amalia wouldn't let it go. She persisted, circling him like a hawk waiting for a moment of weakness.

He felt her eyes on him now, her gaze burning into his back as he and Alisa danced. The feeling was oppressive, unsettling, like a storm building on the horizon. Jacques subtly shifted his stance, guiding Alisa through a slow turn, and as he did, his gaze flickered to where Amalia stood. There she was, watching them with a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. Her expression was sour, lips twisted in a scowl, as if she could hardly stand to see him with Alisa.

Jacques' chest tightened. He knew that look. It wasn't just jealousy; it was something far more dangerous: a plotting mind, one that would stop at nothing to get what it wanted. He swallowed hard, but forced himself to look away. He couldn't let Amalia's spite ruin this moment with Alisa.

Alisa was enjoying every moment of the dance. Jacques was an excellent dancer, but what mattered most, they were dancing together exactly like they had fought together: in perfect harmony, attuned to one another, as if they had done it forever, not forthe first time. It was a striking, almost stupefying feeling that made her heart brim with joy. She couldn't help but laugh gently, cheerfully, expressing her mirth.

The sound, soft and melodic, brought Jacques back to the present, back to her. It was music to his ears, and his heart lightened for a fleeting moment. He glanced at Alisa, and there she was, smiling, her eyes bright with joy as they continued their steps together. His heart thudded in his chest, and he smiled back at her, unable to help himself.

Watching them, Amalia's eyes filled with cold fury: she had finally grasped the reason for Jacques' outrageous behaviour earlier: he was hopelessly in love with Alisa Malatesta. What was even worse, he was reciprocated, but seemed completely unaware of it; exactly like Alisa seemed totally oblivious to his love for her.

Ridiculous.

The basse danse continued, Alisa and Jacques' movements still slow and graceful, as if nothing else in the world existed but this moment, but Jacques knew better. Amalia was still there, still watching, plotting. His gut told him this was not the end of her scheming, and he couldn't ignore the feeling that something was brewing.

But as the music swelled and the final notes approached, Jacques couldn't tear himself away from Alisa, from the joy of dancing with her. He would deal with Amalia's malevolence later: right now, he couldn't afford to waste these last precious moments with the woman who meant more to him than she could ever know.

Their steps slowed as the music came to its final notes, and Jacques bowed low before Alisa, his heart heavy with the emotions he dared not express.

As the dance came to an end, Alisa felt all the glee evaporating. As much as they were in tune with one another, there was no hope for her, as she bitterly remembered. She managed to hold her smile in place, but her heart sank with the final curtsey. As Jacques walked her out of the dance floor, holding her hand high as etiquette demanded, Alisa felt her throat tightening and swallowed hard. Fighting the urge to run, she nodded graciously to Jacques, signalling she wanted a drink, and he hurried to fetch two goblets of Prosecco. They toasted politely and drank, Alisa almost draining her cup in one swig, something she never did.

She had hoped that time would make it easier to keep her feelings under control and well hidden, but it was proving the other way round and it was becoming increasingly harder instead. Nonetheless, she had to do it, for Jacques' sake. And even for her own, she reasoned, because he would surely leave if he caught wind of the sentiment she harboured for him. Honour would demand it, and he was a man of honour. He had proved it enough times already. But she couldn't bear the idea of never seeing him again.

Then, her guests required her attention once more, and Alisa gratefully grasped the chance for a welcome distraction from her heart-wrenching thoughts.

The feast would continue well into the night. As the lady of the house, Alisa would attend it until the last of the guests had taken leave to go to sleep in one of the many bedchambers she had offered them, as to allow them to leave comfortably the next day. Until then, she had to act as the perfect hostess and forget about her heartache. Or keep it at bay, at least.

Her eyes still on Alisa and Jacques, Amalia gulped down the rest of her wine, furious at not being able to place where she had heard about Le Gris.

