He jerked away. He remembered what he escorted, that she was hot with an unholy flame and he himself all too quick to set alight. "I don't feel the cold, my lady," he said stiffly, keeping his eyes down.
'Then we press ahead without tarrying, Green Sire."
He heard no regret in her voice, only command, leaving Yewlow and its bed a yawning crevasse of iniquity, a promise of unknown possibilities—or perhaps just a pallet by the armory fire with his men. Perhaps she didn't know that such as he could hardly expect to be offered a bed of his own, outside of a promiscuous lady's. Perhaps she had meant nothing by her words, and her touch had been a mischance.
He didn't look on her again. But he felt the deep timbre of desire in his flesh, fire beneath his skin. As he walked away, he thought mad thoughts: that she prolonged the journey on his account, to seduce him or to torture him.
The Wyrale lay before them, a wild place, afforested and forsaken—better to avoid it and backtrack to Chester, but if that was not to be, then in two days' travel they could be across. He had a dozen men, well-armed and passably horsed; without the wagon they could make far better speed. He turned to the sergeant-at-arms, charging him to have the vehicle unloaded while the rest of the party moved on.
Then he mounted Hawk and rode back into the train. Catching the reins of Allegreto's packhorse, Ruck yanked the animal around, shouting orders to the company to fall into line. With Allegreto clinging and bouncing and complaining on his rotund mount, Ruck pressed both horses into a mud-splattering canter and took the lead.
* * *
They camped on the banks of the great tidal mouth of the river. Eerie vapor lay so heavy in the dawn that his men were sound without sight—he heard their quiet murmurs, voicing fears that they wouldn't have spoken knowing he was near. Through the mask of the sergeant's discipline, Ruck hadn't fully realized how ready they were to abandon the Princess Melanthe without regret. This wild country made their minds easy prey to dark rumors about the lady and all the fears of feeling themselves far too small a defensive party. The mountains of Wales were invisible, but the weight of them loomed heavily, rebel-haunted as they were even in these latter days of peace. He wouldn't have put it past his men to bolt, but Ruck held the simple mastery of having yet paid only a token of their promised wages.
He'd dealt with such before, and set to work dealing with these, rallying them out of their doubt with an order to breakfast with white bread instead of rye. He followed that with a gathering at a little distance from Princess Melanthe's tent, appealing in a quiet voice first to their vanity—ten of them were worth twenty of any others he'd encountered; and then to their greed—an heiress of Princess Melanthe's stature would be generous indeed with her escort, and there were few to share the sum. He refrained from naming a figure, merely conveying the modest opinion that it would be more money than any of them had ever seen in their lives.
They grew better hearty at that, and he set them to polishing the mud off their weapons in preparation to awe the countryside. Though the mist showed no sign of lifting, Ruck sent Pierre off laden with an offering of a fur to the hermit of Holy Head who acted guide across the sands for those too poor—or mad—to use the king's ferry near to Chester.
The mist hid the water, but the nearness of the sea brought a drizzling chill, seeping through Ruck's mantle, dampening his skin. He'd already walked down to the strand, judging the tide. They must be ready to move as soon as the hermit arrived, but there had yet been no sigh of stirring from his liege lady—who was no early riser, he had found.
He saw the gentlewoman leave Princess Melanthe's tent, but the maid disappeared into the vapor before he caught her eye. Ruck wavered, standing before the emerald fabric. The maid had left the flap caught back, showing scarlet lining, the only blossom of color in the gray atmosphere.
He coughed to reveal himself, and chinked his mailed hands together, and rattled his foot against a pile of shells, with no response. He moved back a little, turning half away, and stole a surreptitious look inside to see if she were yet awake.
She was not. Amid a pile of featherbeds and furs she slept, with the whelp's arms tight around her. Allegreto rested his cheek against her netted hair, his lips curved in a sleeper's smile.
Ruck turned full away. He stood staring into the blank mist toward the sea. He felt obscurely angry, and lonely. It was not a new feeling; he'd felt it half his life, since he'd left his home and found no place for himself in the world, but not for a long time had it been so keen and envious.
