"The smell!" she repeated blankly.
"Yea, my lady. Have you never smelled the plague stench?"
She stood silent a moment, then lifted her hand. "Uncover him," she said.
"Nay, there is no need. He grew sick on cockles," he said, "and gagged to death."
"Uncover him," she snapped.
Setting his jaw, Ruck leaned down. Let her look then, if she must, and choke on her revulsion.
But she did not cringe back from the body. Instead, she went forward, gesturing. "A light."
None of the men moved. Ruck finally squatted down and lit the lanthorn himself. He opened the light on the corpse. Princess Melanthe gazed down at it. She knelt and lifted Pierre's stiffened hand. "Poor man. He suffered, I fear."
For a moment Ruck thought it was real, this sympathy, the echo of regret in her voice a true emotion. Then she rose, turning toward Allegreto.
"Come to bed, my love. There is nothing to be done for him." She walked toward her young courtier. Allegreto made a gurgling gasp and backed away from her. She beckoned.
"Come, do not be foolish. The man died of cockles. Come lie down with me now."
"Lady—" It was a whisper of horror.
Ruck watched her advancing slowly upon him, driving him to frenzy apurpose. Only for the cruelty of it—she must be as certain as Ruck there was no pestilence, or she would not have touched Pierre.
"Dost thou not love me, Allegreto?" she murmured in a hurt voice, moving toward him with her hand extended. "But I love thee still."
Allegreto groaned, beyond any reason. He scrambled back from her. "Touch me not!" he cried. "Get away!"
She stopped. Over the moonlit distance he had made between them, they gazed at each other.
"I won't come," he said in a deathly voice. "I won't come."
Princess Melanthe swayed slightly. She turned to Ruck. "Help me—help me to my place. I do not feel strong."
Before Ruck could respond, she fell to her knees. He moved on instinct, catching her limp body in his arms as she toppled. He rose with her, shocked beyond feeling, staring down at the pale column of her exposed throat.
Fear hit him again like a hammer. He carried her, seeing nothing but her arm hanging lax over his in the moonlight, hearing nothing but his heart in his ears, turning blindly for the tent. As he laid her down on the featherbed, he called for her gentlewoman—he thought he shouted it, but he could not hear anything over his heart.
No one answered. In the utter blackness of the tent he could see nothing; he groped for a lanthorn, sparking the flint and steel by fumbling. As the light rose, he looked toward her.
She was smiling at him. She sat up on her elbows and lifted her finger to her lips for silence.
Ruck's jaw went slack—and then stiffened in outrage. He shoved himself off the ground, standing with his head against the silken roof. She raised her hand, as if to hold him, but Ruck was too furious. He took up the lanthorn, flung back the cloth, and strode outside in a black temper.
"My lady is in fine health," he uttered through his teeth, jerking his head toward Pierre's body. "I need two men to bury him."
In the tallow light no one moved. Allegreto shrank into the shadows, and even the sergeant took a step backward.
"He'll haunt us," someone muttered.
"Accursed be you all!" Ruck snarled. "I want no succour from a pack of cowards, then. I'll leave him myself with the monks." He lifted Pierre again, turning toward Hawk. "Loosen his fetterlock," he ordered the nearest man, who covered his mouth and nose with his chaperon as he obeyed.
The horse disliked the load, flaring its nostrils and drawing in suspicious noisy draughts of air, but Hawk was accustomed enough to the smell of death to bear his burden. Ruck took his lead and turned him toward the trickle of hazy moonlight that fell onto the track, heading toward a dim black line of trees in the distance, silently asking pardon of God and Pierre's soul for what he was about to do.
There were no monks, not within his reach, for though he knew there was a priory at the headland, it was yet so far away that he could not hear the bells. But he wanted no more of these whining fears of hauntings and pestilence. In his anger he wanted isolation in which to lay Pierre to rest. He wanted the comfort of driving a spade deep in the ground until he was weary with it, his muscles hurting instead of his spirit.
He wasn't afraid of ghosts—he'd buried all his family in unconsecrated ground and found their only haunting to be the gentle, lost voices in his plague dreams. Poor silent Pierre didn't even have a voice to haunt dreams, unless his soul found one with the wild wolves that ran free in this place, the way he had never been able to run in life.
