"Is this the king of lovers I met this morn? Hie, tumble you to the tavern door," he said, "three springs off your hands, if you can."
Desmond threw his leg over Abbot's back and hit the ground. He bounded off his feet onto his hands, flipping backward, a green-and-yellow wheel across the grass, five handsprings and a midair tumble at the finish before he came up flushed, sent a glare at Ruck, and stalked into the tavern without even glancing at the girls.
They were openmouthed with astonishment. A few of the guards shouted and clapped. Ruck raised his hand to them and gave the maids a light courtesy. He tied his beasts, then carried Desmond's gittern into the tavern.
* * *
Desmond had fallen in love. It was his misfortune that his choice was the comely redheaded maid who served the shoemaker's wife and traveled with the rest of the pilgrims in the abbey's party. Ruck, sipping ale in a corner well removed from the white-robed clerks traveling with their abbot's goods, foresaw lengthy pining over doomed love as the harvest of this day.
It was hopeless to try to direct the youth's attention to the nut-brown daughters of the village. They were shy; Desmond was shy; it had taken the city maid's coaxing smile to cajole him into performing, and then she'd chosen a love song and added her clear untrained voice to his—and Ruck saw himself fifteen years past, beguiled past all wit.
"Come, you will travel with us?" the shoemaker was saying to him as Desmond sat down on the bench beside his love, having just proven he could stand up his hands to the count of fifty. "Your boy's good—I don't doubt you can play the better, my man, and it's a weary mile to York."
"York?" Desmond said between pants, before Ruck could deny that they wished to travel. "How far is it, sir?"
Ruck gave him a quelling look. Desmond hid his face in an ale tankard while the redhead smiled benignly at him.
"Ah, ten days, or twelve. Little enough on the way, in truth, nothing but Lonsdale and Bowland, and Ripon—but such lone places welcome minstrel folk, for it's not often they're seen."
Ruck turned to him in new interest. "You came that way?"
"Yes, and will return by it, for with this guard we've no fear of border reivers, God be thanked."
"How fare the roads?" he asked, but missed the shoemaker's answer, for Desmond had suddenly choked on his ale and begun twitching his head in a strange manner.
He was looking fixedly at Ruck. After a moment he stood up, bowing frantically. "My lor—sir! Sir, I must speak you, sir!"
Ruck thought he must be ill, he seemed so agitated. He pushed back the bench and followed the boy hastily outside.
"My lord!" Desmond turned just beyond the door and dragged Ruck behind the horses. "My lord! Bowland!" He was bouncing on his heels, his face radiant. "Bowland! Is my lady's hold, is it not?" he demanded.
"Yes, I know it."
"My lord, I can go! I can go with them now!"
Ruck released a heavy breath. He shook his head. "No, Desmond, I want Bassinger—"
"My lord! Only consider! The Scots raid, and Uncle Bass hasn't seen the road for years! Perhaps is all changed! These folk just came over from York—they'll not be lost nor stray out of the way."
Ruck started to refuse again, but Desmond went down on his knee.
"My lord, I beg you! When will another armed company be that way? Will you send Uncle Bass and me alone?"
The pleading made no impression on Ruck, but the thought of Bassinger and Desmond traveling alone across the barren reiver country was enough to arrest him. When he looked about the green, he saw that the guard had been divided and an evening watch posted. The men off duty did not idle in the tavern, but went about business with their horses and armor, efficient and experienced in their moves.
Desmond was gazing up at him in the late evening light, full of desperate hope and excitement. Ruck leaned against the wall and frowned, calculating. There was the chance that Desmond in his lovesotted state would not stop at Bowland, but trail behind the object of his heart all the way to York. Ruck suspected, though, that this redheaded maid would grow bored with a rustic swain long before York, and probably before they reached Bowland. She had the look of experience on her—a lesson that might not be a bad one for a boy who had seen nothing of the world.
