Allegreto had explanations. What they were, Cara didn't hear. She could hear nothing but her own pulse. At some moment her name came through it, and she felt herself observed.
"Lift up your face, Donna Cara," said that quiet voice from the shadow. "You preserved your mistress from these poisoned shellfish?"
She could not command her tongue. Allegreto gave her a look, one of his old looks, full of amused disdain. "Not by her wit, as you may see. She thought they smelt badly."
Gian chuckled. "But it's a good girl," he murmured. "A miss be as well as a mile, so they say."
Allegreto made a snort. His father's gaze turned toward him momentarily, and then to Desmond.
"Sir Thomas," Gian said, without taking his eyes from the youth, "your patience is praiseworthy. You'll not wonder at my concern in these matters when I tell you that the princess and I are to be wed. Perhaps my son has not mentioned it?"
The seneschal cleared his throat. "He acquainted me, my lord, with your interest and solicitude for my lady, and has stood here as your chief man and hers, to give aid in this fearful matter."
"I hope he's been of some benefit to you, but his tender years need not bear such a grave weight longer, now that I'm here."
"The castle is at your service, my lord," Sir Thomas said. "My only aim is my lady's welfare. I've not called in the king's aid, because—"
"Quite right," Gian interrupted him. "To broadcast news of this misfortune too hastily would have been the worst possible mistake. You've done well, Sir Thomas, as Donna Cara has done well, each to his own talents." As he spoke, he had never ceased watching Desmond. "I'm a little dissatisfied to find that Donna Cara has turned her domestic arts, invaluable though they might be, to matters my son might have been thought to manage better."
Allegreto sat calmly, lazily, gazing back toward the dark end of the chamber at his father. He still had the faint lift of disdain to his lips, his lashes lowered in sleepy watchfulness.
"I'm proud of you, Allegreto, you're so brave as to be here," his father said. "You are a devoted son."
"My lord," Allegreto said, acknowledging the compliment with a nod.
"But then, I neglected to send word ahead. I must give you my regret for the oversight. No doubt that's the reason for this unfortunate reception."
Allegreto said nothing. He did not move.
"Take this"—Gian indicated Desmond—"somewhere that I may deal with it, as you have not."
Desmond's face was white. He wet his lips as Allegreto rose and loosed the fetters from the bench. The boy had the fear in him; he understood her warnings now, when it was too late.
"Donna Cara," Gian said, "you must take care that the chambers are well prepared for your mistress. I think she will be among us before long now."
* * *
Cara kept a vigil in the chapel, for she could no more sleep than she could flee. She prayed for the souls of her parents and for her sister. She prayed for Desmond. The priest looked at her curiously when he rang the little bell for hours. She left then, unwilling to draw attention, pulling her headscarf close to her as she pushed open the door. The bailey lay silent and still under the cold stars before dawn.
A black figure stepped away from the wall beside the arched entrance. It was Allegreto, shaking in the frigid air. "Wait," he said, his voice a faint tremor in the quiet.
She felt sick. "Is it over?"
"No," he murmured. "No, he holds yet. It is early." A shudder ran through him. In the starlight she saw him grip his fists tightly. "I'm sorry."
She bit her lip. Then she shook her head. "It is your father."
"I didn't know—I never thought—" Another shiver broke his words. "You must stay away from him. I never once thought he would come here!"
A soft frightened sound seemed to seep from him against his will. His shaking increased. She reached out to him, for she thought he would fall, and he caught her hand and held it hard against his face. She felt wetness there—ice, his tears and his cheeks were, as if a marble statue wept.
"Don't!" It frightened her beyond wit to feel him shake. She pulled him close to her, against her breast to make him stop, pressing her back to the wall and holding tight to force him to be still. With a groan he brought his hands up around her shoulders and kissed her.
She said, "No," but his cold lips and cheek touched hers, drawing life, taking away what warmth she had with desperate greed.
"No!" She turned her face away. She twisted her fingers in his hair to check him and yet still hold him—hold him like a child with his face buried in her throat, her arms tight around him.
She kept him there, stroking his hair. She held him until her arm ached with the strain. The tremors passed through him to her, easing, but before they had left him, he shoved suddenly away from her and turned his back.
"Monteverde bitch," he said, but he had no venom in his voice, only anguish.
His figure cast a faint, smeared shadow on the wall beside her. She opened her palm against it, but it was only cold and darkness, an illusion. She did not have life enough in her, she thought, to give him as much as he needed, even if she gave it all.
"Come with me," he said coolly, as if he'd never trembled in her arms. "I have a scheme; I need your help." He flashed a look at her, his face stone white in the starlight. "But if you slip, Monteverde, you kill all three of us."
* * *
She could not look at Desmond. She was afraid to look; he made a sound as the heavy door opened that was pain and terror, choked off into wordless pants. There was no guard—Allegreto had told her to watch, and speak when she was told to speak. She no more asked what he had done to the guard than she looked at what they had done to Desmond.
A candle had been left burning in the larding cellar, lighting ordinary things. Allegreto's shadow passed across smoked meats and a bushel of apples. "Now, my stubborn little ass, you've made acquaintance of my father," he said quietly. "You may take your choice between us."
Cara wet her lips, her eyes fixed on the open door and the stair beyond. No sound came from Desmond but the faint gasping of his breath.
"You have one hope to live," Allegreto said. "You can tell me where she is, and I'll take you out of here before my father comes again."
"No," Desmond whispered.
"Then tell me where I can get a message to her. She must be told that my father is here. She will not expect it. None of us—expected it."