Then, all of a sudden, she remembered: a few weeks prior, her father's main business partner had returned from France. Eager for any news that would lift her from the boredom of her life, Amalia had avidly listened to the man's account of his journey. Among many things he had talked about, there was a sordid scandal that had occurred a few months earlier: a lady, Marguerite if Amalia recalled exactly, had accused a man of rape.

That man was Jacques Le Gris.

There had been a trial in front of his and the lady's husband Jean de Carrouges' feudal lord, Pierre of Alençon, but Le Gris had been acquitted of the charge, thus De Carrouges had called for a trial by combat, which the King of France, Charles, had reluctantly granted.

But Le Gris had fled.

Amalia's eyes narrowed to slits as her gaze full of malevolence went from the Frenchman to Alisa. Was the Countess of Valdastico aware of whom the she wanted to bed truly was? Amalia doubted it.

She would rectify the question. But not straightaway, she thought. Let Alisa have her merriment with her birthday celebrations. Amalia would disrupt her happy world soon enough, talking to her the next morning. She would tell her everything. Her intentions were far from noble, but she couldn't allow Alisa bedding such a man.

A raper.

And a coward.

OOO

The following morning, Alisa was up almost as early as ever. She had always been a morning person; hence, even when she went to sleep late, she rose earlier than other ones would.

She was busy in her working room when Stefano came to announce her thatthe Lady Amalia of Thiene was requesting an audience. Surprised, Alisa placed down her quill. "Let her in", she said.

She had never liked Amalia, but civility demanded that she invite her because of her father, who had been a good friend to Galeotto Malatesta since their youth, and because their fiefs made very often mutually profitable business, therefore maintaining good relations was imperative.

Amalia sank into a flawless curtsy; when she rose from it, Alisa offered her a chair, which she accepted.

"I hope you had a restful night, Lady Alisa", Amalia said.

Alisa's ears prickled because of something she had caught under the impeccably courteous tone. "I had, thank you, Lady Amalia", she replied, perfectly concealing her aversion. "So I hope of you." She paused briefly. "However", she then went on, "I don't think you are here for morning amenities. Is there something you wish to discuss with me?"

Amalia couldn't suppress a lopsided grin. "Straight to the point as usual", she observed lightly. "Aye, Lady Alisa, I came to express you my worries about Captain Le Gris. How well do you know him?"

Alisa's eyebrow rose in a mimic of mild surprise, but she felt a sudden, unpleasant feeling of foreboding. "I don't see how this could be any of your business", she replied coolly.

"'Tis not", Amalia conceded. "However, I feel the need to share with you what I learned about him, a few weeks ago, from my father's friend and business partner Manlio Rugoni. He came back from France and told us much news."

Amalia leaned towards Alisa and lowered her voice. "There was a nasty scandal, several months ago, involving your captain. A lady, Marguerite de Thibouville, accused him of one of the most hideous crimes: rape."

Alisa's heart stopped in her chest as she gasped, appalled.

Seeing her turning pale, Amalia hid her satisfaction. "Aye, Lady Alisa", she continued relentlessly. "Of course, Le Gris denied. Not the act itself, as he admitted having bedded the lady, but that he had forced her. Lady Marguerite's husband, Jean de Carrouges, called for a trial, which was held in front of their common feudal lord, Count Pierre of Alençon, but as Le Gris was one of his favourites, he was acquitted of the accusation. De Carrouges didn't give up, turned to the king himself and demanded a trial by combat, which was granted. But Le Gris fled. And apparently, he landed here, at your service", Amalia concluded, a disdainful chuckle escaping her throat before she could suppress it.

Alisa was having trouble breathing, the shock clutching her chest in an iron grip. She was white as a ghost. "I... don't believe it", she whispered. "There has to be a mistake..."

"No mistake, Lady Alisa", Amalia declared inexorably, revelling in her rival's evident distress. "Rugoni is still in Thiene and can confirm every word. I can even ask him for a confrontation with your Le Gris."

Alisa was reeling in utter shock. She had been aware that something very serious had happened back in France – Jacques himself had admitted it – but... this? Had he truly violated a woman, and then run away like a coward...?