* * *
Melanthe slept. She kept trying to rally, rising to the weary surface and failing, losing herself again in the sweet dreamless warmth. With her wakening mind she knew she must not let sleep have her, but she had lost the will to fight it, falling back, luxurious collapse into rest and safety.
Full light flooded the tent, coloring everything with a rosy tint, when she finally held herself awake. The light shocked her; she made the effort to pull herself from the depths. It was difficult, as it had never been before. She had slept oversound, and the slumber still sucked at her.
The difference came slowly. She realized that she was alone. Without Allegreto's restless clinging presence at her side, without Cara's quiet rustle.
The whole camp was unusually quiet. Her Green Knight always did his best to restrain the men, she knew, attempting to serve his indolent lady by maintaining peace of a morning—little as he might approve of her slothful habits—but this morning he had succeeded well beyond his usual measure. There was only a faint chink of harness, none of the low talk and dragging sounds of packing and loading.
She must have outslept all. Or they were still confounded by the night's events and sat bemused. She sighed and stretched, enjoying the soft liberty of the furs.
Melanthe smiled as she thought of her knight, how he would lift that one dark eyebrow, conveying utter disdain while he spoke in the most courteous of phrases. He scorned her, this green man—scorned and still desired her.
It was a compound new to Melanthe. She was not accustomed to disdain, not at least from the men who wanted her. She might already have pursued the matter in some way, if not for Allegreto. And Gian.
Pulling an ermine about her shoulders against the icy air, she sat up. There was still no sound from outside, nor any scent of toast browning at the fire—nor even the scent of a fire at all.
The strangeness struck her. Her heart began to thump. The poisoned cockles—had any but the hunchback eaten them? Wild thoughts possessed her. Allegreto, nightwalker, assassin, capable of any butchery, had been driven half to madness by the fear she had roused in him. And this was wilderness, the knight had said, a place beyond the king's control, resort of outlaws.
She looked quickly around—but there—there was Gryngolet, sitting hooded and calm on her perch. Melanthe slipped her dagger from beneath her pillow and left the furs, shivering. She broke open a chest, ransacking it for something to pull over her nakedness. The azure wool of a heavy tunic prickled her skin through linen. Her hands had begun to shake a little, suddenly anticipating what nightmare she might find outside.
Covered, she knelt at the opening of the tent and listened. A horse blew softly, champing its bit, but there was no other sound of man or beast. She held the dagger at ready and pulled the drape slightly aside.
A few feet away she saw a man's mail sabaton, old-fashioned, with a blunted toe. An upright leg—through a slightly wider slit, she could see two armored legs—he sat motionless on a half-rotted log a few yards from the tent. She closed her eyes, fortifying her mind for any horror—a dead man tied into a lifelike position, a decapitated torso. She lifted her head a little and saw the hem of a green-and-silver coat of arms.
One toe moved, pushing a cockleshell a fraction of an inch, first one way, then the other.
Relief shuddered through her. She had h
alf expected a bloodbath and bodies in the sand—she had not even trusted those greaves and knee poleyns to belong to a still-living man until she had seen the faint, ordinary movement.
It was her knight, then, fretted with her. Following on the surge of reprieve, Melanthe felt an odd spurt of good humor. Had she slept so late that he'd sent all the others ahead and stayed to scold her?
The idea pleased her, but she recognized the absurdity of it instantly. He would do no such thing—it was not his nature to openly rebuke his liege, and she had given him provocation enough. She found slippers and pulled them on, grabbed a mantle, and pushed aside the curtain, emerging from the tent.
His war-horse, its green-dyed coat long since washed to a handsomer gray, pricked its ears toward her as it stood by the log. The knight sat for a moment with no expression, his breath frosting, his helm in his lap. He looked up at her.
It was the only time in her life that any man but her husband or her father had not risen to greet her. That jolted her, made the empty, trampled clearing of marsh grass stranger yet, eerie in its silence and the blank way that he looked at her.
"They have fled," he said. Then he seemed to come to himself and stood with a metallic sound. "My lady—I beg your forgiveness."
