"Gian, do not flatter yourself. Prayers are wasted on you, as they are on me. I told her so, but she was relentless. God is weary of hearing my name, I quite assure you."
He strolled back to her chair, standing near. "Surely, though, some gift or reward should be—"
She turned an angry eye on him. "Do not forget that I am mistress here. I do not require your advice or your assistance in it."
"Of course not, sweet. But I think—hearing of your trials and adventures—that I do not like you riding about the country on the rump of some nameless knight's horse. Or falling off of it. Or sharing a chamber with him, however holy he might be. You have had your way, and paid respects to Ligurio and your king, and seen to your estates." His hand skimmed her cheek. "I think, my dear love, that it is time and past for our betrothal."
She stared at the colored window in the oratory. "Yes, Gian." She kept her breathing slow and even. "It is time."
His finger pulled back the silken scarf, tracing her jaw and the telling pulse at her throat.
"If he touched you in desire, fair child," he murmured, "he is dead."
Melanthe rose, moving away from him. She locked her hands and stretched her arms out before her. "If the man ever felt desire, I warrant it would kill him. Now indulge me, Gian, I want to rest. My shoulder pains me." She smiled at him. "And do leave poor Allegreto alone if you love me, my lord. I want to dance with him at our wedding."
TWENTY-THREE
They hunted with ladies' hawks, summer birds, a blithe company passing through the meadows with laughter and elegant disport. Melanthe wore a garland that Gian had presented her. The sparrowhawk she carried felt no heavier than one of the blossoms from the spray, tiny and fierce, pouncing upon thrushes and woodcock and returning with them to the glove, a delicate court lady with savage yellow eyes.
Melanthe rode beside Gian, tame as the sparrowhawk returned to hand. Their time at Windsor drew near to a close. He had completed the contracts and assignments; the king's license was sealed at the price of only two of her five castles, the quitclaim to Monteverde purchased back from Edward for a proper princely ransom. They hawked today; in three days the betrothal feast began, a week more of such pleasures; of gifts and minstrelsy—then Italy, and their wedding. Gian was not eager to wait.
He chafed at their separate residences, but Melanthe had held adamant on that point and his proper behavior beforehand. He laughed and cajoled her, but knew her better than to believe she would give anything away for nothing. That was what he thought and said of her, not knowing that she would give everything away for nothing. For the nunnery, as the only place she could avoid fornicating with him.
When she lay awake at night, as she did every night now, she laughed silently until she wept at the mockery of it all. The place she had walked through wilderness and fire to avoid, the abominable nunnery. She did not dare attempt to evade him in England again. Once they were back in Italy, she could fly to the abbey that she and Ligurio had endowed. She had Allegreto's promise that he would help her. And vows upon vows, lies upon lies, until she forgot who she was, if she had ever known.
Amongst the betrothal gifts there were already three mirrors, carved ivory and sandalwood and ebony, all buried as deep in her chests as she could bury them, so that she would not chance to look into the glass and see no one there.
"It's a great shame that your gyr is still in mew, my lady," the young Earl of Pembroke said, while the others complimented a fine flight for Gian's hawk on a blackbird. "What a day she might have given us!"
"'Tis a lighter weight to carry, this!" Melanthe held up her little bird. "And only think how fat Gryngolet will be, come autumn."
Laughter rippled over the company. The spaniels put up a bevy of quails, and two ladies cast off. Courteous clapping and a discussion of the full bags and prospects for a sparviter's pie of partridge and larks and wheatears followed their success. Turning away from the late afternoon sun, they allowed the horses to ramble toward Windsor and the castle, its highest banners just barely visible over the far trees.
The shade of a narrow lane spread the party out, with Melanthe and Gian paired at the head as if by design. "You look a mere maiden in your blossoms," he said to her, smiling. "Flowers become you."
"Do they?" she asked lightly. "Nay, I think you suppose to flatter me, sir, so that when I ask for diamonds you can satisfy me with daisies."
She expected some smooth wit in response to hers, but instead he tilted his head. "Never do you consent to a tribute to your beauty, my lady. Is it the compliments or the complimenter?"