But it was just that greenness that made him loath to send Desmond. If it had been any older man of his hold, he wouldn't have hesitated. The advantages were obvious, and just as Desmond stated. It would not be soon that a stout armed party would travel from here direct toward Bowland.
"My lord," Desmond said, "if you think I'm too young—it's said you had no more than fifteen years when you first went out! And I am older."
Ruck nodded, barely hearing him. In his heart he was glad that Melanthe was not here now, for he could hardly have demanded that she stay in Wolfscar with such a favorable company to conduct her.
It was that thought that decided him. He was delaying; if he did not send to Bowland now, he would go back and find another reason to delay; Bassinger would protest his rheum, the planting would need management, the weather would be untoward—he could find a thousand reasons, and they were all shirking and tarrying to avoid what must be done.
He took Desmond by the shoulder and hauled him behind the granary. "If I say you yes, Desmond," he hissed through his teeth, "and you fail by some idle chance, or for this maid or another—I'll profane your name with my last breath, do you comprehend me?"
Desmond's face lost a little of its zeal. He stood soberly and nodded.
"You aren't to let two things pass your lips, to no creature man nor woman. You're not to say whence you came, or the name of Wolfscar. Nor anything of my marriage to my lady. Swear to it."
"No, my lord. I swear by my father's soul, my lord, nothing will I speak of Wolfscar nor whence I come, nor anything of my lord and my lady's marriage."
Ruck pulled the top buttons of his cote open and searched beneath his shirt. "Now listen, and learn your message. Her lady's grace is safe and free from harm or restraint. Before Whitsunday, a guard and company with all things suitable to her estate is to come to the city of Lancaster and await her there. This is her free wish and command, as attested by her chattel here sent." He held out the leather bag that he wore. "Lay this about your neck, and guard it. Will prove you from the princess. Say me the message."
Desmond repeated it instantly by heart, well-trained in minstrel's learning. Ruck gave him the whole contents of his wallet, silver enough to tide him there and back, and saw the leather bag stowed safely about the boy's neck.
He felt a terrible misgiving as Desmond tucked his green scarf back into place. "Stray not out from the party," he said. "Keep you with the shoemaker if there be fighting. Do not think you can aid in any combat."
"No, my lord."
"When you return, signal from the tarn. Do not come farther. I'll meet you."
"Yes, my lord."
"Desmond, this red-haired maid—"
Desmond lifted his eyes, so innocent of all love's dangers that Ruck only sighed and shook his shoulder.
"Don't fail me," he said. "Do not fail."
"I won't, my lord!" Desmond said fiercely. "Not for no maid nor any other thing!"
Ruck stood back. "Then fare you well, as God please."
Desmond went down on his knee, crossing himself. "God have mercy, my lord!" He leapt up and ran, leaving Ruck in the deepening shadow behind the barn.
Ruck made a cross and prayed to God that he had not done a dearly foolish thing.
TWENTY-ONE
"I don't know why you ask me," Cara said. "I've no help to give you."
Allegreto stood with his back to the trefoiled window. He never paced. She wished that he would, or do anything but be so still and yet seem as if he would spring.
"You did not like what I did before," he said. "So I ask you."
Cara sat straight in the chair he'd given her, staring at a tapestry of the conversion of Saint Eustace. It was a finely detailed piece, full of greens and bl
ues, the white stag with the miraculous cross between its antlers gazing fixedly at the hunter.
"I don't know what you mean," she said.
"Ficino," he whispered. "Ficino is what I mean."
The stag, she thought, was a brave creature, to stand trapped on a ledge that way, even for a miracle.
"He was dead before the fire," Allegreto said, "if that is what upset you."
She closed her eyes. "Don't speak of it."
Weeks had passed, all of Lent and Easter, and more, and still she could smell the smoke and see him standing in red upon the dais. He wore white and blue today; he had not worn red since, which was the only reason she could look on him.
He turned suddenly, facing away out the window. "This messenger from her—I know it's a ruse! I have to do something. Christ, I can't bide till Whitsuntide—and then find that it's some wile to bait me!" He put his hands over his face. "God's mercy, where is she?"
