"Scream if you will," he said. "It's fifteen to one against him." He grinned in the half-light. "Perhaps I'll give you a better parting gift than a kiss, my duck, here and now."
Her free hand was already on her dagger. She saw a figure behind him, but Melanthe made a cut just to instruct the fellow. He jumped back with a shriek into Sir Ruck's arms.
"Your duck rejects your gift, infant," she said coldly.
He was bleeding from a light slash across his upper thigh. Sir Ruck scowled fiercely, gripping the man, but the corners of his mouth would not quite turn downward.
"Vicious bitch!" Her bleeding gallant made a lunge toward her, but could not free himself.
"Give thanks that I did not prune you entire," she said, and swept away, off the porch.
"Bitch!" A scuffle sounded behind her. "Thieving, whoring bitch—stop her! Henry! There's something in that bundle!"
Melanthe halted. They stood about her, some grinning, some grim. Henry looked at her and then up at the porch. "In the bundle? Nay, sir—is this how you return my hospitality? To steal from me?"
Sir Ruck let go of his prisoner and strode down the steps. "No. Only the food you've offered us freely do we take, and God give you grace for it. Nothing that she carries belongs to you, in faith."
"Let us see it then."
"I'll tell you what she holds," Ruck said. "It's a falcon that I recovered in the forest. We take her to her rightful owner."
"A falcon!" Clearly they'd had no such notion. Henry looked about him and then insisted, "Nay, I will see it."
Melanthe glanced at Sir Ruck. He nodded at her. "Uncover her, then."
She was wary of this, but saw no choice. Gently she lifted the folds of the mantle, allowing Gryngolet's hooded head to appear. She kept the wool draped over the rest of her, hoping that would be enough. It was a plain white hunting hood, adorned only with some silver leaf and green and white plumes. She didn't allow the snowy feathers of the gyrfalcon's shoulders to show.
A ripple of regard passed through the company. Gryngolet turned her head, opening her beak to the cold air.
"What, a falcon peregrine, by Christ? Why didn't you say? We would have put her in the mews last night. Who owns her?"
"A lord of the midlands," Ruck said shortly. "I dare not mix her with other birds, sir, if it offend you not."
Henry shrugged. "Our hawks are in health," he said with a little indignation.
"She's not mine," he said. "I must take extraordinary care."
"Aye, there will be a reward in this—" Henry paused, He grinned. "Whose is she?"
The light of greed in his eyes was unmistakable. Ruck walked to his destrier's head, taking the reins. "Come," he said to Melanthe. "Sir, I recovered the falcon, and such reward as there might be, though I think it be little enough but a few shillings and thanks, belongs to me."
"Is she the king's?" Henry demanded. "Hold the horse, Tom!"
"Not the king's, no."
Sir Ruck caught Melanthe at the waist and lifted her, but Henry lunged forward, pulling him backward off balance. Melanthe's feet hit the ground; she stumbled for balance, clutching Gryngolet to her breast.
Henry grabbed her arm. "I'll see the varvels for myself," he snapped.
Melanthe held the gyrfalcon close. "Here—" She flicked the wool mantle back from her wrist, revealing Gryngolet's jesses dangling from within her closed gauntlet. "Can you read, my prince?"
Henry cast her a bristling glance and caught the leash, holding it out to peer closely at the flat rings of the varvels where her name was engraved. Like the hood, they were extras for the field that she carried in her hawking bag, made of silver but unadorned.
"Is in Latin. Pri—ah...Mont—verd?" He dropped the jesses. "Never heard tell of the man. Where dwells he?" Before anyone could answer, he grabbed a jess again and reexamined it. "Princ—i—pissa? Is he a prince, by God?"
"A princess," said the bleeding gallant. "A foreigner."
Henry scowled. "Foreign."
"Let me see." Her troublesome lecher moved closer, taking up the jesses. He examined them both. " 'Bow'—the leash has rubbed the letters. 'Count—of Bow and—"
"Give me the bird, wench, and mount." Ruck held out his thickly gloved fist. "Don't stand there as if you be rooted to the ground."