"Fled?" she echoed. "All of them?"
She stared around the barren camp. The only horse was his. They had ransacked the supplies and taken the animals, leaving bags and bundles broken open.
"Allegreto?" she asked breathlessly.
His brows drew together. "He is gone, madam."
She gripped the dagger, holding her hands pressed over it. "Gone."
His scowl deepened. He nodded, watching her.
"He is gone?" She could hardly bring herself to speak. "How long?"
"I know not. Two hours I was absent, before dawn." He made a slight gesture toward the ground. "The tracks—they scattered apart from one another. Your maid, also. This talk of plague—it inflamed a terror."
She was alone. Free. She had done it. But she had not meant to do it so completely.
She met his green eyes and saw everything he thought of her. She let him think it. In his armor he stood perfectly still, black-haired and silent, a solidly potent presence on this empty moor.
Allegreto was truly gone. He had left her.
"Where went he? What will happen to him?" She stared at the horizon.
"I cannot say which marks are his, Your Highness. We can wait here. Mayhap he will grow frightened and return."
Melanthe kept gazing at the horizon, the empty horizon.
"I would seek him for you, my lady," he said, "but I cannot leave you alone."
"Do not leave me!" she said.
He dipped his dark head. "Nay, Your Highness."
She looked about her again. It was so strange: she had never in her life been alone—never without attendants, never with one man, not even in her husband's bedchamber where his pages always slept on pallets beside the bed. The sky suddenly seemed bigger, dizzyingly huge, the moorland vast.
"God shield me," she whispered. How beautiful it was, how quiet, only the wind and the wild fowl speaking far off at that strand of silver light where the sky came down to the land.
"By hap they will all come into their senses and return to us," he said.
She realized that he was trying to reassure her. She turned to him. "Nay—they will not, between fear of plague and retribution."
"Then they live outlawed," he said simply.
His plain view of things seemed oddly befitting in this place, but she said, "I cannot comprehend Allegreto as an outlaw."
He did not return her faint smile. In his expression she saw the truth of what he thought of Allegreto's prospects in the wilderness.
"What threatens?" she asked quickly.
He hesitated. "Bogs and quicksands," he said at last. "Brigands. Poison water." He shifted, making that faint armor noise. "I heard wolves in the night."
She pulled her lip through her teeth. "Melike not to linger here," she said, changing to English because it somehow soothed her to hear him speak in his own tongue, a thin common thread between them.
"I ne like it nought myseluen," he agreed, shifting language in response as he always did, "but we shall dwell here for today, so that they moten come again to us if they so will."
Melanthe shivered in the wind, pushing her hands beneath her mantle. "Thou art too merciful," she said. "Traitors deserven no such indulgence."
Ruck watched her hug her arms about herself. He narrowed his eyes. "Indulgence they shall nought have, Your Highness. But it were your lo—" He almost said "lover," but it curdled on his tongue. "—your courtier who unnerved them." It was she herself had been the one to set the seal on the party's panic, with her spiteful games, but he did not say so. "Away from Allegreto, they mayen think well again."
She stared toward the horizon. She seemed smaller somehow than she had seemed before to Ruck, the cloak bundled around her, less elegant and imperious.
"Allegreto," she echoed, as if her tongue were not her own. She made a sound of frenzied laughter, and then stopped it, biting hard on her lower lip. Her knees seemed to give beneath her. She sat down on the ground and stared at the horizon, rocking. Then she leapt up again. "I see him!"
Ruck turned sharply. He squinted, scanning the moor—and saw the flicker of yellow motion. "Nay, Your Highness. It be no more than a plover bird." He looked back at her, but she had already sagged to the ground again. One lock of her dark hair had escaped the golden net that confined it, flying across her cheek in the cold breeze. He feared she was sickening in her mind for her lover—she seemed so lost and bewildered.
"We shall not stonden here," she said. "We shall not wait for them."
"How wende we without an escort? My lady has nought e'en her maid."
"I say we shall not wait!" she exclaimed. But when she looked at him, it was a confused look, with no command in it. "I never thought—I ne meant not them all to go!"