He was disgusted. He would have run himself on an enemy's lance before he would live as Allegreto lived. But it was not the warmth, not the soft place in a silken tent, not even physical possession of her that he most craved. Nothing of the truth of Princess Melanthe. What he wanted was that false and beguiling picture: a slow familiar awakening, sleeping close, trusting; easy smiles and union.
He wanted his wife.
For ten and three years he had believed God had taken Isabelle for good and sufficient reasons. Sometimes he caught himself wishing that she'd been taken in truth, that she was dead instead of in a nunnery, so that he could marry again and cease wandering in this limbo where his body tortured him and his heart hungered even after such as Princess Melanthe. He couldn't tell that he was becoming better for it; he was becoming worse—he felt himself sinking toward that subtle offer of a bed in Yewlow.
The untarnished image of the lady he served had once sustained him, but it held him no longer. Nay, she drove him now toward infamy herself. The vision of Isabelle alone had never been enough to bind him; he'd needed his liege lady of the falcon to serve, governing himself for her honor. When he tried now to put Isabelle in her place instead, he found an abyss of anger opening up beneath his feet: anger at Isabelle, at the archbishop who'd let her leave him, at God Himself. Without his liege lady, his defense crumbled against the endless question of why, why, why he must live without a wife.
He raised his face to the gray sky and found no answer there. The archbishop had declared his vow before Isabelle invalid, but taken her anyway—leaving Ruck in an impasse he could only understand as God's intention to hold him fast to chastity, archbishop or no.
It seemed too pitiless that he should only be given a few weeks of love in his life and never permitted to seek it again. He had no calling for holy orders, of that he was certain. He felt no urges to preach to the Ninevites—he wouldn't have known what to say to them if he had. He heard no voice telling him to wear sackcloth against his skin or wall himself up as an anchorite.
He was only an ordinary man, and ordinary men were suffered to marry instead of burn, to have sons and daughters, to have a bed and a fire and a wife waiting at the end of the journey.
Without his liege lady to fortify his resolve, he could only cleave to his bitter perfection, hating Isabelle and God...or surrender honor and hate himself. He had never thought truly of yielding before, but he thought of it now. He felt the tent and the deep furs behind him, and the whisper of hellfire on the nape of his neck.
* * *
Melanthe felt that today might be the time. Or tomorrow, perhaps. She waited for Allegreto to wake—or perhaps he was awake already: she thought he must sleep no more than she, always on the edge of consciousness, aware of her every move as she was aware of his. They had come to this compromise, that they slept so close that neither could move without the other heeding. She could feel his suspicions growing in the tightness of his arms about her.
To Cara, Melanthe had said this journey would end at an English nunnery, but that was to be kept secret from Allegreto. To Allegreto, she had declared they traveled to her castle at Bowland, and that was to be concealed from Cara. Melanthe herself waited for the moment that she could rid herself of both of them. They didn't know the country; they couldn't speak to the English men-at-arms, and she had kept them strictly away from her knight. She had directed the Green Sire in a fickle course, invoking the fox to confound pursuit, leaving no scent in such plac
es as towns and cities, winding and turning toward the safety of a strong and secluded earth.
She worked upon Allegreto's fears of plague. Like his fear of Gryngolet, it went beyond his reason—Allegreto, who had killed a man before his tenth birthday, would weep at her feet to protect him from plague.
So she thought. Sometimes she feared it was only another illusion, that he and his father were always ahead of her in their intrigues. Gian Navona had his own intentions, driven by passion and mystery, as he had always been.
But the safe earth of Bowland was almost within her reach. Already she had left the whole of her retinue behind in London—they hadn't anticipated that, for Melanthe traveled always in great state, however quickly she might move. She couldn't disperse her Italian household entirely yet without suspicion, but to organize their separate journey to Bowland, she'd appointed her most hopelessly incompetent and aimless attendant, to be certain they did not arrive ahead of her—if ever, considering Sodorini's truly wonderful lack of efficiency.
Only Allegreto remained. And Cara. Innocent-eyed Cara, who slept in Melanthe's tent and brought her food; who would not be left behind, her devotion to her mistress was so very ardent. This sudden display of mulish loyalty confirmed all suspicions of the girl. Allegreto was right—the Riata had subverted her.
