Allegreto raised his brows. His mouth curled in a slight smile. "I did not know you were so sly, green man."
"I think me thou art too sly. It will take more than guile and poison to rule, my fine pup. Before they can love thee, they must know thee beyond a shadow and a comely face."
The priest's bell began to toll. Something happened to the mocking curve of Allegreto's lips. He stared at the dim-lit door to the hall, his mouth trembling.
Ruck turned, watching as the gray friars carried the coffin from the hall, eight of them, bent down by the weight of it. Allegreto took a step back into the stairwell, looking down on his father's bier.
The priest walked behind, swinging his censer. Allegreto came down as if to follow, then held back with his hand on the corner of the stair. He stood looking out the door at the end of the passage. Cool air flowed in, ruffling his dark hair.
He slanted a glance over his shoulder to Ruck, as if he had some question that had not been answered. But he did not speak.
"'Ware Morello," Ruck said, "and put on dry clothes."
"Morello will be dead before we reach Calais." Allegreto let go of the wall and strode toward the door.
"Dry clothes," Ruck said after him.
The youth paused, turning. "Are you my mother, green man?"
"Life hangs on the small things, whelp. Why die of a fever ague and make it easy for Morello?"
Allegreto stood in the doorway, the breeze blowing in past him. He gave a brief nod, then turned into the darkness, following his father.
* * *
No tears greeted Ruck when he went to Melanthe's chamber. She stood waiting in her linen smock, her hair loose, a phantom in the light of a single candle, dry-eyed as the white falcon that stood motionless on its block.
"Ne do not tarry away from me," she said angrily. "Where hast thou been?"
"Below, my lady. They have carried the coffin out."
"Witterly, that could not come too soon." She held herself straight and distant, without advancing to him. Ruck closed the door and stood with his back to it. She was ever difficult in such a mood; he recognized it, but did not know the remedy.
"Say me what happened in troth," she demanded. "Who killed him?"
"No man. Donna Cara was with him on the wharf at thy brewery place. She bolted away, she said me, and he caught her sleeve. The cloth parted. She heard the plash." Ruck gave a slight shrug. "And we returned to finden him."
Melanthe stared at him. Then she laughed and closed her eyes. "It is too witless."
"Too witless it was that thou chained me to a wall, my lady," he said tautly, "but God or the Fiend has him now, and is too late for my vengeance."
She lifted her lashes. "Wouldst thou have tortured him, green sire?" she asked in a scoffing tone. "Tom him limb-meal in pieces? Only for me?"
"Melanthe," he said, "ne do nought be so this way tonight."
"What way?'' she demanded, turning from him. She went to the bed and flung back the sheets, sitting down on the edge of it, her bare feet on the board.
"His."
She pressed her toes downward, her feet curving until they showed white. Her eyes seemed too large and dark to be human. She was like an elven, elegant and sheer, as if light would pass through her.
"How wouldst thou have me, then?" she asked. "Disporting? Meek? A worthy goodwife, or a whore? I can be any—or all, if thou likes."
"Readily I would haf thee in a sweeter temper, my lady."
She threw herself backward onto the bed, lying among the sheets. '"Tis all? How simple." She made a web of her hands and flung them wide. "There. I am sweet. I am honey. Come and taste me."
Ruck unbuttoned his surcoat and dropped it with his belt and sword over a chest. At the harsh clatter of the gold links, she sat up again.
"A'plight, a man of swift reply," she said mockingly.
Ruck continued to divest himself. When he was naked he went to the bed and took her down with him on it. He could not speak to her, or he would shout. He opened his mouth over hers, kissing deep. She arched her body up beneath him, her hands greedily about his loins to pull him into her.
Delicious lust possessed him, compounding with his anger. He used her without indulgence, taking no time but for himself. Still she inhaled and dug her nails into him and spread her legs to twine them about his. She pulled frantically at him, her hands gripped in his hair so hard that it hurt.
The pain brought him back from blind hunger, caught him sharply from his own passion. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face a mask of ferocity, as if she fought with him instead of straining to him.