"Neither, but myself. A maiden, Gian? Daisies? I fear I am too shrewd to believe such pleasant fancies."
"I think you should believe them, my lady, for they are true."
She slanted a look at him. The leaf dapple passed over his white velvet shoulders and turban hat. "Why, Gian. Can this be love?"
He returned her look steadily, speaking barely above his breath. "Is it possible that you don't know it?"
She felt a flush rise in her throat. He did not take the easy tone of gallantry.
"Why, then of course the betrothal must be off," she said. "Love will not do, if we are to be wed. People will think us a pair of burghers!"
"Ah. But this is a puzzle. If love is not acceptable in marriage, does it follow you have no love for me now, since we are betrothed?"
"You must go to the Greeks for logic," she said.
"And to a lady for love. Do you not love me, my dear one?"
She pricked her horse to a trot. "Inquire of Cupid, my lord, for the answer to that!" she called gaily over her shoulder.
She straightened about in the saddle. The shaded lane curved, descending to a ford. Sunlight glistened on water through the trees—glinted on something more. She dragged her horse to a jerking halt.
On the far side of the stream a pale destrier waited, caparisoned all in green, the rider armored, his sword drawn, emerald and silver like a dream in the glowing yellow light of afternoon.
The black eyeslits watched her silently. Gian came up behind her. She heard the others, the thud of hooves and the sudden stifle of easy talk.
The knight shoved his faceplate up. Melanthe felt Gian beside her, felt a helpless frenzy.
"My lady wife." Ruck's hard voice rang across the stream that divided them. "I would have let thee live separate and alone. I would not have abashed thee, if thou hadst only wished to deny me for cause of pride and place. But thou art my wife, Melanthe—and 'fore God, I will not let thee forlie with another man, nor live together with him in dishonor of us both."
She thought of laughing. She thought of screaming. She thought of disclaiming any knowledge of him; all those things came to her at once, but she said, "Don't approach him. He has gone mad."
In her dismay the words held utter conviction. She felt Gian's eyes shift.
Ruck did not move. "It may please thee to claim so, my lady," he said coldly. "But you know as I that it is not true. I bid thee now to honor thy word and obey me. Leave this place, and this company, and come with me."
"He is mad," Melanthe repeated stupidly.
"Make way, fool," Gian said.
He started to press his horse forward, but she seized his sleeve. "Gian! He's dangerous."
She thought it sounded convincing: Gian paused, and Ruck's mouth lifted in contempt.
"Only in defense of thy virtue, madam." Sunlight slipped down his bare blade. "I will not endure thee to whore with him."
One of the ladies behind her gasped. Gian pulled his sleeve from Melanthe's hand. "Thou harlot, I'll kill thee for that, mad or no."
"Gladly I'll fight," Ruck said.
Gian spit on the ground. "Baseborn churl," he said with deadly softness, "I would not soil my hands. Thou wert born upon a dung heap. Out of the way, madman, and run far."
The destrier turned on its haunches, making room in the road between the thick hedgerows. "You may pass, if you will. And the rest, but for my wife."
&
nbsp; Gian reached out and caught the bridle of her horse. He spurred into the stream, pulling her along. At the sloped bank, the white courser moved before them, blocking passage. Ruck's sword came down between their horses, the blade suspended over Gian's arm.
"Unhand her," he said quietly.
Gian made a move to go around. Hawk kicked out with a vicious force that sent Gian's mount shying back. He lost his hold on her bridle as his horse slipped and stumbled at the edge of the stream. His sparrowhawk fluttered free. At the same moment the Earl of Pembroke came splashing through the water.
"My lady!" he shouted, slapping her horse's rump. "Go now!"
Her rouncy jumped forward, colliding with Pembroke's as he passed, but the destrier held the narrow road. Ruck fended off the young earl's dagger with an armored elbow, keeping his own sword clear. The war-horse backed hard against Pembroke's bewildered mount, shoving him beyond knife reach.
"Pass." Ruck swept his blade point upward, allowing a slim opening to the earl. "I have no quarrel with you, but you may not take my wife."
