It was not sensible to feel so. She herself would have gone to her duties first. She said into the mattress, "You're discourteous. You haven't even bade me good morn before you depart."
"Good morn, then."
"Good morn. And I hope you break into boils and die."
She felt his hand on her back, then both hands sweeping aside the sheet and kneading her bare shoulders. He buried his face in the nape of her neck, his weight bearing down the mattress. With a whimper of relief, she turned up to him, ignoring the pain where he pressed her bruised shoulder, eager for his kisses.
"I don't hope for it," she said against his skin, against his cheek rough with new beard. "I don't. I would perish without you."
"Melanthe." His fingers gripped her. "My sovereign lady," he whispered, and gave her freely what she wanted, without the asking, company and unchaste embraces and his body deep in hers, until she perished another way, blind with delight.
* * *
Ruck felt her sleep—always sleeping, this wife of his—this drowsy miracle, slumbering in his arms as if she were in some enchantment. He pressed his cheek to her loosened hair and listened to the rain and thought of her, how she masked and dazed him. In her easy arrogance she did not confound him; no, not her commands or noble talking. She was meant to be so, born to be so—it was only what was right.
But she threw pillows at him. A woman full grown, as old as he, a princess in one look and a looby the next. He'd known court ladies to play the child, to pose and flutter and speak in small voices for to draw the men, but she was so awkward and left-handed at it, and so abrupt. He would have thought her more smooth and artful in dalliance. In good faith, he was more comely with love-sporting himself when he tried.
Sometimes it was as if there were another soul inside her. Or by chance it was all false leading, to mock him. He'd allowed her in, carried her through the woven thorn-wood: she knew Wolfscar now. She would go out, speak of it to the world, mock him and rob him of what was his. There was only Sir Harold left alive to say that he knew Ruck without misgiving or doubt. One mad old man to bring in favor of Ruck's claim, against the richest abbey in the northwest. And all hope of Lancaster's esteem and support with the king lost.
He had shown her through the thorn-wood, but she hadn't slipped so quietly through the thickets that he'd raised about his heart. She burned them down to find him, and then left him smoking ashes.
It was too late. She was here. He was at her mercy, as he had been from the moment he had beheld her.
* * *
"You have no choice, if you hold any hope for this sister of yours," Allegreto said, low and harsh. He leaned across the table. "You're a bungler, Cara. You're hopeless. You haven't got the nerve to work alone."
In the miserable little alehouse, the light through a barred window fell on his face. Smoke from the open fire in the floor permeated every crevice and flavored her ale. She drank a sip, forcing herself to swallow the sour brew without looking down. It was cloudy and cold, like everything in this godforsaken northern land. Outside it snowed, when it wasn't raining. She put down the vessel and stuffed her hand back in the muff he'd bought for her.
A week she'd been with him. Once, she'd tried to steal her silver as he slept—a futile chance, and almost fatal. She had a cut the length of his stiletto on the side of her neck, where he'd nearly impaled her throat as he overturned on her.
"How can I go in there?" she whispered desperately. "She said she'd have me killed!"
"If she'd wanted you killed, you would be dead." He leaned back, draining his ale. "She would have told me to see to it."
"So she said, that she'd loose you upon me—only she would not say when, but she wouldn't make me suffer to wait long!"
He laughed. "Naturally. And what did you do, goose? Bolted, just as she designed."
Cara glared at him. "As did you, Navona."
He nodded, his grin becoming a sneer. "Yes. I did. And I'll pay for it in full, if I don't remedy the matter."
His eyes slid away. He stared into the dark corner. Twice, when they had slept in barns and cow-byres on the journey, she had heard a faint sound in the night. He wept, she thought, but she was not certain. Perhaps he only dreamed.
"Well," he said, "she has outwitted herself. She never meant for her escort to leave her to a man, of that we can be sure. I wager even the green fellow deserted her in the end—or died for her when the bandits fell on them, more like, as these love-drunk champions are wont to do. So we've only to see to her ransom, and she's delivered back to us tied up in silk ribbons."
