Ruck looked past the shepherd's flock, where the hills opened to farm and pasture. There was no plague, and no reason to delay longer. If not for Desmond's hopes, he would have turned back here, for he knew what he had come to discover.
But the youth was waiting, having lost interest in love and conceived a lust for travel. He kicked Little Abbot along eagerly. The wider horizon had worked strongly on his mind, and he was full of questions about far places and cities Ruck had seen.
"I shall go to London," Desmond announced.
"Mary, 'tis a sore journey only for a maid," Ruck said.
"How far?"
"Weeks, an thou walks—which thou wilt, as Little Abbot does nought accompany thee."
"Ne would my lord haf me go," Desmond surmised gloomily. "Ne'er will I go nowhere."
Ruck smiled. "Ne'er. I forbid it."
The youth sighed. He squinted longingly at the distance and sighed again.
"Ne'er, that is, but for the journey I command thee," Ruck said idly, "with the man I send to my lady's castle, to fetch back her guard."
A grin broke over Desmond's face. "My lord! I may go?"
"Yea."
"When, my lord?" he demanded. "How far be it? And who wends with me?"
A pair of cows lifted their heads as the mare passed. Their bells clanked roundly. Ruck watched them, weighing the matter in his mind.
"Soon enow when we return," he said finally. "I charge Bassinger to go."
"Uncle Bass?" Desmond cried. "But he'll ne'er stir himseluen!"
"Will he or nill he," Ruck said. "None other but myseluen knows the road as he."
"Were a hundred years ago, my lord!" Desmond kicked the ass up even with him. "His knee will pain him. His back will ache upon the horse. Nill nought he riden from the gatehouse as far as the sheepfold now, my lord! Send Tom with me, my lord."
"Thomas plants. And Jack, and all able bodies. Someone be caused to taken up thy slack, and that be full enow."
Desmond scowled. "Will Foolet."
"Will is afraid and afeared to go out of the valley, as thou knows well. Take thy satisfaction that I allow thee leave, 'ere I regret it."
"Yea, my lord." The youth swiftly ceased his complaint. "So will I, my lord."
* * *
Little Abbot announced their arrival by planting his hooves and braying lustily in spite of all a red-faced Desmond could do to whip him along. But the animal's voice was hardly noticeable amid the disorder and stir on the green. Horses tied too close nipped at one another or nosed hopefully in laden carts. Servants hustled packs and boxes. A pair of nuns stood together guarding their bags with the ferocity of wimpled mastiffs, while a stream of people passed in and out under the long pole and brush that marked the tavern.
"Pilgrims," Ruck said, but it was an unusually large party, and even conducted by an armed guard. The carts were full of larder and wool. "They go out with the abbey's trade."
Desmond was gazing at the soldiers, his eyes alight. "Will they have to fighten?"
Ruck took stock of the large guard. They were mounted all, and well turned out, holding patient watch while their charges refreshed themselves—the kind of escort he wanted for Melanthe. But they wore the abbey's livery, and he had no notion to ask for aid there. "They will accounten themseluen well, if they do." He turned away. "Dame Fortune likes thee, Desmond—e'ery maid in the country will be here for such sight."
Even as he spoke, three girls hurried out of the inn and began rooting for something in a baggage cart. One of them cast a glance at Ruck and Desmond and instantly pulled her veil over her face, huddling into hisses and giggles with her companions. All three turned and stared.
Desmond turned bright red. He was common enough in his green and yellow dags in Wolfscar, but here his vestment shouted amid the common grays and browns. Ruck could see him shrinking. Little Abbot chose that moment to lift his head and send forth another raucous bray.
Desmond turned from red to white. He looked as if his stomach walmed.
"Were I thee," Ruck said under his breath, "I would show them that I had a right to my minstrel's gear."
But the youth seemed daunted into impotence. Ruck dismounted. He took hold of Abbot's halter.
"Is this the king of lovers whom I met this morn? Hie, tumble thee hence to the tavern door," he said, "three springs off thy hands, if thou canst."