"Thou staring madman, she's no such thing!" Pembroke exclaimed. "How dare thee say it?"
"Ask her," Ruck said.
Melanthe felt their all attention fix. It was high disport, this; a play to them—except for Gian, who had silent savagery in his eyes. He had suspected; she knew he had suspected, but she had lulled him and beguiled him, and now he knew. Not the marriage, no, for that was too fantastic for credence—but jealousy burned behind his calculating stare. He would not bear it.
"Am I thy true husband?" Ruck held the destrier in taut check, staring at Melanthe. "Tell them, my lady."
She looked up into his eyes, his green cold eyes, and saw the last slender flame of trust still there. He asked her for the truth, because he did not conceive of dishonor. He did not know the depths of treachery—standing armed and armored, and defenseless against it.
She shook her head, with a small disbelieving laugh. "Thou art a silly simple," she said. "Thou art not even a man, I think, save by hap in thy dreams!"
In the slight flicker of his lashes it died, the last tattered rag of faith. He smiled, a baring of his teeth. "Thou dost not answer my question, lady."
"Then let me make my words clear to thy fevered brain!" she exclaimed. "I am not thy wife!"
"I say that you are, but that you dare not speak according to conscience or the pleasure of God, for fear evil might be done you." He spoke with an even force. "I say that we were in the manor of Torbec at the end of Hilarytide, in the solar chamber above the hall, and thou said thou took me there and then as thy wedded husband if I willed it, to have and to hold, at bed and at board, for better and for worse, in sickness and health, till death us depart—and of this thou gave me thy faith. And I said that I willed it, and plighted thee my troth the same, and more, for I dowed thee with all that is mine, which thou didst not do for me in return, nor did I ask or wish for it. I had no ring nor garland for you, but swore all this by my right hand. And we had company and use of each other in the same bed where we spoke, to seal our vows, and afterward I wept."
"A vivid dream indeed!" Melanthe said.
"No dream," Ruck answered her, "but what passed between us in truth. We lived as man and wife, and the last time lay together ere you left me for Bowland on the day before the May."
It was working upon their witnesses as he meant it to, a detailed and rational list of circumstances, no madman's vision. She saw Pembroke's expression change from disbelief to wonder—saw him look at Gian to measure his response.
"You lie!" Gian's shout rocked off the water and the trees. "Whoreson, who paid you to say this?"
Ruck's gaze went instantly to him, like a wolf that had sighted its prey at last. His sword made a singing sweep into guard. "I do not lie, nor speak for gain. I am no son of a whore, but I'll be pleased to kill thee for thy slander.
"No." The earl held out his arm. "Nay, sir—Dan Gian is not armed."
Without hesitation Ruck reversed his sword, offering it to Pembroke. As the earl grasped the hilt, Hawk lifted his great hooves, treading sideways, shouldering into Gian's horse. Gian didn't flinch—he made a murderous stab toward Ruck's eye with his poison-dagger. For an instant they grappled together, and then Ruck had Gian's wrist in his grip, the horses splashing and circling.
Hawk sidestepped against Gian's mount, shoving, his bulk compelling the other horse to scramble for footing as Ruck forced Gian's arm overhead. Like a slow ram, the destrier impelled the lighter horse to move, to lurch and falter in the stream. Gian wrenched free and threw himself toward Ruck, driving the dagger at his face as the rouncy went down with a floundering splash.
Heavy drops sprayed over Melanthe as her mount shied back. The ladies screamed, clinging to their reins and their bating hawks. Amid a flail of hooves and water Gian was half-trapped, his leg beneath the horse, but the animal rolled and heaved forward, struggling upright in a glistening sheet.
Frantically she scanned Ruck's face, dreading to see a poisoned scratch within the shadow of his helmet. But there was no blood, only the forbidding set of his mouth as he met her eyes.
It was this he had wanted from the start, she saw. Not his command to her to go with him—but Gian, dripping and humiliated beyond human bearing, shamed into challenge and combat.
"She is my wife," he said, looking on Gian as the downed man groped to his feet in the middle of the stream. "Thou wilt not touch her or see her again."