"Perhaps they killed her," Cara said, feeling guilty and hopeful.
"They're a foolish lot of brigands if they did. She's worth their wildest dreams, and I'll wager they know it. We'll have her back for the right price."
"Mary, if you're so anxious to save her, you should have gone to the prince of that Chester city and begged his aid."
"The cities don't have princes here, or patricians. I don't know what they have, but you can be sure that whoever rules so close to that nest of outlaws is like a hand in their glove. No, we'll work from out of the princess's own hold, where we can have some command of matters."
"I can't go in that castle!" Cara kept her voice low, watching the alewife who watched her. No one here spoke a civilized language, only a few words of broken French, but they didn't seem overly surprised at foreign travelers. She feared that meant the Princess Melanthe's retinue from London had already arrived. Her stronghold of Bowland was but an hour's ride from here, if the alewife's nods and babble could be depended upon. "What if the others have come?"
"Hah! Who did she leave in charge of them? Sodorini, that fluttering old buffoon! They'll go in such circles they won't be here for weeks. And why should you fear them anyway?"
"I—" She stopped herself suddenly.
Allegreto smiled in the barred light. "Who is it, Monteverde goose?"
She took another gulp of her unpleasant ale.
"Cara," he said patiently, "do you suppose I don't know there's a Riata among them? You have no choice, I tell you. Come to us—we serve and keep our own, not like the Riata dogs—and Monteverde is gone forever." He leaned forward across the table. "I'll speak to my father. We'll even get your sister back, if she's still alive."
"You can't promise that," she said.
He shrugged. "No, for she may be dead already."
"You can't promise for Navona." Her lip curled. "He broke my family. My father—"
"Was a foolish man," Allegreto said soberly. "If he'd cared for his family, he'd have done what was asked of him. And your mother didn't fare so badly when she married again."
She turned her face away from him, so full of hate that she could not even speak to defend her father. She didn't know what Gian Navona had asked of him; she only knew that he'd been tortured to death on a false accusation, and Navona had caused it.
She pushed away from the table and stood up, flinging her muff onto the smoky fire. "My mother was terrified to be wed to Ligurio's brother. She lived the last days of her life in dread that she would bear a son and see him killed by Gian. I cannot deal with Navona."
He rose as quickly, at the same time that the alewife darted forward and snatched up the muff. The woman held it uncertainly, and then retreated to the far corner like some stray dog with a scrap.
"Cara." He stood between her and the door.
"I cannot," she said.
"Cara!"
"I will not."
"Oh, no, have mercy on me."
"On you!" she shrieked. "Who ever had mercy on my father or my mother or my sister or me? Why should I have any mercy on you, ten-times damned creature that you are!"
"Cara." He was pleading. "For God's pity! I'll have to kill you!"
She stilled, knowing it and yet shocked by it. He had already trapped her; she could not reach the door beyond him. She stared at the knife at his side.
"Don't try," he said. "Don't try. Please."
; A cat rose from a pile of rags and stretched. In the moment that she glanced at it, the stiletto was in his hand. The alewife whimpered, backed in her corner.
"Only say it." He held the knife relaxed at his side. "Only say you're with us. I'll trust you."
The fire smoked sullenly.
"I cannot. Not for my life."
He made the same grieving sound that he made in his sleep. His fingers moved on the weapon, rotating it in his hand. "Do you hate me so much?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "More."
"I'll save your sister. On my soul, I'll see her safe."
"You have no soul to swear upon." She was shaking. "Liar and murderer." She began to walk past him. "Hell will embrace you."
He moved. Cara flinched, her pride withering into a humiliating recoil. His hand gripped her; the tip of the knife touched her rib through the coarse wool.
She could see the pulse in his throat. She was trembling so hard that the stiletto goaded her, stinging like a pinprick, forcing tears to her eyes.
"So do it, Navona!" She showed her teeth like a cornered animal, to defy him.