"Hold!" Henry gripped his wrist. "You've had my hospitality, you and your leman, green fellow, without even the courtesy of your name. Do you deny me a small token of your thanks?"
Ruck tore his hand from the other man's grasp. "If it's the falcon you desire, it's not mine to give."
Henry smiled. "Only let me carry it. A prince's falcon. When will I have such a chance?"
Sir Ruck stared for a moment at him, and then looked at Melanthe. "Let him carry it, then."
She drew in her breath, standing still.
"Give me the leash, wench, and mount," Ruck snapped. "Do as I say!"
She let the folded leash drop from her lower fingers, gathering it untidily in her fist.
"Bring me my glove!" Henry ordered. "All haste!" A servant ran. "Strike the hood. Let me see her."
Melanthe glanced at Ruck, feeling her heartbeat rise. "I know not how."
"No, I've had nonsense enough of you," he said as he moved close. He drew the braces open himself, took the plumes between his fingers and lifted the hood. He reached to slip the wool from Gryngolet's shoulders, but now that the gyrfalcon could see, her patience reached its limit. She screamed, lifting her wings. Without thinking, Melanthe let the mantle drop, fearing she would bate and tangle in it, breaking feathers.
Gryngolet's white plumage glowed, marked only by the dark, shining fury in her eyes as she rowed the air, shrieking her displeasure with this place and her treatment.
In the astounded silence her shrilling was the only sound. Even the loose dogs stopped and looked up. Sir Ruck was the single human who moved, closing his hands about Gryngolet's body the moment that she folded her wings.
"Mount!" he said through his teeth as the gyrfalcon shrieked again. He lifted her from Melanthe's fist.
He was looking at Melanthe as vehemently as the trapped falcon stared at her tormentors. A boy ran up with Lord Henry's glove and bag. Melanthe held to Gryngolet's tangled leash, and let go. She gave Ruck a beseeching look, not to lose her dearest treasure.
But he only glared at her and jerked his head toward the destrier.
"A white gyr," Henry breathed reverently, pulling on his gauntlet. "Pure white, by all that's holy!" He took the jesses and wadded leash as Sir Ruck set the falcon upon his hand. "Ah...by God, she's glorious."
"I've heard the penalty for theft of such," Sir Ruck said. "An ounce of flesh cut from the thief's breast and fed to the bird." He put his hands at Melanthe's waist and lifted her up onto the pillion.
"No, do you think I mean to steal her?" Henry asked with a false and sweet indignation. He reached to untangle the leash, but Gryngolet bit wildly at him, almost bating off his fist. He jerked his hand away with a curse.
Sir Ruck was still looking up, scowling intently. Melanthe shifted her leg across the horse and sat astride.
"I think you too wise a man, my lord," he said, mounting up before her and glancing down at Henry. "Now you've carried her, we'll take her back to her true owner."
The lord of Torbec was still trying to straighten the leash. Unable to risk his free hand near the bird, he opened his lower fingers to let the tether fall free of its tangle. Melanthe saw him do it; she saw Gryngolet bate again, thrusting off, her powerful wings scooping air—and the falcon bounded free, tearing the twisted leash from his loose fingers and carrying it away.
Henry clutched at thin air, as if he could grab her, but she was gone, pumping up over the stables and the wall. "A lure!" he shouted. "Oh, Christ—here—bring her in!"
A chorus of whistles and frantic shouts followed Gryngolet. Sir Ruck reached back and grabbed Melanthe's arm, gripping so tightly that a whimper of pain escaped her instead of the cry to call the falco
n home that sprang to her throat.
"Please!" she hissed. Gryngolet had swung back, circling and playing in lazy drifts over the yard, still gripping the tangle of leash, unaccustomed to being flown from inside manor walls where dogs and people were milling in confusion.
"Get back, give me room!" Henry held up a leather lure, with a hastily attached garnish of meat from the mews. He shouted and whistled, whirling the temptation overhead as the company scattered.
The falcon dropped playfully toward the toll and rolled out of her stoop halfway, dancing upward over the hall roof. She circled the yard, ringing up to a higher pitch before she stooped again. Henry threw down the lure as she came.