Cara looked down. Lint flecked her gown from the wool she'd been spinning when he summoned her. She picked at a bit, rolling it around and around between her fingers. "The messenger will not say."
"No," he snapped, turning sharply toward her. "Not for love, in any case."
"It may be he doesn't know."
"He knows. She's with the green man—she sent the falcon's varvels, the ones she gave to him. She's using the knight somehow, but for God's rood I can't make out her intention." His voice held a cold strain. "And my father—I've not sent him word all this time. I don't dare, not even to pray him to protect your sister. Cara, this messenger—" He stopped, as if he'd spoken what he did not wish to say.
"What of the messenger?" she cried, rising suddenly from the chair. "You want to torture him, don't you? And you ask me if I have a better means, when you know I've no notion what to do!"
"I thought—perhaps if you spoke to him. I frightened him. He's but a boy, and innocent as a virgin."
Cara laughed. "You're more fool than I think you, if you believe I can succeed where you've failed."
"Or your friend Guy might do it," Allegreto said, ignoring her denial. "He's back from searching again, empty-handed."
She lifted her eyes, feeling her heart contract. But Allegreto showed no sign of malice. There was nothing in his gaze when he looked at her but the faint longing that she had come to recognize. He had never touched her since that day before he'd killed Ficino. He did not press her. She would have thought it had been imagination, that one touch, if she did not see it in his face every time now that he was near her.
"If you would only aid me, Cara," he said in a strangely helpless tone. "I'm trying."
For no reason she could say, her eyes began to blur with tears. "I don't understand you."
He walked the wall from the window to the tapestry. "No," he said distantly. "I know it."
He stood before the woven stag. The woven hunter stared at him in wonder.
"You can't do anything," he said bleakly.
He was so beautiful. She had never seen a living man or a work of art so beautiful and terrible. She swallowed tears. "Allegreto, I will try, if you wish it."
"No, it is hopeless," he said. "You'd only blunder, and Guy the same." He smiled at her, wooden as a carved angel in a church. "A hopeless pair, the two of you."
* * *
She did try. She took food to the messenger in the room where he was kept, careful that she did not do anything to let him escape. He was very frightened, as Allegreto had said. He would not even eat, but sat hunched on the stool, a youth with a long nose and long musician's fingers. Allegreto had even left him his instrument, but Cara doubted that he played. The turret room was frigid.
A boy, Allegreto had called him, and yet she thought them of an age. But he could never be as old as Allegreto, not if he lived a hundred years.
"Do you speak French?" she asked.
He didn't answer, but looked away from her. She thought he must understand her, though. She took a deeper breath.
"I've come to explain to you," she said. "You must tell Allegreto what he asks."
His look flicked toward her, and then back. A stubbornness came into his jaw.
"He only wishes to find my mistress and see that she is safe."
"She is safe," the youth said.
"How can we be certain? Why can't we go to her, or she come to us?"
"I've said all I can say!" He stood up, prowling the cold turret and chafing his hands. "Persecute me as you will!"
Cara rose from beside the tray that he scorned. "You don't know what danger you're in," she said sharply. "You don't know what persecution means."
"What, hot pincers? The wheel? Go ahead. I've sworn my word. I will not speak."
She shook her head in amazement. "Are you so blithe?"
"I'll die before I speak!" he said wildly.
"This isn't courage, I think, but mere ignorance!" Cara's angry breath made a keen flash of frost in the air. "Do you know why you're sound now? Because of me. Because he doesn't want to displease me, you foolish boy! How long do you think that can last?"
He drew himself straight and gave her a sneering look. "Tell your lover to try me as he will."
"Oh!" She whirled, banging her knuckles upon the door to be released. "I'll tell him to serve you as a fool should be served!"
The guard let her out, locking the door behind. She ran down the spiraling stairs, her hand on the cold plaster curve of the wall to support her. At the first landing Allegreto stepped out to meet her.
She hadn't told him she would go to the boy, but of course he knew. His dark eyes questioned her.