He slowed, gentling his moves, but she would not have it. She made a bitter cry, forcing their union as hard as her strength could force it. Even though he stilled, she clung to him and strove to reach her pleasure.
Ruck let her use him, his own wrath sliding away. He brushed his lips over her hair as she shuddered and seized in his arms, her skin dewed with moisture.
She fell back, panting, her fingers digging into his shoulders. The blunt pain eased as she slowly released him. Her palms explored, sweeping up and down his arms, touching his hair and his face.
She never opened her eyes as her labored breathing slackened. She skimmed her hands down his body, then spread her arms out wide on the bedsheets. All her limbs softened.
He bent his forehead to the base of her throat, resting there, drunk on the scent and mystery of her. He felt her twitch, drowsing. As he lay atop her, in her, still full and hard, the last of waking tension drifted from her limbs. Her breath became a steady feather at his ear.
He began to move again, finding his own pleasure deep in her body. But though he came to the height of his lust and discharge with a heavy tremor and a sound of ecstasy, she did not wake. His lost and bespelled princess, beyond his reach even as he possessed her.
* * *
In the early morning, in a manor house empty of all but a few servants, he left her sleeping hard and deep. He bathed and shaved in the kitchen and walked outside, where a little huddle of villagers surprised him in the yard, eager hands reaching out to touch him. He was, he discovered, a miracle arisen from the dead—a notion he found repellent. He dismissed them with the trenchant suggestion to seek out his excellent doctor instead of miracles, which produced an efficient clearing of the courtyard.
Fog lay on the river surface, shading to mist and clear air. He stood looking down through it toward the shore, where trampled grass and the black clods of burned-out torches were all that remained of the departed barks.
He had not expected this morning, this moment. He had never since the day she left Wolfscar believed in his heart that he would have her to wive again. Even before, it had never seemed perfectly real, but a thing of fantasy with no tie to the earth. They had not spoken of the future, because they had both known that in truth there was to be none.
But abruptly, he was in it—future and present, anchored by his own battle to prove their vows and her public words of acceptance in the hall.
Amid birdsong and wet flowers, he walked aimlessly toward the empty stables. He heard someone behind him and turned, half expecting Melanthe, but it was not.
It was Desmond. He wore his court clothes, her fine scarlet livery, limp with the mist.
"My lord," he said, and went to his knee. "My lord!" His face crumpled into tears. "Will ye letten me go home?"
Ruck reached for him, and the boy came into his embrace, holding on as if to life.
"My lord," Desmond sobbed against his cote, "ne'er did I break my word! Ne did I say aught of Wolfscar, nor that ye kept wedlock with my lady, e'en did they rack me! But Allegreto said me nought to comen to you, that I mote nought, for my life and yours. And I saw you die, my lord—I—"
He lost his voice in weeping. Ruck crossed his arms over Desmond's neck, rocking him fiercely.
"My lord, can I go home? Oh, my lord, I made blunder and wrongs and failed you, but I beg you."
"Desmond." Ruck put his face do
wn in the boy's shoulder. "I will taken thee home if I bear thee on my back in penance. God forgive me, that e'er I sent thee out alone."
* * *
Carrying wine in a blue-and-white jug and waster bread from the pantry, Ruck mounted the stairs to her chamber. A thin mist of daylight fell from the open door above, painting a faint golden stripe in a curve down the stone wall.
He had expected to find her still asleep, but instead she was up, kneeling in her linen beside an open chest. Her head was bent over something in her hand.
He saw that it was a mirror, fine and rare, made of glass instead of polished steel. She held her loose hair on her shoulder, looking at the carving on the ivory back. As he came into the room, she held up the glass, reflecting his image onto him.
"What dost thou see, monk-man?"
"Myseluen, my lady. Wilt thou break fast?"
She rose as Ruck laid the napkin over a chest and set the food and tankards on it. He shut the door.
"Here." She held out the mirror to him, turning casually toward the window seat, as if he were one of her maids meant to place the thing away.
He stood holding the glass. She did it by design, he knew, to bedevil him, and it succeeded. He felt the difference in their stations sharply; he thought that if he let it pass now, her small disdain, he would have to live like a servant evermore.
