Prince Ligurio of Monteverde had been dead three months, but for years before he drew his last breath, Melanthe had upheld her husband's place and powers. As he declined into illness and vulnerability, she had defended him by the methods he had taught her himself. He it was who had schooled her to guard her back, who had been her father from the age of twelve when a terrified child had left England to wed a man thirty years her senior; he who had ordered her to deal with the Riata, to tantalize Gian Navona—because the triangle would always hold, there would always be the houses of Riata and Navona and Monteverde like wolves prowling about the same quarry.
Now Prince Ligurio was gone. The triangle of power fell in upon itself, leaving Melanthe between the wolves and the fortune of Monteverde.
She surrendered it to them. She did not want Monteverde, but to yield her claim was as perilous as to contend for it. Like a fox making for a safe earth, she must dodge and deceive and look always behind her as she escaped.
She had bargained with Riata—safe passage to a nunnery in England, in exchange for her quitclaim to Monteverde. She had bargained with Allegreto's father, Gian Navona, smiled and promised to be his wife, gladly—so gladly that she would even travel to England first, to confirm her inheritance there, that she might bring that prize, too, with her to their marriage bed.
Promise and promise and promise. They were made to betray, in layer upon layer of deception.
She kept only one, if she died for it. To herself. She was going home—to England and to Bowland. The fox escaped to earth.
"I'm displeased with your interference," she said to Allegreto. "I had my own intent with regard to Lancaster."
Allegreto merely grinned at the rebuke. "Not to take him in marriage, lady, so I hope." He made a mock bow. "But my lady's grace would not break my father's loving heart that has bided so long in silent hope."
Melanthe returned his salute with an affectionate smile. "True, I won't have Lancaster at any price—but Allegreto, my love—when next you write to your father, tell Gian I said that you're such a tender gentle boy, there are moments I'd rather take you to husband in his stead."
Allegreto's face did not change. He maintained the pleasant curve of his lips, his dark eyes fathomless. "I wouldn't be so foolish, my lady. That price has been paid already."
Melanthe turned her face. She shamed herself even to taunt Allegreto with it. What price Gian Navona had taken of his bastard son, to be certain that Allegreto would sleep chastely in Melanthe's bedchamber, was beyond cost or pity.
"Let us go." She lifted her skirt, stepping upward, but he made a faint hiss of warning and raised his forefinger. He turned, going lightly up ahead of her, his yellow-and-blue slippers silent on the stone stairs.
Melanthe's pulse heightened. That was her weakness, as the falcon was Allegreto's—she could not for her life keep her heart cool when her mind required it. Through the harder beat in her ears, she turned to listen behind her. She heard nothing but the rhythm of her own blood. This winding stair gave onto the ramparts above and the chapel below, with a door into a small stone passage connecting to her inner apartment. She had not liked the insecure arrangement when she saw it, and she liked it less now. After a moment she stepped up quietly after Allegreto, her hand on her dagger.
The door stood open to empty darkness. She hesitated, staring at it, assessing it. Gryngolet preened calmly, but the falcon was no dog to bark at danger. She held aloof from human matters, as did all her kind. Melanthe took her dagger from its sheath and turned the blade outward.
"Come, lady."
Allegreto's ghostly voice drifted on silence, beckoning her. She took a quiet breath and stepped upward through the door.
He knelt behind it over a deep shadow. Melanthe saw a white shape, a limp palm half-open—and the shadow became a form: the Riata assassin sprawled dead in the half darkness.
There was no blood but on Allegreto's slim dagger; she had seen him practice his thrust on pigs—to make a stab that stopped the life flow instantly—what little gore there was bled to the lungs and not the surface, as he had once informed her with his sweet pride and pleasure in his craft. He was not smiling now, but sober, skilled in his task, stripping the corpse of her livery.
She pressed her lips tight together. "To my garderobe," she murmured. "I'll send Cara and the others away."