Ruck made no answer. She was no more reasonable now in her reaction than Allegreto had been in his last night, like a wicked spoiled child who had taunted her playmates until they fled, and now could not fix between anger and tears. The fugitives had taken the animals but bothered to load nothing heavy in their haste. He unpacked a wooden cup and filled it at the ale keg. As she sat huddled on the bare ground, he squatted beside her.
"Will you break fast, lady?"
She accepted the ale, drank a few sips, and handed it back to him. He watched her shiver inside the fur mantle. It was cold, but not so cold as to make her shake in that way.
"It would be no great thing to finden us," she said in a troubled tone, glancing at the tent with its bright unnatural hues.
He drained the rest of the ale. "Forsooth, we are easy seen. It is best in this place to hiden such color, and layen doon and watch." He stood up and went to the tent. He was about to duck inside when she suddenly rose, slipping past him.
As he held back the drape, she emerged with the gyrfalcon on her gauntleted wrist. Her gestures had slowed; she moved softly with the bird as she transferred it. "Bring the block. Gryngolet will keepen watch."
Ruck obeyed, approving the idea. He shoved the spike of the cone-shaped block firmly into the sand.
Princess Melanthe established the falcon, crooning as she removed the hood. "'Ware for thy favorite," she murmured. "'Ware Allegreto."
The gyrfalcon stretched her wings wide, milky white, her bells tinkling. The bright, dark eyes focused briefly on Ruck and then beyond, fixing on the distance.
"Is a noble bird," he said, in spite of himself.
"Grant merci, sir." She seemed more composed now, not so shaken as she had been but a moment before. "I had her gift of a Northman." She glanced at Ruck. "He were near as tall as thee, but fair."
Her slanting look at him seemed to hold some message. This tall, fair Northman had been another of her lovers, he reckoned. He felt irritated and runisch. To give her a gift of such valu
e had not occurred to him.
"He died in bed by a bodkin knife," she said, as if it were a piece of light gossip. "I believe his soul went into Gryngolet."
Ruck crossed himself in reflex at the blasphemy, but he did not rebuke it.
"If Allegreto comes, Gryngolet will knowen," she added enigmatically.
"Well for it." Not only her witch's familiar, the falcon, but a jealous lover, too. He grabbed the handle of the chest inside her tent and hauled it out. "I can turn hand then, and gear us to wenden when we will."
Ruck went about his work moodily, with half an eye to the horizon. He rolled her furs and piled them on the chest outside, then kicked each of the tent pegs loose in turn. As the bright pavilion fell in on itself, he pulled off his gloves with his teeth and stuffed them under his arm, grimacing at the taste of metal and sand. He squatted and began to untie the ropes.
He looked up to see Princess Melanthe huddled at the other side of the cloth, engaged on the same task.
"Fie, madam," he said in astonishment, "I shall do the labor."
She was having little success with the tight knot. He stood up and caught the rope, pulling the stake from her hands.
"Your Highness, it be nought seemly," he said, vexed. He caught her elbow and drew her up. With a little force he guided her away from the tent, releasing her immediately.
"I ne like not this waiting," she said, holding her fingers clasped tight together. "When mayen we go?"
"If they return nought by morn, then we depart." He spread her furs on the log, searched inside her chest, found a book, and handed it to her. "One night be enow to spenden alone in the Wyrale."
He bent knee briefly before her, then stood up and went back to work, releasing the pegs and pitching the corners of the tent toward the middle, folding it together into a tight package. From the corner of his eye as he secured the ties, he could see her sitting upon the furs. The shivers caught up with her sometimes, making the open book shake.
"We wait for naught," she said suddenly. "If so be they have lost their fear of plague, they fearen their punishment too well to comen again."
He rose from binding the tent. "They fears, right enow. But in the cold light of morn a man reflects that he hatz both wife and child, and cares nought to liven outlawed from God and home." The corner of his mouth lifted as he stood straight, setting his hand at his waist. "Wherefore, my lady, he bethinks him of a story, of how the others fled, but he alone among them watz a brave man, and ran after, to bringen them back. But he lost his way in the darkness, and only now comes to us again as fast he may find us."
For My Lady's Heart Page 14