"My lady wife," he said, pouring wine and handing it to her along with the mirror, "ne do I require this glass for looking."
"Hast thou no vanity?" She laid it facedown in her lap. "But I forget—thy choice of sin is lust."
He poured for himself. "If I mote choose," he said, "yea."
"But verily, thou art a comely man. Thou might be vain with some justice. Look." She held up the glass again.
"Is aught amiss with my face, lady, that thou wilt bid me stare in this mirror so oft?"
She gazed at him, still holding it. Then she smiled slightly, bringing the glass up so that her face was half-hidden behind it, like a shamefast girl. "Nay. Aught amiss, best-loved."
The mirrored surface gleamed and flashed at him, her eyes above it unreadable. But she pierced him through when she smiled.
"I saw Desmond below," he said.
The mirth vanished from her. She lowered the mirror and stretched out her bare feet on the window seat.
"I take him to Wolfscar as soon as I can," Ruck said.
"Nay, thou dost not leave me. I send a courier to deliver him, if he mote go."
"I take him, my lady." Ruck drained his wine.
"No."
"Dost thou poison me and chain me to prevent it?"
She sat up. "Does that wrathe thee? By God's rood, thou wouldst be dead, had I not!"
"God a'mercy that I am alive, for is none of thy doing, Melanthe! What demon was in thy head, that thou didst nought say me true of that hell-hound Navona, that I could serve thee?"
She turned her head, looking out the window with a lift of her shoulder. "I could not."
"I well know that troth is like bitter wine on thy lips, but thy falsehood is beyond absolve for this."
"I could not!"
"Melanthe! Thou took me for thy husband, and yet could not say me?"
"He would slay thee."
Ruck made a furious turn. "And so that he mote nought, thou left me, and went to him to be his wife?"
"He would slay thee."
"His wife!"
She gathered her knees up against her. "Foolish simple! Ye know naught of it. He would slay thee."
"Yea, and so would I choose to be slain than to see thee in his bed, but I think me that I would nought die so tame!"
"I did not bed him, ne would have. I was for a nunnery instead, so thou moste be easy on that point."
Ruck shook his head in disbelief. "Thy brain is full of butterflies! A nunnery, by God, when thou hadst only to say me of thy need. Is my place to protect and defend thee, Melanthe; is my honor."
She sprang to her bare feet. "Yea, thy honor! And where is honor when the bane finds thy lips? I have said thee why I did it. I would do it once again, and lie and cheat and steal the same, so be it, to save thee."
Carefully he set his clay tankard on a chest. "Then I haf no place with thee, by thy own word." He lifted his sword belt, girding it. "I take Desmond to Wolfscar, and thence to my duty to Lancaster."
"Lancaster! Thou art not his, but mine. He will not abide thee."
"For the ill way things go in Aquitaine, he mote needen seasoned men. A lord will forgive much to a captain of experience."
"Nay!" she said sharply. "Thou shalt not go away from me!"
"In this, my lady, thou does not command me."
"Thou art my husband. I will have thee at my side."
He buckled the belt. "Lady, is a lapdog thou wouldst have at thy side. I will buy one for thee at the marketplace."
"Ruck!" Her frantic voice made him pause at the door. She stood with the mirror clutched to her breast.
He waited. For an instant she seemed to cast for words, her lips parted, her eyes darting over the room, but then on an indrawn breath she pressed her lips together and stared at him royally.
"Nay, thou dost not go away to France, sir. I so command!'
"My lady, I have been your liege man. Now ye hatz made me your husband, and named me so to the world. It is I, lady, could command thee if I willed, and no man would say me nay."
Her brows lifted. "Shall it be war between us then, monk-man, for who commands? 'Ware thee my force in that battle."