Desmond threw his leg over Abbot's back and hit the ground. He bounded off his feet onto his hands, flipping backward, a green-and-yellow wheel across the grass, five handsprings and a midair tumble at the finish before he came up flushed, sent a glare at Ruck, and stalked into the tavern without even glancing at the girls.
They were openmouthed with astonishment. A few of the guards shouted and clapped. Ruck raised his hand to them and gave the maids a light courtesy. He tied his beasts, then carried Desmond's gittern into the tavern.
* * *
Desmond had fallen in love. It was his misfortune that his choice was the comely redheaded maid who served the shoemaker's wife and traveled with the rest of the pilgrims in the abbey's party. Ruck, sipping ale in a corner well removed from the white-robed clerks traveling with their abbot's goods, foresaw lengthy pining over doomed love as the harvest of this day.
It was hopeless to try to direct the youth's attention to the nut-brown daughters of the village. They were shy; Desmond was shy; it had taken the city maid's coaxing smile to cajole him into performing, and then she had chosen a love song and added her clear untrained voice to his—and Ruck saw himself fifteen years past, beguiled past all wit.
"Come, ye will wenden with us?" the shoemaker was saying to him as Desmond sat down on the bench beside his love, having just proven he could stand upon his hands to the count of fifty. "Your boy's good—ne do I doubt me you can play the better, my man, and it's a weary mile to York."
"York?" Desmond said between pants, before Ruck could deny that they wished to travel. "How far is it, sir?"
Ruck gave him a quelling look. Desmond hid his face in an ale tankard while the redhead smiled benignly at him.
"Ah, ten days, or twelve, peraventure. Little enow on the way, in troth, naught but Lonsdale and Bowland, and Ripon—but such lone places welcomen minstrel folk, for 'tis little oft they're seen."
Ruck turned to him in new interest. "Ye came that way?"
"Yea, and will return by it, for with this guard we have no fear of reivers, God be thanked."
"How fare the roads?" he asked, but missed the shoemaker's answer, for Desmond had suddenly choked on his ale and begun twitching his head in a strange manner.
He was looking fixedly at Ruck. After a moment he stood up, bowing frantically. "My lor—sir! Sir, mote I speaken you, sir!"
Ruck thought he must be ill, he seemed so agitated. He pushed back the bench and followed the boy hastily outside.
"My lord!" Desmond turned just beyond the door and dragged Ruck behind the horses. "My lord! Bowland!" He had no appearance of sickness. He was bouncing on his heels, his face radiant. "Bowland! Is my lady's hold, is nought?" he demanded.
"Yea, I know it."
"My lord, I can go! I can go with them anon!"
Ruck released a heavy breath. He shook his head. "Nay, Desmond, I want Bassinger—"
"My lord! Only consider! The Scots raid, and Uncle Bass ne ha'nought seen the road for years! Haps is all changed, if e'er he knew it! These folk haf just come o'er from York— they'll nought be lost nor stray out of the way."
Ruck started to refuse again, but Desmond went down on his knee.
"My lord, I beg you! When will another armed company be that way? Will ye senden Uncle Bass and me alone?"
The pleading made no impression on Ruck, but the thought of Bassinger and Desmond traveling alone across the barren reiver country was enough to arrest him. When he looked about the green, he saw that the guard had been divided and an evening watch posted. The men off duty did not idle in the tavern, but went about business with their horses and armor, effi
cient and experienced in their moves.
Desmond was gazing up at him in the late evening light, full of desperate hope and excitement. Ruck leaned against the wall and frowned, calculating. There was the chance that Desmond in his lovesotted state would not stop at Bowland, but trail behind the object of his heart all the way to York. Ruck suspected, though, that this redheaded maid would grow bored with a rustic swain long before York, and probably before they reached Bowland. She had the look of experience on her—a lesson that might not be a bad one for a boy who had seen nothing of the world.