Ruck still held Melanthe in a death grip. Gryngolet dived on the downed lure and made a cut at it, leash and all, then passed right on over the gatehouse. She was in one of her mirthful moods, twisting and pumping lazily, looking back at them as if in jest.
Henry whistled frantically, swinging the toll again. Melanthe's heart was in her mouth. She feared the garnish was of pork, a meat that Gryngolet loathed. The dangling leash was a death warrant for her if she escaped now—she would catch it in a tree and hang head downward until she died.
Gryngolet turned back. She almost came to light on the gatehouse, then changed her mind, nearly catching a loop of the leash on an empty banner pole. Curious of the whistling, the gyrfalcon sailed over them, looking for the other hunting birds that she would expect to see among the company—for Melanthe's usual call was no whistle, but her own voice.
The lure spun. Gryngolet trifled about it. She swung in dilatory circles just over their heads. After a few rings she began to ignore the lure and tighten her compass, centering on Melanthe.
Everyone in the yard stared in silence as the falcon swung about her, disdaining the meat, passing Melanthe's head so close she could feel the windy whisper. Sir Ruck kept her hand forced down.
"Princess!" It was the chestnut-haired gallant shouting. "Shut the gate! Look at it—Christ's rood, she's a princess!" He began to run for the passage. "That bird belongs to her!"
Ruck released her hand. Instantly Melanthe lifted it, calling Gryngolet urgently to her fist as he spurred the horse. There were men already running toward the gatehouse, Henry yelling frenzied commands, a sudden tumult, shouts of "Princess!" and "To ransom!"
Gryngolet came, landing just as the destrier lunged into motion. Melanthe grappled for the tangled leash; in the sudden thrust forward the gyrfalcon near fell backward, beating her wings, but her talons gripped and Melanthe swung her arm back to absorb the force.
A pair of men almost reached the gate too soon, but a blond youth in skin-toned hose collided with them, such a bumble that it was as if he'd intended it, sending them all sprawling to the ground only a foot from the horse's massive hooves. Hawk swept past them.
His hooves hit the bridge like the sound of boulders rolling, a pounding rumble and then the wind as he lengthened his stride to a gallop beyond the walls.
* * *
Sir Ruck guided the stallion out from among the trees into an abandoned charcoal burners' clearing. He had reined the horse sometimes left and sometimes right, halting now and then to shade his eyes and look up through the bare branches at the winter sun. His mantle was missing, dropped in the yard in the wrangling over Gryngolet, and the light gleamed on his shoulder harness, showing scratches and the arcs of cleaning scours.
In the deserted clearing they dismounted. Gryngolet was flustered and hungry, and Melanthe felt likewise. Sir Ruck reached for the bag of foodstuffs. "Sit you, my lady, if you will, and take refreshment."
He nodded toward a thronelike seat that had been cut out of a tree stump. Melanthe perched Gryngolet there on the tall back of it, tying the leash to a heavy shoot that had sprouted from the old roots.
She drew a deep breath. "We almost lost her."
He shrugged. "With a choice between the two of you to bring out of there—" He hesitated. "In faith, I reckon that a wife warms me more pleasantly than a falcon, my lady."
Immediately he turned away, as if he shied from his brash speaking. He squatted down and held the food bag open, scowling into it.
Melanthe felt the touch of shyness, too. She sat down on the edge of the tree stump, taking refuge in a pragmatic tone. "We could have ransomed her back, if that little mar-hawk of a lord could have retained her long enough." She made herself look at him, though his head was still bent over the food. "Sir Ruadrik, I've been in consideration of our nuptial contract."
His hand arrested in his laying out of bread and cheese. Then he went on with the task, saying nothing. He rose and bent knee before her, offering food on a white cloth. Melanthe took it on her lap.
"There are many matters to be studied," she said. "My dower and your courtesy, and—how best to reconcile the king that we've married without his license."
