"Green Sire," she said mildly.
He sat back, staring for a long moment at the hem of her gown. Then he wiped his gauntlet across his eyes, smearing blood with rust. He turned his face up to her.
All light of worship and chivalry was gone from his look. He was still breathing hard, his teeth pressed together to contain it.
She knelt and reached for his right arm, tying the jesses about the vambrace and mail. The heat of his body radiated from metal armor. Gryngolet's varvels made a silvery plink against his arm, the precious stones casting tiny sprays of light that played over steel, coalescing green and white as the rings came to rest.
On a level with him, she looked up from her task into his eyes. She could not have said what she saw there—hatred or misery or bewilderment—but it was surely not love that stared back at her from under his begrimed black lashes.
From the persistent tickle of recollection, memory sprang sudden and full blown into her mind.
Once, long ago, for a whim, she had pulled a thorn from this lion's paw. She remembered him, she remembered when and where, an image stirred more by his height and bearing and the baffled agony in his face than by his features. Just so he had submitted, disarmed of all defense, as they took away his wife and money from him.
He repaid her today, then, for that emerald on his helm. Whatever precarious place he had striven to gain in Lancaster's heart, with his fighting skills and command of men and vow to find glory, was vanished now. He knelt before her like a man dazed.
Apology sprang to her lips, regret for his maimed honor, his lost prince. It hovered on her tongue.
"You're a fool," she murmured instead, "to think a man can serve two masters." She lifted a varvel and let it fall against his armor, smiling. "A splendid fool. Come into my service to stay, if you desire."
He stared at her. A sound like a sob escaped him, a deeper breath, harsh through his teeth.
Melanthe rose. She extended her hand, touching his shoulder to make a gesture for the crowd. "Rise."
His squire brought the destrier forward. They smelled of sweat and dust and hot steel, the knight and his mount, perfumed with blood and combat. When he had mounted, she looked up at him.
"If you're vassal to me," she said, "I'll love and value you as Lancaster never could." And with that snare set, she turned before he answered, leaving his hunchbacked squire to lead him from the lists.
* * *
Her greyhound strained against its leash as Melanthe felt her heart strain for the open country. She'd seen herons and ducks by the river; yesterday Lancaster had given her leave to take what she could—and if he regretted it now, she was beyond having to care. She turned her palfrey in the castle's empty courtyard, watched only by her own retinue and a few dumbstruck servants. Outside the walls the sound of the tournament was a distant rise and fall of temper, the tensions between soldiers and squires and townsmen flaring. Melanthe cared nothing for that—she only wanted escape from the tumult, releasing her own tensions in a flying gallop over the countryside with Gryngolet aloft before her.
"Away!" She held Gryngolet on her wrist, urging the flustered falconers to haste. Across the bridge and through the barbican—and she could turn away from tournaments and courts and crowds and pretend she was alone with the open sky. Alone, as Gryngolet flew, but for the escort of hunters and falconers that chased the bird's wild courses.
Melanthe, too, was followed. Allegreto and Cara and a Riata rode behind her; Lancaster and Gian Navona and the ghost of Ligurio hounded her; and another hunted her now—the image of a man in green armor, bending slowly to the ground with his hands covering his eyes.
All of them her constant companions, ever in pursuit, never lost to sight. Spur her horse as she might, she was only free as the falcon flew free—until she killed, or was called back again to the brilliant jewels and feathers of her lure.
FOUR
A witch, she was.
Ruck stood beside one of the shadowed columns in the cathedral, staring blindly at the scaffolding beneath a newly installed stained glass window.
He felt robbed. He felt utterly pillaged.
Where was his lady, his bright unblemished lady, loveliest of all, who made the blood and boredom and solitary days worth bearing? He hadn't asked that she be with him. He'd never thought he was that worthy, but he had held himself to her standard—when they laughed at him, when he hurt for a woman's body to the point of despair, he cleaved to the impossible measure that she set by her own perfection.