It made no matter. Melanthe was going to be free of her; free of Allegreto; free of any threat of Riata or Navona or Monteverde. Within the walls of Bowland no foreign strangers could pass unnoticed, no Italian assassins could slip past the gate. She had only to arrive there before any enemy, and live enclosed by a fortress of Englishmen loyal to her alone.
Cara returned to the tent. Melanthe pretended to wake, turning and stretching. She sat up, and Allegreto jerked a little, caught half-drowsing before he was full awake the next instant, like a cat. He rolled away and made a dismayed mutter when he saw the foulness of the weather outside, catching up his pestilence-apple and holding it to his nose as he left the tent.
"Good morning, my lady," Cara said pleasantly, on her knees beside the chest as she laid out Melanthe's clothing. "The hunchbacked man brought fresh cockles from a hermit here." She gestured toward a bowl, where they were already washed and opened. "Will you breakfast while they're still sweet?"
"Bring them here," Melanthe said. "I'm in no hurry to leave my bed on such a morning. Where's my water? Not heated yet? Go—fetch it at once."
Cara bowed, still on her knees, and scurried out of the tent. Melanthe eyed the cockles.
Though Cara's own mother had been first cousin to Melanthe, the soft-voiced maid was far more dangerous to her life than Allegreto. Cara could hide much behind her mild pleasantries, a sharp eye and perceptive mind the least of it. Yesterday she had asked quietly if she would be allowed to stay and attend her mistress in the English nunnery. Melanthe had returned some careless answer, but truly, shouldn't Cara have shown more curiosity about the location and name of this religious house? She'd asked no more or less in the whole time they traveled.
Melanthe stared at the cockles. Then she grabbed up the sandy bag that Cara had laid aside and poured the shellfish in. Pulling up the silken floor of the tent, she pushed the bag down into the sand. She heard Allegreto returning and hurriedly smoothed the fabric back in place.
She didn't bother to tell him of the suspicious cockles. She was weary of hearing his spiteful accusations against Cara—and no more did she want to wake and find the maid dead of poison or a knife. Allegreto, at least, was determined that Melanthe should live to become his father's wife, at the cost of any other life but his own.
In truth, it was something strange that he had not killed Cara already.
* * *
Ruck kept Allegreto close beside him on the traverse of the sands, dragging the patient cart horse along at his knee, following hard on the footprints of the mount in front of him. Ahead, lost in mist, the horses bearing Princess Melanthe's litter were immediately behind the hermit's donkey, held narrowly in the track to avoid quicksands.
Ruck and Allegreto brought up the rear, but the pace was so sedate that there was never any danger of Hawk falling behind, even burdened as he was. The war-horse proclaimed his displeasure at the sluggish speed by leaping from bank to bank of each sandy tidal stream instead of fording them, which annoyed Allegreto and his cart horse very much. The boy held a smelling-apple of powders and herbs constantly to his lips to ward off pestilence. In a muffled voice Allegreto kept Ruck fully informed of his sentiments regarding the danger of their position as last in the procession and the folly of allowing a stranger any contact with the party. He vacillated unhappily between fear of association with the hermit and desire to cross the quicksands directly at his heels.
When Ruck saw large broken shells beneath Hawk's hooves and heard the sound of the mild surf that marked the solid shore of the Wyrale, he let go of the cart horse's reins and tossed them at Allegreto. But the youth gave a dismayed cry as his mount immediately began to fall behind. He pounded it into a trot, holding the reins out toward Ruck with his free hand.
"Do not leave me!" The order was arrogant and scared, half-stifled through the scented bag. "The vapor! Is it thicker behind us? It breathes poison—do you sense it?"
Ruck tendered no opinion on the vapor, but he took back the leading reins. Up a sharp, sandy bank with a heave and a scramble, and they were safe across the mouth of the river, the marsh and bleak forest of the Wyrale before them. He took a quick account of the party as he rode up to Pierre and the hermit, ignoring Allegreto's vociferous objections.