But it was just that greenness that made him loath to send Desmond. If it had been any older man of his hold, he would not have hesitated. The advantages were obvious, and just as Desmond stated. It would not be soon that a stout armed party would wend from here direct toward Bowland.
"My lord," Desmond said, "if you think I'm too young—'tis said you ne had no more than five and ten when you first went out! And I am older."
Ruck nodded, barely hearing him. In his heart he was glad that Melanthe was not here now, for he could hardly have demanded that she stay in Wolfscar with such a favorable company to conduct her.
It was that thought that decided him. He was delaying; if he did not send to Bowland now, he would go back and find another reason to delay; Bassinger would protest his rheum, the planting would need management, the weather would be untoward—he could find a thousand reasons, and they were all shirking and tarrying to avoid what must be done.
He took Desmond by the shoulder and hauled him behind the granary. "If I say thee yea, Desmond," he hissed through his teeth, "and thou fails by some idle chance, or for this maid or another—I shall profane thy name with my last breath, does thou comprehend me?"
Desmond's face lost a little of its zeal. He stood soberly and nodded.
"Ne art nought to letten two things pass thy lips, to no creature man nor woman. Thou art nought to sayen whence thou came, ne the name of Wolfscar. Nor aught of my marriage to my lady. Swear to it."
"Nay, my lord. I swear by my father's soul, my lord, ne will I speak of Wolfscar nor whence I come, nor aught of my lord and my lady's marriage."
Ruck pulled the top buttons of his cote open and searched beneath his shirt. "Now listen, and learn thy message. Her lady's grace is safe and free from harm or restraint. Ere Whitsunday, a guard and company with all things suitable to her estate is to comen to the city of Lancaster and await her there. This is her free wish and command, as attested by her chattel here sent." He held out the leather bag that he wore. "Lay this about thy neck, and guard it. Will prove thee from the princess. Say me the message."
Desmond repeated it instantly by heart, well-trained in minstrel's learning. Ruck gave him the whole contents of his wallet, silver enough to tide him there and back, and saw the leather bag stowed safely about the boy's neck.
He felt a terrible misgiving as Desmond tucked his green scarf back into place. "Stray nought out from the party," he said. "Keep thee with the shoemaker if there be fighting. Ne do nought think thou canst aid in any combat."
"Nay, my lord."
"When thou returns, signal from the tarn. Ne do nought come farther. I will meeten thee."
"Yea, my lord."
"Desmond, this red-haired maid—"
Desmond lifted his eyes, so innocent of all love's dangers that Ruck only sighed and shook his shoulder.
"Ne do nought fail me," he said. "Do nought fail."
"Nill I, my lord!" Desmond said fiercely. "Ne for no maid nor any other thing!"
Ruck stood back. "Then fare thee well, as God please."
Desmond went down on his knee, crossing himself. "God ha' mercy, my lord!" He leapt up and ran, leaving Ruck in the deepening shadow behind the barn.
Ruck took the mare and left Little Abbot tied. As he rode out, the ass called after with a mournful braying. The echo of it rang in his ears long after he could no longer hear the sound. Ruck made a cross and prayed to God that he had not done a dearly foolish thing.
TWENTY-ONE
"I know not why you ask me," Cara said. "I've no help to give you."
Allegreto stood with his back to the trefoiled window. He never paced. She wished that he would, or do anything but be so still and yet seem as if he would spring.
"You did not like what I did before," he said. "So I ask you."
Cara sat straight in the chair he had given her, staring at a tapestry of the conversion of Saint Eustace. It was a finely detailed piece, full of greens and blues, the white stag with the miraculous cross between its antlers gazing fixedly at the hunter.
"I don't know what you mean," she said.
"Ficino," he whispered. "Ficino is what I mean."
The stag, she thought, was a brave creature, to stand trapped on a ledge that way, even for a miracle.
"He was dead before the fire," Allegreto said, "if that is what upset you."
She closed her eyes. "Don't speak of it."