His beautiful black eyes stared into hers. The knife tip touched her again, and she jerked.
"Don't!" she cried. "Don't taunt me!"
"You're with us," he said.
"No, I'll kill you if I can!" The fear possessed her. She heard herself, long past reason to mindless, witless, hopeless defiance. "I'll work for the Riata; I spit on the name of Navona; I'll wipe it from the face of the earth!"
He pressed the knife to her, and her tears spilled over. It stung violently; she imagined the blade sliding in, a thousand times greater pain. She waited for it. She had a panicked thought that she would be unshriven; but she could not even confess in her heart; she kept saying farewell to Elena, over and over, until it took up all of her perception.
When he let go of her, it happened so suddenly that she fell backward against the trestle table. It rocked beneath her weight as she clutched the edge.
A shadow passed the window. She heard a horse, its feet squelching mud. A voice hailed from outside.
The alewife ran forward. Allegreto stopped her, pressing his fist hard to her mouth and jerking his knife in her face. He freed her slowly. She shrank back and slunk into her corner again.
"Ave!" The door swung open, rain splattering on the sill. A young man walked through, pushing his hood back, showing blond hair. "Ave, good day!" He carried his own drinking vessel. He plunged it into the cask himself, dropping the cover back with a bang, and asked something of the alewife. It was English, but the word Bowland at the end of his question was roundly clear.
The wife ducked a nod, her glance flicking to Cara and Allegreto. The newcomer turned.
"God bless," he said in a friendly way, and waved toward the door, whooshing another English comment through his teeth, obviously a complaint on the weather.
"May God protect you," Cara said boldly in French, seeing a savior in him. She held her fingers pressed over her side, staunching her stinging cut.
He bowed. "Thank you, and God smile on you, lovely lady," he replied, his French accent ungraceful but his words distinct enough. He nodded at Allegreto. "Good sir."
Allegreto bowed, indicating the table. "Honor us."
"Gladly." The young man smiled, doffing his cloak and shaking the drops from it before he hung it on a peg. He wore flesh-colored hose with dirty wool bandages wrapped up to the knees for protection. They were an absurd color, but after a week with Allegreto, an open face and easy smile were enough to please Cara. "I'm Guy of Torbec," he said. "But I think—you aren't English, sir?"
"We serve the Princess of Monteverde," Allegreto said.
"Ha! Mont-verde? Then Bowland it was, by God! I guessed it." Guy straddled the bench. "I'm on the right road at last. Has he got your lady safe back, praise God?"
Allegreto grew very still. "Back?"
Guy seemed suddenly to realize that he might have been indiscreet and set the pot down, glancing over his shoulder. "The lady of Mont-verde and Bowland," he whispered. "She was not—away?"
Cara put her hand over Allegreto's arm. "She was attacked," she murmured. "We were in the party. Do you say she's safe?"
"Or bring a ransom demand?" Allegreto asked sharply.
"No, no—by God's love, I had no part of any such notion!" Guy leaned forward. "I only bring news. I wish to help."
"What news?" Allegreto murmured.
Guy chewed his lip, eyeing them warily. "I was bound for the castle. I thought the green knight might give me a place in his company."
Allegreto's arm relaxed beneath her hand. "If it's reward you want, then tell me. I'll see you get a place if you deserve it."
In spite of his peasant clothes, Allegreto had that easy arrogance about him that bespoke authority. She could see the Englishman puzzling over it.
Guy tapped his fist rapidly against his knee. Then he sighed through his teeth. "Can you? But I don't have much news, I fear. Only that I saw her, with a knight who named himself by his color green, at Torbec Manor, in Lancashire." He nodded in a direction that meant nothing to Cara. "But they fled west, with my—with the man who holds Torbec Manor at their heels. He lost them at the coast. We—he thought they must have gone south along the shore, but I thought the green knight clever enough to come back through the pursuit. And I remembered Bowland, on the falcon's varvel, and that the old earl's daughter was wed to a foreign prince. So I came here, because I couldn't stay at Torbec." He wet his lips. "I hoped they would have come by now. I did him a little good, the green knight, I think, so I reckoned he might look well on me."