He had dreamed about her in his bed or on the cold ground; he saw her beside the Virgin in the churches. He even imagined her with Isabelle in the nunnery, praying for his soul, both of them together, both of them the same, fair blue eyes and fair blond tresses and a face too lovely for any woman on earth...
He turned his head and rested his bandaged temple against the pillar. The cut across his skull burned. His cheek stung and throbbed in spite of Pierre's salve.
The reality of Princess Melanthe had been like a bucket of ice-cold water thrown in his face. He was angry at himself, but he reserved his deepest fury and disgust for her—the witch—she probably had ensorcelled him. How else could he have managed to forget what she was?
The Arch-Fiend's whore, that was what she was, curling like a silken tiger on the bed with her Satan's cub caressing her. He could not even find the image of fairness anymore. It had vanished from his soul, blasted by the sight of sable hair and eyes the color of unearthly twilight, the deep strange inner hue of hellish flowers. He recognized them now—but he had not remembered them so vivid-dark, or her coldness so numbing.
She had laughed. He could hear it still, like an echo in the empty cold air of the cathedral, floating above the endless murmur of the priests' chantries. The sound was branded on him. He had stood with swordpoint to the throat of his gallant liege, who had fought on wounded, unbowed, with no thought of submission—and she had laughed.
The windows glowed with the last faint light of day, spreading colored radiance over the floors and columns, subtle warmth in the soaring blackness. Beyond the cathedral walls he could hear faint sounds of celebration. Ruck stayed to himself, using the pillar for a prop when his cushion grew too uncomfortable for his knees.
Outside of duty and the exercise yard, he spent most of his waking hours in chapels or cathedrals or churches of one sort or another. At first it had been the hardest effort of his knighthood—tedious to the point of screaming agony—but after thirteen years he'd come to peace with the cold stone spaces and the fact that his knees could not support hours on the cushion. He stood now more than he knelt, sparing his frame for the field and fighting, sparing his soul with a regular confession of this small sin. He never even got a real penance, the priests being sympathetic in the matter.
He seldom prayed during his hours in church. Isabelle, he'd thought, would be doing that for him better than he could for himself. He'd often imagined her at it, her face alight and the tears flowing, the other holy women ranged behind her. He felt closer to her in the churches and chapels, where he could banish the faint fear that she never thought about him at all. Sometimes he envisioned her in nun's robes; more often in a sparkling gown of green and silver—and the lonelier the road, the bloodier the combat, the more beautifully and brilliantly she glowed, almost as real as if she stood in the shadows holding her falcon.
It came as a sickening jolt to him now to realize just how often he had confused them in that way. His wife and his nameless liege lady—they had somehow across the years, within the stark isolation of his heart, melded together into a single female image—and he had spent his adult life in rigid devotion to her, celibate, devout, courteous, refusing to stoop to dishonor and bribes of money to win the favor of his prince.
Never had he been invited into his lord's inner chamber—yet he had waited patiently for God to send his chance. He had risen slowly in Lancaster's service, earning his place in spite of the half-concealed amusement. He would lead men-a
t-arms and archers against the French, he would play at unicorn if he must; dragons he would hunt when his liege commanded. He knew the other knights preferred him safely away from court on such commissions. He was mad in action, so they claimed, dangerous, unreliable. By which they meant that he gave no quarter, demanding surrender when surrender galled them—the only way he had been taught to fight. But he had never lost the certainty that he would find a means of proving himself and winning his lord's boon.
He ached with grief and anger. It appalled him to realize what he'd done, how the years had gone by, how he'd deluded himself and confused her with his pure sweet wife. Tainting his memory, his only connection to Isabelle, who even now must be devoting herself to solitary worship. He was sure that she must have taken vows of seclusion and silence in the convent, for even though he sent money and tender greetings every year to Saint Cloud, she never wrote him back. He only received an acknowledgment of his gift from the abbess, with no word from Isabelle even by proxy.
Her loss seemed a fresh wound now, stinging as sharp as the cuts on his cheek and head. He missed her—and he could hardly recall her face. All he saw clearly were purple hell-flower eyes and a white flash of skin; all he felt plainly were wrath and anguish and the degrading burn of his body's appetite in spite of everything. He struggled to remember Isabelle, to rededicate himself to the purer image, and could not. She was lost now, by his own folly, as lost as the bright illusion that had sustained him.