Weeks had passed, all of Lent and Easter, and more, and still she could smell the smoke and see him standing in red upon the dais. He wore white and blue today; he had not worn red since, which was the only reason she could look on him.
He turned suddenly, facing away out the window. "This messenger from her—I know it's a ruse! I have to do something. Christ, I can't bide till Whitsuntide—and then find that it's some wile to bait me!" He put his hands over his face. "God's mercy, where is she?"
Cara looked down. Lint flecked her gown from the wool she'd been spinning when he summoned her. She picked at a bit, rolling it around and around between her fingers. "The messenger will not say."
"Nay," he snapped, turning sharply toward her. "Not for love, in any case."
"It may be he doesn't know."
"He knows. She's with the green man—she sent the falcon's varvels, the ones she gave to him. She's using the knight somehow, but for God's rood I can't make out her intention." His voice held a cold strain. "And my father—I've not sent him word all this time. I don't dare, not even to pray him to protect your sister. Cara, this messenger—" He stopped, as if he had spoken what he did not wish to say.
"What of the messenger?" she cried, rising suddenly from the chair. "You want to torture him, don't you? And you ask me if I have a better means, when you know I've no notion what to do!"
"I thought—haps if you spoke to him. I frightened him. He's but a boy, and innocent as a virgin."
Cara laughed. "You're more fool than I think you, if you believe I can succeed where you've failed."
"Or your friend Guy might do it," Allegreto said, ignoring her denial. "He's back from searching again, empty-handed."
She lifted her eyes, feeling her heart contract. But Allegreto showed no sign of malice. There was nothing in his gaze when he looked at her but the faint longing that she had come to recognize. He had never touched her since that day before he'd killed Ficino. He did not press her. She would have thought it had been imagination, that one touch, if she did not see it in his face every time now that he was near her.
"If you would only aid me, Cara," he said in a strangely helpless tone. "I'm trying."
For no reason she could say, her eyes began to blur with tears. "I don't understand you."
He walked the wall from the window to the tapestry. "Nay," he said distantly. "I know it."
He stood before the woven stag. The woven hunter stared at him in wonder.
"You can't do anything," he said bleakly.
He was so beautiful. She had never seen a living man or a work of art so beautiful and terrible. She swallowed tears. "Allegreto, I will try, if you wish it."
"Nay, it is hopeless," he said. "You'd only blunder, and Guy the same." He smiled at her, wooden as a carved angel in a church. "A hopeless pair, the two of you."
* * *
She did try. She took food to the messenger in the room where he was kept, careful that she did not do anything to let him escape. He was very frightened, as Allegreto had said. He would not even
eat, but sat hunched on the stool, a youth with a long nose and long musician's fingers. Allegreto had even left him his instrument, but Cara doubted that he played. The turret room was frigid.
A boy, Allegreto had called him, and yet she thought them of an age. But he could never be as old as Allegreto, not if he lived a hundred years.
"Do you speak French?" she asked.
He did not answer, but looked away from her. She thought he must understand her, though. She took a deeper breath.
"I have come to explain to you," she said. "You must tell Allegreto what he asks."
His look flicked toward her, and then back. A stubbornness came into his jaw.
"He only wishes to find my mistress and see that she is safe."
"She is safe," the youth said.
"How can we be certain? Why can't we go to her, or she come to us?"
"I have said all I can say!" He stood up, prowling the cold turret and chafing his hands. "Persecute me as you will!"
Cara rose from beside the tray that he scorned. "You don't know what danger you're in," she said sharply. "You don't know what persecution means."
"What, hot pincers? The wheel? Go ahead. I have sworn my word. I will not speak."
She shook her head in amazement. "Are you so blithe?"
"I'll die before I speak!" he said wildly.
"This is not courage, I think, but mere ignorance!" Cara's angry breath made a keen flash of frost in the air. "Do you know why you're sound now? Because of me. Because he does not want to displease me, you foolish boy! How long do you think that can last?"
He drew himself straight and gave her a sneering look. "Tell your lover to try me as he will."
For My Lady's Heart Page 36