He nodded. Melanthe moved quickly back down the stairs to the chapel whence she'd come, spent a moment pretending to pray, and then climbed to her apartments by the grand staircase. She retired to the solar, demanding a preparation of malvoisie wine sweetened with scented flowers and roses, and peace for her aching head. Her ladies knew better than to be in a hurry to return when she gave such an order.
When she was certainly alone, she unbolted the door onto the passage. Allegreto waited in the darkness, his prey stripped naked at his feet. He hefted the body to his shoulder, adept at that, too, though he staggered a little beneath the weight. "Fat Riata swine," he muttered, and flashed Melanthe a grin over the pale legs of the dead man.
She stood back with an unforgiving stare—which made Allegreto laugh silently. Bravado, perhaps, or real amusement: it was no more possible to know his true feeling than it was for her to reveal the emotion that swirled in her stomach. She would punish him for this murder, because she had ordered him to refrain—but that did not diminish the horrible shock of triumph, the elation of safety, however brief; of knowing the thing done.
He carried the body before her, naked arms dangling—a sight that she disliked—but worse yet was the garderobe, a cold small chamber and stone bench, a revolting moment while Allegreto worked to arrange the Riata's torso, forcing it head downward into the shaft of the privy well. He gripped the legs, panting a little with his efforts.
He let go. The feet vanished. For a long moment there was nothing. Then the sound as it hit the river—not what she'd expected, not a splash, but a boom like a stone catapulted against steel, echoing and echoing in the rank well.
He crossed himself and knelt before her. "I beg you pray for me, my lady," he said humbly. "I know I've displeased you, but I did it for your life."
She said nothing. He rose and caught up the pile of green-and-silver livery, folding it into neat lengths. From the shoulder of his doublet, he plucked a loose hair. He held it over the privy and flicked his fingers, sending the strand drifting into darkness.
Melanthe watched him. She had no nightmares. She never slept enough to dream.
* * *
The Princess Melanthe held audience amid Tharsia silks and exotic courtiers, warmed by a perfumed fire. And of course she did not remember him.
Ruck hadn't recognized her himself at once, there in the hall, chafed as he'd been by the duke's sudden demand to appear in full tournament armor for the pleasure of some highborn lady. He'd thought nothing of Lancaster's guests, annoyed by the strange foreign youth's insistence that Ruck pause at the door to look. He'd seen only a bored and black-haired feminine figure on the dais—until she'd turned her head and gazed with that cold irony upon Lancaster himself, had lifted her fingers to stroke the white falcon's breast—not until that crystallized moment had her face and the silver-and-green colors that matched his own burst into recognition.
Now that he saw her again, he could not imagine that he hadn't instantly perceived the lady of his life. She was precisely as he recalled; all of his dreams, all of his aspirations, thirteen years of fidelity and devotion come to pass in gemstone radiance...except that he had thought her hair not quite so dark, and her eyes a paler blue.
In fact, he'd thought her more like Isabelle, only comelier.
She was comely indeed; gloriously, magnificently beautiful, none could gainsay it, but in a bold style that made the ladies' gossip just a trace more credible. Her chamberlain intoned, "The Green Sire, Your Highness," and she didn't even glance up from the jewel casket that one of her gentlewomen held before her, merely lifting a hand toward the side of her bed.
He strode to
the position. The dark, slender youth lounged against a carpet-covered chest, decked in hose of one leg yellow and one leg blue. From the extreme edge of his vision, Ruck could see the puppy staring at him. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he had nothing to look at but his liege lady, and she was a vision like ebony hammered into gold.
She had changed her gown. It was not now the low-cut kirtle of green samite that she'd worn in the hall: it was a golden brocade cote-hardi, long-sleeved, tight-fitting, trimmed in black, cut open and laced all the way down both sides—and it took him a long moment to realize that she wore nothing beneath it. He could see her white, bared skin all the way from her torso to her ankle.
He strove to keep his face expressionless. He dared not even blink. The sultry room made him hot beneath his ermine mantle. As she chose a necklace, the youth moved, sliding a grin at Ruck, lolling across the bed to pluck the jewelry from her hands.