Then, the manner Amalia had said your Le Gris penetrated the fog darkening Alisa's brain.

Venom. Pure and simple rancour.

Why so?

Whatever the reason, Amalia wasn't delivering this grimy news out of good heart. Considering her spiteful temperament, it was surely quite the opposite.

Alisa regained her wits and straightened her back. "Thank you for telling me, Lady Amalia", she said briskly. "You may go now."

Taken aback at being so abruptly dismissed, Amalia gaped. "Will... will you do nothing, then?" she stammered.

Alisa's glance pierced her like a blade. "'Tis not any of your concern", she said icily.

There was nothing more that Amalia could do or say. Bewildered, she rose, curtseyed stiffly and left.

Alone in the room, Alisa slumped into the backrest of her chair, feeling suddenly weak. Her head spun. She believed firmly that what Amalia had told her wasn't the truth. Her father, and her experience too, had taught her that there were always two sides of the same coin, and what was true for someone, for someone else was false.

However, in all that Amalia had reported, Alisa sensed there was a grain of truth.

She needed to hear Jacques' version.

"Stefano!" she called sharply. The steward peeked in. "Go and get Captain Le Gris", Alisa ordered. "I need to speak with him immediately."

OOO

Jacques had been in the stables, busy grooming Valliant, his rare white Friesian stallion. The horse was a magnificent creature, with a unique brilliance that often caught the eye of everyone who saw him. But today, even the sight of his prizedcompanion did little to lift Jacques' spirits. His mind was consumed by thoughts of Alisa, thoughts that had haunted him since the night before.

The dance had been the final straw. He could still feel the warmth of her hand in his, the soft rustle of her burgundy dress as they moved together in perfect harmony. It had been too much, stirring emotions he could no longer suppress. The time had come to leave Valdastico, no matter how much it pained him. Staying meant living with a constant ache, a constant longing for something he could never have.

Jacques let out a deep sigh, sinking down to sit on the stable floor. His heart was heavy, and for a moment, he rested his head back, closing his eyes. Valliant nuzzled him gently, as if sensing his rider's distress. Jacques smiled faintly and stroked the horse's mane.

"Mon ami fidèle... tu comprends, n'est-ce pas?" [My faithful friend... you understand, don't you?] Jacques whispered. "We'll leave soon, my loyal friend. I can't stay here much longer."

The horse snorted softly, nudging Jacques again as if in agreement. Just as Jacques was about to get lost in his thoughts once more, he heard the sound of footsteps. He looked up to see Stefano approaching the stable, his expression serious.

"Captain Le Gris," the steward said, a note of urgency in his voice, "Lady Alisa requests your presence at once. 'Tis an urgent matter."

Jacques felt a sharp pang in his chest at the mention of her name. What could be so urgent?

He quickly rose to his feet, brushing the dust and hay from his breeches. "Thank you, Stefano. I'll go to her immediately," Jacques replied, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within him.

Before leaving, Jacques turned to Valliant one last time, running a hand down the horse's neck. "We'll leave soon, my brave friend. But first, I must face her."

With that, he strode out of the stable, his mind racing. He tried to prepare himself for whatever Alisa might need, but the uncertainty gnawed at him. Was she in trouble? Had something happened to the fief?

Within minutes, Jacques reached Alisa's working room. He knocked firmly on the door, waiting only one moment before hearing her voice granting him access.

Stepping inside, Jacques immediately sensed something was wrong. Alisa sat at her desk, looking as regal as ever, but there was an undeniable tension in the room. She seemed bothered, her expression guarded yet troubled, and her face was very pale. Jacques frowned in concern, unsure of what had caused her distress.

"Lady Alisa," Jacques greeted, his tone formal as he tried to mask the worry in his voice. "You requested to see me. How can I be of service?"

There was a pause as Alisa regarded him, her eyes clouded with emotions Jacques couldn't quite decipher. Concern? Disappointment? Whatever it was, it unsettled him deeply. He stood before her, awaiting her words, but his heart was already pounding with a sense of foreboding he couldn't shake.