"When was this?" Allegreto demanded.
"Four days past."
"And she was with the green man alone?"
Guy nodded.
Allegreto smiled at him. "Well done," he said. "Well done, Guy of Torbec. Come with us. We're for the castle. I think you'll find a place."
* * *
It was the finest bed to sleep in that Melanthe could imagine. She didn't leave it for three days, but lay enveloped in warmth, enfolded in slumber and safety while the rain slid down the windows. Ruck leaned over her, already garbed, and kissed her beneath her ear.
"You must be in some witch's thrall," he murmured. "The ever most slothful witch in the world."
She flipped the sheet over her nose, languid in the aftermath of their morning love. "Send drink and bread. And return to me full soon."
"I know well where to find you, at the least."
She smiled with her eyes closed. "Melikes your mattress, my lord. Perhaps I'll never leave it."
He did not answer, but pushed away from the bed. She heard him cross the chamber. The door opened and closed. Before, each morning as he left, she had settled into the bed, satisfied and sated with their coupling, sustained on the wheaten bread and ale someone left on a trestle beside her, drowsing until he came again. She had not thought of where he went; she had not thought of anything at all with more than a torpid interest that passed into pleasing dreams.
But a small doubt crept into her mind, because he hadn't answered her when she had said she might never leave. The two Williams would be out there—unlikely they were singing her praises to his ears, or urging him to prolong her stay. She opened her eyes.
She sat up and swept back the bedcoverings. Chill air touched her skin.
Fool. Fool! No woman held a man with bed-play alone, not with his favorites whispering poison in his ears.
She had felt safe. She was safe. But if there was one lesson greater than any other Ligurio had pressed upon her, it was that to give a man what he wanted was to lose all mastery of him. Ruck was so sweet and stirring when he came, she hadn't sensed the danger until this moment.
She thrust her feet from the bed. There was no maid, of course. She put on her own faithful gown and azure houppelande.
Her hair she could only cover with a kerchief, with no one to dress it for her. She found one clustered with jasper and chalcedony. All
of the clothing in the chests was richly adorned with embroidery and gems. No poor knight's hold, this Wolfscar.
She thought of the minstrels who sojourned here at their ease, and narrowed her eyes. But she would move carefully. A man's favorites could be delicate matters, not subject to common reasoning with his wit, as the history of any number of kings could attest.
The stairwell from the lord's presence chamber opened onto the high end of the great hall. Melanthe heard voices and music and laughter before she reached the floor.
She stepped into the doorway, then hastily pulled back. Ruck was there, seated at the table on the dais, facing away from her. He had a child on his shoulders, a half-grown babe with feet balanced on either side of his head and hands planted in his black hair as he bent over rolls and counters spread across the table. In her brief moment of view, Melanthe had seen William Foolet counseling with him, and minstrels all around the hall, some of them congregated about the dais, some at work, and one pair juggling a great wheel of apples up toward the roof.
Melanthe sat down on the stair out of sight. The fantastic aspect of it struck her anew. She felt unsure of herself, a somber crow at the feast. It wouldn't be wise, she thought, to go to him amidst their smiles and laughter. Later, when he came to her alone, she could try to reckon how the Williams might have damaged her.
But she didn't want to go back to the empty bedchamber now. She sat in the stairwell, listening to the easy talk, the murmurs of mirth. They spoke of lambing and the fish in the lake, things she knew but little of. She could predict what would happen if she stepped through the door. They would all turn and stare, and she must be her lady's grace the princess then, for she knew nothing else to be.
Quick small footsteps sounded on the wooden dais, and a little girl in gaudy-green appeared through the door. She put her plump hands on Melanthe's knees and leaned forward, dark-eyed and rapt, her black locks flying free of any braid. "Why hide you?" she demanded.
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