She bent her head as he clasped the necklace at her nape and smoothed his fingers down her throat. He was sixteen, perhaps less, scarce half her age or Ruck's, with black hair and skin as soft as hers. He stroked her as a lover would, bending to fasten a belt about her waist, kissing her shoulder as he did it.
She tilted her head, refusing to look into a mirror held up by one of the ladies. The youth watched Ruck beneath his lashes.
"Let me take down your hair, lady," he said. His fingers worked amid the crown of braids, unpinning them, spreading them. He held a curling lock up to his lips, laughing silently through it at Ruck. "Look, my love," he said, speaking clear while pretending to whisper in her ear. "The green man wants you."
"So much the worse for him," she said indifferently.
"Only look at him, lady!" The youth was grinning in delight at Ruck. "He wishes that he might embrace you as I do. Just so—" He slipped his fingers around her waist, never taking his black eyes from Ruck.
She brushed his hands away. "Come, leave your mischief. Do you wish to sharpen your claws on him, Allegreto? Play, then—but recall that he's of use to me." She turned for one instant and met the youth's eyes. "See that you don't kill him, or I'll set Gryngolet upon you."
This threat had a salutary effect upon her young courtier. He glanced at the falcon perched on a high stand at the foot of her bed. "Lady," he said submissively, drawing back from her.
"Do up my hair," she bid him. "The crespin net, I think."
In silence he took the comb and sparkling net from her lady-in-waiting and began to comb out the length of her hair, coiling it deftly.
As he worked, Princess Melanthe lifted her hand, beckoning to Ruck. He moved to the foot of the bed, lowering himself to one knee.
She laughed. "Truly, you're the most courteous knight! Up with you. I prefer to see the faces of my servants better than the tops of their heads."
He stood up.
"I'll lead your destrier into the lists tomorrow," she informed him. "See that the heralds know it. And you must wear my favor upon your lance for the entry—then I wish it brought to me for the time being."
He bowed.
"You speak English," she said suddenly.
"Yes, madam."
"Excellent. I'll speak to you in English from time to time. I wish to recall it from my childhood. A lesson for you, Allegreto—always take care to understand a little of the language of your servants and dependants, that they may not take undue advantage of you."
Allegreto pinned her hair, placing the net over it with care. In a subdued tone he said, "You are the source of all light and wisdom, Your Highness."
"Sweet boy, I wouldn't let Gryngolet have you for anything."
The shadow left his face. He began to knead her shoulders. Ruck lowered his eyes to the foot of the bed. He took a step back, withdrawing.
"Green Sire," she said imperiously, rejecting the youth's attention with an impatient flick of her wrist. "Word has come to my ear that you're merciless in combat and tourney."
Ruck stood silent. She looked at him full for the first time, scanned him from foot to chest to shoulders in the manner a hosteler might assess a horse. A very faint smile played at her lips as she looked into his eyes, holding him with blue-purple dusk and mystery.
"Excellent," she murmured. "Savagery amuses me. And what glorious feats of arms shall I expect to see executed for my favor?"
That answer he'd considered long and well, knowing the number who were sure to challenge him. "Ten courses with the lance," he said evenly, "five with the ax, and five courses with the sword will be my offer to any knight who strikes my shield. Please God, what glory I may gain is my lady's."
"Well for that." Her smile took on a hint of humor. "My public esteem always stands in some want of luster."
The moment of self-mockery glittered in her eyes and vanished, lost in a graceful lithe motion as she lay back upon the cushions, beckoning for the wine cup held by one of her ladies. He wanted to look away, but it was impossible: the irony and obscurity and dark radiance of her held him.
Lancaster commanded Ruck as his prince and liege, but if she thought of that she gave no sign. She set Ruck square in the sorest dilemma a man could be placed—vassal and servant to opposing masters—though not for war or any great thing did she command him to declare a challenge for her on his own prince, not that Ruck could tell.
Yet he would serve. She was his sworn lady. Beyond doubt or motive he would obey her. It was not his place to ask for reasons, even if she didn't remember him.
And she did not. When she looked at him so negligently, he was certain—almost certain—that she did not.