He put his hand on the door, to yank it open, and then dropped the hasp. He turned on her. "I doubt nought that I should beware the force of thy guile! Well do I know the depth of it—much time had I to ponder in thy prison!" He shook his head with a harsh laugh. "I am no match for thee, faithly. Thou couldst skulk and slink to Lancaster, and poison me in his ear, so that I mote nought go to France. Thou couldst take Wolfscar from me if it pleased thee, so that I haf no thing of my own. I doubt nought thou couldst command me, and hem me, and keep me by thy side. Thou does value thy falcon better, for you set her free and trust her to return to thee, though it be e'ery time a peril. Thou might mew her in the dark for e'ermore, to keep her. But I see thy face when she flies, and thy joy and wonder when she comes." He shook his head again. "Nay, lady, there is no war between us. What use a war with a dead man? For ne could I live mewed up at thy pleasure, nor e'er love thee again as I do now, in free heart and devotion."
She pressed her palms over the mirror, holding it to her mouth. Then she turned to the window. "Gryngolet comes to the meat upon the lure—not for love."
Her shoulders and arms were pulled tightly inward as she held the mirror against her. Her smoke-black hair cascaded down her back. The colored window light turned bright white at her smock, drawing a fine outline of her body within.
"Happen I am a man, and not a falcon," he said gruffly.
"Ah. Then I cannot tempt thee with a chicken's wing."
"Nay, my lady."
She sighed. She sat down on the window seat, frowning down at the carved mirror back.
"Wilt thou nought look into thine own glass," he said softly, "and see what I would return to?"
Her body stiffened. She squeezed her eyes shut, averting her face a little. "What if I am not there?"
"How couldst thou nought be there?"
"Haps I am a witch, with no reflection."
"Times there be that I think thee a witch in troth, my lady."
"Why?" She gave him a quick glance. Her eyes had an uneasy vividness, that imperfect blue smudged to violet.
"By cause I love thee when I would rather strangle thee."
"But—haps I am a witch. Haps I am no one. Haps the Devil came and took me while I slept. I dreamed it once, that he took me, and left naught but a thing fashioned of lies, to seem like me." She gripped the mirror. In a small voice she said, "Ruck. Wilt thou look into it, and see if I am there?"
He went to her and knelt beside her, taking the glass from he
r nerveless fingers. It was a perfect mirror, the size of his spread hand, flashing light from the transparent surface. On the back an ivory lady gave her heart to a vain-looking knight. Ruck saw his own face as he turned the glass, a brief glimpse of jaw and nose and the golden buttons down his surcoat.
"Wait!" She stopped him as he rotated the mirror. "Wait— I am not ready." She pressed her eyes shut. Her face was taut, her hair in wild curls about her pallid cheeks. She held his hands still for a long moment. "All right," she said weakly, loosing him. "Now. Look. What dost thou see?"
He did not even glance at the mirror.
"Sharp wit," he said. "Valor past any man I know. Foolish japery and tricks worse than a child. Lickerous lust, hair like midwinter night. A proud and haught chin, a mouth for noble-talking—that does kiss sufficiently, in faith, and slays me with a smile. Guile and dreaming. A princess. A wench. An uncouth runisch girl. My wife. I see you, Melanthe. Ne do I need a glass."
"Look in the mirror!"
"Luflych." He wrapped his hand about her tight fist. "I see the same there." .
She gave a rasping breath of relief, without opening her eyes. "Thou art certain? My face is there? Thou dost not say me false?"
"I fear for my life do I e'er say thee false, my lady."
"Oh, I am lost! I need thee to sayen me true. I need thee to say me what I should be. All is changed, and I know not what I am."
"Then will we keepen watch and see. And if ye be someone new each morn, Melanthe-—God knows thou art still my sovereign lady. Nought will I be at thy side in e'ery moment, but in spirit always, and return to thee with my whole heart, to see what bemazement thou wilt work upon me next."
Her hand turned upright beneath his, clinging. "I pray thee. Ne do I command thee, but I pray thee—do not go to France and leave me. Not—so soon. I would not maken thee my lap-dog, but—" She moistened her lips. "Verily, I know naught of sheep. And I have thousands, so says my seneschal. Haps I will require thy good advice."
"I am a master of sheep, my lady. E'en to shearing them, if I mote. I know some of oats and other corns, and how to instruct the bailiffs. The garrisons and men-at-arms I can command to good effect, and o'erlook castles and crenellations for what repairs and enlargements may be required."
For My Lady's Heart Page 47