Outside the bell rang to signal curfew. Ruck leaned down and retrieved his cushion, scowling at the worn white threads of the embroidered falcon that adorned it. He thought of having it ripped out and replaced with the azure ground and black wolf of Wolfscar, but to take up his own true arms now, in disillusionment instead of honor, seemed the final defilement of his dreams.
He left the falcon be. He left all of his green-and-silver as it was, determined to wear it as a constant reminder to himself of how a woman—this woman—could twist a man's mind into the Fiend's knots.
* * *
As he pushed out the great wooden door onto the stone porch, his head aching, a hard hand cuffed his shoulder. Three guards in Lancaster's livery stood just beside him. "You're summoned, my lord," one of them said. His tone was curt, but not hostile.
Ruck nodded. Outside, the streets were already deep in shadow, but sparked with torches and wandering groups of revelers. They showed no sign of extinguishing their fires and going to lodgings in answer to the curfew. It was often so on tournament days—but this evening every man they passed was armed, common soldiers mixing with the city watch. Colorful retainers of the tourneying knights roamed drunkenly with their swords still at their hips.
"God's love," Ruck muttered, "this is ripe to go ill."
The guard at his side grunted an assent. He grabbed Ruck's elbow to direct him into an alley. As they emerged on the other end, a hoarse voice yelled, "Hark you!" An English soldier came weaving drunkenly toward them. "Our lord!"
His companions followed, their wayward steps enlivened by this new goal. Suddenly Ruck and his escort were surrounded by ungoverned men-at-arms, all of them familiar faces to Ruck, scowling and sullen with drink.
"Unhand our liege, dog!" A soldier tried to pull Lancaster's guard away from Ruck. "You won't take him!"
The guards' hands went instantly to their weapons, but Ruck shoved the soldier back. "I'm no liege of yours!" he snapped. "Watch your tongue, fool. You're stupid with ale."
"He won't have you, my lord," a man shouted from the back, "or throw you in prison for his pride!"
Ruck glared. "Get to your places! The curfew tolled a quarter hour since."
"He'll not arrest you!" There were other men accumulating now, attracted to the shouts, crowding nearer. "He goes through us first!"
"Have you ran mad?" Ruck exclaimed. "Disperse! I order it!"
Some of the ones nearest him made attempts to turn, as if to obey, but the growing wall of men behind them blocked their way. Lancaster's guards stood with their swords at ready, a tense triangle around him.
"Disperse!" Ruck bellowed. "I'm summoned by the duke! Out of my way, whoreson!" He shoved viciously at the soldier nearest. The man lurched backward, creating a momentary opening. Roaring his displeasure and intention, Ruck knocked another one aside. He slid between the crowd and a building's wall, using the shadows for cover to get away.
* * *
The Duke of Lancaster had his arm in a sling. In his capacity as Lieutenant of Aquitaine, he sat sprawled on a throne, the walls and floor of the chamber draped in cloth woven with the arms of England and France. At the duke's side stood his brother the Earl of Cambridge. Ruck recognized the councilors—Sir Robert Knolleys, Thomas Felton, and the Earl of Bohun—men of military craft, veterans of all the savage campaigns of France and Spain.
"Get up, knight," Lancaster said with a deep sigh.
Ruck stood, sliding a secret look toward him. The duke appeared wakeful, but he had a sleepiness about his eyes that Ruck had seen before in men hit upon the head. His councilors had barely glanced at Ruck as he entered, but kept their close attention on Lancaster. Sir Robert scowled, standing by a table set with wine and food.
The duke stared at Ruck for a long time, his eyes half-lidded. "It was," he said slowly, "a good fight."
A great wave of relief fountained through Ruck. He wanted to go down on his knees again and beg forgiveness, but he kept his feet, only saying, "For the honor of the Princess, my dread lord."