"My lady wife." He stood up. "I've thought on nothing else all this morn. If you wish it—" He stared past her at the ground, his face grim and empty of emotion. "There was no witness on earth to our vows. I won't hold you fast to your words, do you think on them today, that they were said in haste or to your harm. It's a poor bargain for you, such a marriage. All the advantage be mine, though I seek it not. I ask nothing of your wealth; I'll accept none of it, and yet still I know that the king may in his anger strip you of what's rightfully yours. Therefore, I will release you from any duty or avowel to me, if you wish it so." He raised his eyes to meet hers, his jaw firm-set. "As for myself—if be so much as high treason that I've married you, then I will die for it, but never will I forswear it."
"How then could I do less for you?" she asked softly.
He turned away to the horse, removing its bit so it could graze. With his back to her he said, "God save us both."
"Amen," she said. "Have a little faith in my wits, too. I have me more than the king."
He remained gazing at the horse and then looked over his shoulder with a slight smile. "My lady, look what you come to—" He shook his head, opening his arms to take in the clearing. "A stump for a chair and me for a husband. There be peahens with greater wits than yours."
"A poor comment on the king," she said.
He turned, with a serious look. "When I have my lady safe, I'll go and supplicate of him at any price, that you must not be disowned of your possessions and title on account of me."
"No, leave the king to me." She frowned thoughtfully at the black mound of a decaying charcoal kiln. "I think His Majesty may be appeased, if the thing is laid before him deftly. And even should he not, or someone else make trouble—well, I've searched on the matter in my heart." She took a deep breath. "I've said that my estates are of no great concern to me. I will sweep the hearth myself if I must."
He laughed aloud, a sound that rang in the little clearing—the first time Melanthe had ever heard his uncontained amusement.
She turned in indignation. "Think you I would not?"
He was grinning at her. "I think me you would muddle the business right royally, madam,"
"Pah." She flicked her fingers and ate a bit of cheese. "How difficult can it be?"
He came to her and took her face between his bare hands. "You weren't born to sweep a hearth. I'm not so poor that my wife must be a charwoman, but neither would I have your property reduced one shilling because of me."
"Think again on it. The favor of kings isn't cheaply bought. For such a crime as this, gifts and presents must be spent to appease him." She lifted her brows. "Lest you'd rather forswear this marriage yourself, so that I may keep all."
His gaze traced her face. "I have said that I will not, for my life."
Melanthe dropped her gaze. "Speak not of such cost; I dislike it." She reached up and pulled him down toward her. "Enough of heavy words. Sit by me, beau knight, and let me feed you milk and honey with my own fingers."
He sank down cross-legged beside the stump, leaning his shoulder on it. "Hard cheese and havercake, it looks to me."
"Ah,
but I've said a great spell and turned it to honeycomb." She passed him down a lump of cheese and broken bread.
With his thumb he splintered a bite from the dry edge of the cheese and ate it. "Hard and sour as ever." He turned, stretching out a leg, his back against the tree. "This is poor witchcraft, wench." He laid his head against her hip. "I've seen better at the market fair."
"Do you know why I love you?" she asked.
"In faith, I cannot believe that you do, far the less why."
She curled her forefinger in his hair and tugged. "Perhaps one day I shall tell you."
He was silent. She felt him turn his head, and looked down. He was gazing toward the edge of the clearing.
"I hear a hound," he said.
He rolled to his knees and held still, listening. Melanthe heard it then, too, a far-off bell.
"That lymer." He threw himself to his feet. "Christ."
* * *
It was a thing of peculiar horror, to be hunted so. At first Melanthe hadn't believed that experienced hounds could be coaxed to track them—they weren't deer, or even coney, but she remembered the lymer and the gallant's game with a lady's scarf—that chestnut-haired carpet knight it had been, the one she'd cut, and Melanthe could well believe he'd be glad to turn his sport with the hound to account against her.
Sir Ruck's mantle, dropped in the yard, must have the scent of herself and him and the horse all thick upon it. The whole pack would follow the lymer's lead. The persistent music of the hounds, distant, sometimes lost as Ruck twisted and turned, riding down the middle of a stream, but then coming again, always from the trail behind
He had hours since turned Hawk west to the sunset, away from the course to her castle, away from Torbec and the hounds. The big horse went on into the darkening night with its flanks moist and smelling of sweat.
For My Lady's Heart Page 73