Two emeralds and thirteen years. But emeralds must be nothing to such as she, as he would have been, a ridiculous boy, no one and nothing.
He wore the green jewel on his helmet. He carried her falcon on his shield. Why had she asked for him, if she didn't remember?
She bent her head to take a sip from the hammered goblet—and then paused before she tasted it. She stared into the wine for a long moment, her lashes black against skin of down and rose. When she looked up, it was toward the little group of ladies-in-waiting beside her bed, an emotionless sweep that remarked each one of them—and Ruck saw each of them in turn respond with the stone-silent terror of cornered rabbits.
She lowered her eyes to the goblet again, without drinking. "You will be valiant in my name tomorrow, Green Sire?" she murmured, glancing up at him over the rim.
He gave a slight nod.
"See that it is so." With a gesture she dismissed him. Ruck turned from the sight of Allegreto trifling with a ring on her finger.
At the door he stopped, looking back. "Your Highness," he said quietly.
She glanced up, lifting her brows.
He nodded toward Allegreto and spoke in English. "Nothing such as that could kill me."
"What did he say?" the youth demanded instantly. "He was looking at me!"
Princess Melanthe turned. "Why, he said that in his devotion to me, Allegreto, he could defeat any man. A most handy green knight, don't you think?"
* * *
As the knight departed, Allegreto leaned near her shoulder, laying his head next to hers. Melanthe lifted the cup of wine to his mouth and said, "Share with me."
He drew in a light breath—and she felt the barely perceptible withdrawal in his muscles. "My lady," he murmured, "I prefer the sweetness of your lips."
She tilted her head back, allowing him to trace his mouth down her throat. With a languid move she held out the cup of wine and lay full back on the pillows. Cara lifted it from her hand with a deep courtesy, smiling that soft smile of hers, serene as a painting of the Virgin Mary. Though Melanthe closed her eyes, she could hear the light rustling and whispers as her gentlewomen retreated, well-trained to recognize her inclinations.
Allegreto put his mouth against her ear even before the ladies had quit the solar. "Donna Cara," he said. "I told you to be rid of her. Send her away tonight."
Melanthe lay with her eyes closed. She bore his hands on her, her sen
ses refined to catch the last instant that she must suffer his touch. The moment she could be certain they were alone, she flung his arm away and sat up.
"And I told you to kill no one. Tomorrow your back will feel the worse for it."
He hiked himself up to sprawl against the heap of pillows, impudent. "You know none of your men will touch me. They love my father too well."
"The duke will lend me his guardsmen for the task, I'm sure." She left the bed and stood by the chest, gazing down into the goblet of scented wine. The candle beside it shuddered, reflecting a sinuous half-moon in the dark liquid. "It's a warning."
"It can be nothing else, Your Highness." He rolled to his side and lay propped on his elbow, only daunted enough to give her a deferential address. "Bitter almond." He drank a deep breath. "From here I can smell it."
She gave a humorless smile. "You're not so perceptive. I couldn't detect it myself but from within the cup."
"It must have been Donna Cara. She's sold herself to Riata and betrayed you. Perhaps no warning was meant, but a bungle. Stupid Monteverde bitch, she would blunder such work. Send her away, I tell you."
"Cara!" Melanthe laughed, scorning that. "Your mind is occupied past reason with the girl. By your notion, one moment she's subtle as a viper and the next so stupid as to poison me with bane in my wine, as if I couldn't smell it there!"
"She's an idiot. Give her to me, and I'll teach her to be sorry for her treachery, so that she'll not forget the lesson. She's not even worth the killing."
"Not worth killing? Why, Allegreto, you must be feeling unwell."
He grinned. "Only languishing in tedium. I'd like to torment a Monteverde. It would be a change from these tiresome Riatas who die so easily."
"Your malice masters your wit. Recall that she's my cousin."
He turned onto his back and crossed his leg, looking up at the canopy. "My malice is bred in me. A Navona must hate anyone of Monteverde." He glanced toward her with a wry smile. "Excepting you, my lady, of course."
For My Lady's Heart Page 53