"I learned nothing," she said, "but that he's a witless mouse among cats."
Only by his silence, and the slight casting down of his shoulders, did she realize that he'd truly hoped she might succeed. But in the next moment he was the sculpted angel, living stone. "Then you must visit him again tomorrow. And tell him that your lover's patience wanes."
* * *
For more than a week they played the farce. Cara feared every day that she would come to the turret room and the young messenger would be gone, forfeited to Allegreto's ruthless practice. She did not have to feign the growing urgency of her pleas to the youth; Allegreto would not, could not keep this forbearance long.
She saw the struggle in him. Even the seneschal had begun to mutter of stronger measures. Sir Thomas did not approve of involving a lady in such matters as imprisoned messengers, and shrugged and glared and said, "So there," each day when Cara reported her failure. "Her lady's grace is held to ransom, mark me," he said. "We'll have a payment demand yet if we don't deliver her."
Allegreto sat at the heavy council table, staring as if he looked far beyond the seneschal's white head. He seemed to grow farther away as each day passed, reclusive and distracted. Only in the moments when Cara came from the tower room, before he heard that she had learned no more, were his eyes alive and quick, asking for fulfillment.
She knew that her efforts were no use, as he must know it. But instead of bringing the game to its foregone end, he withdrew into a strange languor. He had no counsel for Sir Thomas, no insults for Cara, nothing but those instants of living hope once a day.
She was coming to hate Desmond. As she grew more vehement, he grew more cocksure, as if he took pot-courage from her visits. Well he might, she thought, hearing dire warnings from a female, threats that must seem more impotent by the day.
"You must do something more," she said, after another fruitless session in the turret.
Allegreto gave her a level look. "Must I?" he asked softly.
She thought of Desmond, so proud of his boy's stupid courage, trying to protect someone who deserved no protection, her fiendish mistress and her wicked schemes. She thought of Ficino, who at least had known the way of things. And Allegreto, standing in crimson on the dais, the color of blood and fire.
Somehow, after that night, he had given over his soul to her, as if she could protect it for him. He waited for her decision.
>
"You must talk to him again," she said.
He smiled. He laid his head back in the chair and laughed.
"Cara," he said. "Ah, Cara."
He said it as if he were in despair. He cast a look about the room, a prisoner's search for some weakness or crack in the walls. Then he pushed back the chair and sprang like a cornered cat from a pit, leaving Cara and Sir Thomas alone.
* * *
She was lying awake when he came in the dark. She had heard the single clarion that heralded some late arrival, and sat up hastily. Allegreto's outline against the low candle confirmed her in fear and wild relief. "She's come?" she whispered.
He put his hand over her mouth, moving with utter silence, pulling her urgently up from her bed. Some of the other ladies stirred, but he pushed her from the chamber before their sleepy mumbles gained sense. Cold air welled up the stair; he half dragged her with him down the black descent. She could hear the voices of men in the bailey—louder at the arrowslits where the night air poured in.
He brought her to the landing, hauling her with a fierce grip toward the open window. His breath was harsh, coming fast and uneven next to her ear, as if he could not get enough. He pushed her into the embrasure, his hands on her shoulders.
Cara leaned over, looking down at the torch-lit scene with the night wind blowing in her face. She blinked, trying to see, trying to recognize the voices in French and Italian. One soft command to a porter drifted up to the tower window—someone turned a lantern and lit a man standing quietly beside his horse.
She covered her mouth.
The castle, the world, seemed to turn over. Allegreto clung to her, his face buried in her shoulder.
"Gian," she said, and made the cross in terror. "Blessed Mary, have pity on us!"
"What he will do to me," he whispered. "Oh, God—Cara—what he will do to me."
* * *
She did not know how Allegreto possessed himself. Gian Navona said nothing, watching each of them in turn: his bastard son and Sir Thomas and Cara—and Desmond, shackled to a bench in the council chamber, where only a single candle burned on the table, lighting them all and leaving Gian in shadow.
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