Pierre had thieved something—Ruck could tell by the beatific smile on his squire's lips. He fixed his broken-backed man with a ferocious scowl. Pierre's benevolent smirk faded. No doubt he'd found some mislaid trinket as they broke camp and folded the tents, but Ruck knew, having done it once or twice, that even if he upended Pierre and shook him by the feet, there would be no finding the hidden cache.
While the hermit intoned a long prayer of thanksgiving for their successful crossing, Ruck took another count with his head bowed, considering each of the men-at-arms while repeating paternosters, deciding on the day's order of march. Once, his lowered gaze wandered to Princess Melanthe's litter: he saw the curtain pulled slightly back and her eyes upon him instead of closed in prayer.
The curtain dropped, hiding her. Ruck felt his body flush and harden with the chance of what her thoughts might be. She'd been looking at him, staring. He lost the sequence of the prayer, his "amen" coming too late and loud after the rest.
"You," Allegreto said imperiously from behind his smelling-apple. "Hermit! Have you heard tell of plague in this region?"
The man betrayed no sign of understanding. Ruck repeated the question more respectfully, in English, and got a negative shrug.
Allegreto wasn't satisfied. "The atmosphere is corrupted here. I feel it."
"We move onward," Ruck said, to forestall any enlargement on this unsettling topic. He gave orders, placing himself at the head of the cavalcade once more, the litter midway back and protected on both sides. With Allegreto's and Hawk's reins firmly in one hand, Ruck lifted his arm and shouted, "Avaunt!"
As they moved off the sandy shore and into the trees, Allegreto leaned forward, holding the rouncy's thick mane, keeping his bag of herbal protection pressed across his mouth and nose as he bumped along. "The recluse was bloodless, don't you think?" he demanded through his bag. "He's sickening."
"I saw no sign of it," Ruck said in a deliberately disinterested tone.
"He sickens. He was ashen. By nightfall he'll be dead."
Ruck cast him a glance. "What's this? You're now a physician, whelp?"
"This fog is infectious!" Allegreto insisted. He let go of the horse's mane and dug in his mantle, pulling out another bagged smelling-apple. He offered it to Ruck. "I have three. I've given my lady's grace the other."
Ruck lifted his brow in surprise. "You've no need of it yourself?"
"Take it," Allegreto said. "I wish yo
u to have it, knight."
Ruck gave him a one-sided smile. "No. Keep it for your own. The plague never touches me."
Allegreto crossed himself. "Don't say that! You'll call the wrath of God upon you!"
"I only speak the truth," Ruck said mildly.
The youth changed hands, holding his apple with the left.
"Cramped arm?" Ruck asked, hard put not to smile.
"Yes," Allegreto said seriously. "It's a most tiring thing to hold."
Ruck raised his hand, signaling a halt. He drew the cart horse up to him. "Where's your scarf?" He leaned over and dug under the youth's furs, pulling the dagged silken scarf from his shoulders. With a few knots he made a cup in the middle of the length and reached for Allegreto's smelling-apple. "Hold in your breath."
The boy reluctantly released the bag, making a small, choked sound of protest as Ruck dumped out the amber apple. As quickly as he could, Ruck secured the herb bag and apple within the scarf and reached over to tie it round Allegreto's mouth and head.
"There. You're safe from pestilent airs, whelp."
Allegreto looked down over his bright blue mask and tucked away his spare bag of herbs. "God grant you mercy," he said behind the scarf, the most courteous words he'd yet spoken to Ruck.
He answered with only a short nod. Allegreto looked foolish in his sapphire kerchief; foolish and young. Ruck wondered if it was possible to make a cuckold of a castrato—his mind pondered on the wordplay until he realized what he was thinking. He slapped Hawk overhard with the reins and yelled the order to move.
"You've seen plague, then?" Allegreto asked from inside his muffle.
"Yes," Ruck said.
"I was only a child when it came again. My father took me into the country, away from the malignant atmosphere."
"Give thanks for that."
"How are you so certain that it doesn't touch you?"
Ruck rode in silence, watching the trees ahead for any sign of hazard.
For My Lady's Heart Page 59