"Thou art an open liar and false knave." Gian's leg gave beneath him, and he went to one knee, but even his soaked velvet did not diminish the proud savagery of his response. "I'll have thy contemptible life."
"Name the occasion. And come armed."
Gian drove himself to his feet. "Thou wilt receive my messenger."
"I await him. The Ospridge at Colnbrook." Ruck tossed Gian's dagger into the water. He turned Hawk, reining the destrier up onto the bank, and halted beside Melanthe. "For courtesy, I do not compel my lady's grace to attend me at a common inn."
"Mary, I would not attend thee at Westminster Palace, thou poor deluded churl." Her rouncy pirouetted. "Begone thee. Gian, your little sperverhawk has taken a stand in that oak—" She spurred her horse, gesturing urgently at the sparviters who had held the spaniels and gaped all through the scene. "Come quickly, we must retrieve her ere she escapes us!"
* * *
All the towns and villages about Windsor Castle were full while the king was in residence. For a fortnight Ruck had sat in taverns and listened to the talk of clerks and squires, of knights in waiting. He'd heard it all—how this Italian lord would wed her, what terms he bought and how he bought them in his dealings with the king's ravenous mistress and her favorites, where he resorted, and how often he attended the Lady Melanthe at her bury hall of Merlesden.
Navona kept his own lodging three miles off, in the town hard by the castle. If he had not, Ruck thought, he would already be dead.
Warm air, smelling of dust off the street, flowed into the upstairs window of the inn. Ruck sat with his feet propped on the sill. He could see Merlesden from his chamber, an admirable court hall of pale stone on a wooded hillside across the water meadows, the sun sparkling from its many windows.
He hated it. He hated her, with a fine relentless hate, a cold will down to his heart and sinew.
He would not endure her to make mock of him. To discount him, as if he did not exist. How long she must have planned it, he could not fathom—she had rused and wiled, and he had been so sotted and glad that he had not pressed her. Or haps she had never planned it, but only heard that her great love had come for her, this Dan Gian, this Italian lord—father of her lap-dog lover; vice beyond conjecture—and she forgot all else but to warn Ruck not to presume on her for shame of him.
He swung his legs down and stood, pacing the width of the private bedchamber as he had walked the towers of Wolfscar. She had called him mad, and he had gone near mad in truth, lost he knew not how long in silent ferocity, a
violence locked up in himself, so that he could not speak even when he heard common voices talking to him.
He was out of his right mind yet, he knew. She would have her way, he did not doubt: he would not have her back—nor wanted her. She had not even looked as he remembered. Ever the witch, she had changed herself again: thinner, delicate and narrow like a phantom spirit clothed in richness, her eyes deep and dead when she gazed upon him. Her flowers were a japing mock, virgin's blossoms to adorn a ramp.
He leaned his hands on the painted boards and put his forehead to the wall. He listened to the sound of his own breathing.
Ruck wanted to slay her as she slayed him, but he could only take the oiled and painted carpet knight. By the church or by the challenge, he would deprive her of that connection. In his madness to prevent her, he was blessed with detached reason, as if he were two men, one who burned and one who was ice.
He had hired counsel in canon law. He made his case to the bishop, giving solemn oath of his truth—on the morrow she would have notice of that, and peraventure her foreign lord's great preparations for a feast would be gone to waste. Ruck had even found his green tournament plate, stolen in the Wyrale and ransomed back from an armorer in Chester, missing the emerald, yes, but fit for use. He had chosen his place and time with perfect care—to speak before witnesses who would put the word about court and countryside swift as gossip's wing could carry it.
If they dared to carry on with their betrothal, Ruck intended to sour the wine in their mouths.
The canon clerk had advised him to assert that she could not speak freely for fear of someone near her, a trick to counter her foregone denial. That Melanthe had ever feared anything, even unto Hell itself, Ruck greatly doubted, but he could see the usefulness of the pretense. He had also given a hoard to the clerk's safekeeping, in case they should try to have him arrested on charges of deceit and falsehood, and set down names of men who would let mainprize for his surety. He trusted her as he would trust a viper in his bed.
For My Lady's Heart Page 40