Lancaster laid his head back and laughed. His eyes focused from their drift with a sharper look at Ruck. "She's made fools of us both, hasn't she? Hell-born bitch."
"My lord's grace—" Sir Robert said warningly.
"Ah, but my sentiment won't leave this chamber, if this green fellow hopes to avoid my most grievous displeasure, and such jeopardy for him as that may entail."
"My life is at my lord's pleasure," Ruck said.
Lancaster sat up, leaning forward on his good arm, his mouth tightened against the pain of the movement. "See that you don't forget it. What's your judgment of the temper outside?"
Ruck hesitated. Then he said, "Uneasy, my lord."
"Clear the streets, sire," Felton said.
Lancaster turned a sneer on the constable. "With what? Your men-at-arms? They're the ones in the streets, making mischief in the name of this green nobody."
"They haven't been paid, my lord," Felton said, without embarrassment.
"And is that my fault?" Lancaster shouted, and then squeezed his eyes shut, laying his head back. "I'll run my own coffers dry in the defense of your damned Gascon barons."
"The prince your brother—"
"The prince my brother is sick unto death. He's to know nothing of this! Do not disturb him."
There was a little silence. Then the constable said tentatively, "I believe—if my lord's grace appeared with this knight"—he made a faint gesture toward Ruck—"they would obey this man, my lord, if he ordered them to submit to curfew."
"By God," Lancaster exclaimed, "he knocks me off my horse and holds his sword to my neck, and now I'm to stand by him while he gives orders to the men-at-arms? Why not appoint him lieutenant and be done with it?"
Ruck pressed his lips together, appalled. He'd felt the threat hovering over him; now it crystallized into real danger. He'd never thought Lancaster would imprison him for pride—but suddenly a new and horrifying vista opened.
The duke seemed to catch his mute response, for he looked again at Ruck. He stared for a long, speculative moment, an assessment that chilled Ruck to the bone.
"What do you think, Green Sire," he said, in a serious voice. "Can you control them?"
"Your grace has the right of it," Ruck said. "It's not seemly."
"But you can do it?"
"It's not prudent, my lord," Ruck repeated, trying to prevent any note of alarm from entering his voice. "It's not wise."
"But if I can't command them, or their own constable here, and you're the only
one who can keep the city from strife and riot?"
Ruck shook his head. "I pray you, dread lord, don't ask that of me."
"I ask it of you. I command you to take charge of the garrison and the men-at-arms and control them."
Yesterday such a command would have been a wonder for Ruck, a victory. Today it was the edge of a pit: the precipice of war between nobles and common soldiers, rebellion with himself at the center.
"My lord," he burst out, "reconsider! Your head pains you to folly." He sucked in his breath, as if he could take back the brazen words as soon as they escaped.
Lancaster rubbed his face with his good hand and looked to Sir Robert. "My head pains me in truth," he said, with something of a smile. "What do you think of him?"
Knolleys shrugged. "He'll be a loss to us."
"A loss," Lancaster repeated in a silken voice, looking at Ruck from beneath lazy eyelids. "Well for you, that you didn't leap at the command. Some here have counseled me that you're a sly rebel, Green Sire. That you've kept your name secret for something less than honor, and wormed your way into a place and gained the love of my men only to inflame disloyalty and rebellion with this spectacle today. That you conspired with the princess to weaken us, in preparation for a French attack tonight or tomorrow."
Ruck dropped to his knees. "No, my lord! By Almighty God!"
"Who stands behind the Princess Melanthe, traitor?" Knolleys demanded.
"I don't know!" Ruck exclaimed. "I'm no traitor to you, my lord, I swear on my father's soul. Her man told me that she wished me to issue challenge in her name."
"Against your liege?" Sir Robert demanded. "And you took her up?"
"My beloved lord, I meant you no insult. I was to challenge all comers. I'm sworn to her. Years ago—and far from here. I didn't even know her name until yesterday. I never thought to see her again. She was..." He paused. "I swore myself to her service. I don't know why. It was long ago." He shook his head helplessly. "I can't explain it, my lord."
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