"No, you—will—tell him," Desmond said, his voice a weak grate.
"Cara."
She had to turn. She looked only at his face, his white face, his head lying against the wall. His face was whole.
"You wouldn't listen to me," she hissed. "Listen to me now! Allegreto means to get you free. You can't fight Gian; he'll kill you by inches, or let you live, which will be worse. And we'll die, too, if he finds we came here to aid you! We tried—we tried to spare you this, and you would have none of it! Well might you help yourself now, stupid boy, that Allegreto risks life and limb for you!"
His eyes closed. He rolled his head to the side, mumbling in English.
"Speak French," Allegreto said harshly. "We can't understand you."
"I don't know," the youth muttered. He swallowed and groaned. "I don't know. It hurts."
"Here's my dagger," Allegreto said. "Do you see it? I'll cut you free, and you won't hurt. As soon as you tell me where to send, I'll cut you loose." He turned Desmond's head, to make him see the knife before his eyes. "I give you until she counts to twenty, and then we leave you here to God and my father's mercy."
He nodded to Cara. She began to count, as slowly as she dared, staring at Desmond's racked face. He turned his head from side to side, panting.
"Eighteen," she said, and closed her eyes. Nineteen."
"I can't tell you," Desmond gasped. "But I can—take..."
Allegreto slashed the knife across one set of cords. Desmond cried out as his arm fell.
"Take?" Allegreto demanded, the dagger hoveri
ng.
"Take...near. You—give me...the message. Wait for—answer. I swear. Help me!"
Allegreto cut him down.
* * *
A band of deep gray-blue threatened rain along the tops of the hills. As the wind blew a warning of late frost from the north, the black branches tossed, showing their tiny green buds in shafts of sunlight.
She hadn't flown Gryngolet long. Her moult would begin soon, and in this weather any stray gust might sweep the falcon beyond a ridge and out of sight. The horses plodded along beside the river, taking snatches at new growth. Melanthe rode dreaming, her mantle close about her ears, thinking of ways she might coax her husband into bodily fellowship.
The music at first seemed like part of the wind. She lifted her head, listening. In a lull she heard it again, or thought she did. Sometimes it seemed a melody, and sometimes only single uncertain notes. She turned in the saddle to look at Hew.
"I hear, my lady." He scowled up at the ridge. "Desmond, my lady. I think me."
Melanthe's hand closed on her reins. "He's come." An old foreboding fell over her, hearing that elvish measure on the high wind—but wavering and broken, a travesty of the song.
Hew was still looking up over the sweep of trees to the heights. He reached for the horn slung over his shoulder.
"Take me to him," Melanthe said.
He paused, the horn lifted. "My lady, Lord Ruadrik said—"
"Take me!" She turned her horse. "Or I'll find my way alone." She urged it down the riverbank. The animal plunged in, fording the stream in knee-deep splashes. They heaved up onto the overgrown track on the other side.
Hew came behind. Without another word he splashed out of the water and pricked his rouncy past her.
* * *
Ruck pulled up Hawk from his last gallop. While the destrier recovered its wind, shedding a furry winter coat along with winter fat, Ruck guided him out of the lists. He let his feet dangle out of the stirrups.
He smiled at the May pole that stood ready in the middle of the sheep meadow, ribbons bound tight, the spring blast whistling through them as he rode Hawk in a circle around it. The weather would not smile on their celebrations, he feared; it seldom did, but hope sprang anew each year. If the sun failed them, they would move the pole and festival into the castle bailey.
He left his ax and mace leaning outside the wooden rail of the lists, ready for him when he returned after eating, and let Hawk amble up the slope toward the road. There were already twenty lambs, leaping and running, or staring fixedly at him as if he were some pressing secret to be unraveled. Joany Tumbster stopped him at the gatehouse and demonstrated how she could vault up behind him over Hawk's tail. The destrier bore it patiently, as lenient with girls in fluttering dags as he was intolerant of full-grown men in armor.
They rode into the yard with Joany standing on Hawk's rump, her hands on Ruck's shoulders. Her brother, scraping cow dung into a barrow, yelled at her to let go and stand straight. Just as she dared to chance it, a horn sounded from far outside the walls, taken up by another at the gate.
"Desmond's come!" Joany slipped and snatched at Ruck's neck, bounding free just before she strangled him.
"No. Hold!" His command caught her halfway across the yard to the gate.
She and the others halted, turning their young faces to him, wind-burned and innocent.
"No one goes to him until I know that he does not bring pestilence." He reined Hawk around. "Joany, you come with me, far enough to fetch the princess back—she and Hew went downriver with the falcon. Tell her to wait in her bower until I return."
* * *
Until he'd heard the horn, Ruck had not known how much he dreaded it. After he dropped Joany at the crossing, he let the destrier walk across the bridge, as if by going slowly he could gain back the time that had slipped away as the ice had melted from the river.
Hawk hoisted himself up a turn in the familiar path, his hooves sucking in mud. He went without Ruck's guidance, knowing the way out as he knew the way in. They had climbed high on the slope, where the hawthorn buds were still tight and purple-black instead of bursting, when the sharp scent of fresh droppings jolted him from his brooding.
He halted Hawk. The tracks were fresh, ascending instead of descending. They had come in on a side trail.
It could only be Melanthe and Hew. Ruck scowled, unhappy that they had rushed up here to meet the boy. Desmond had not been outside before; he was young and impetuous; he might be fetching anything back—plague and more.
Ruck slapped the horse, urging him to a swifter pace.
Hawk heaved and blew frost, his ears flicking as they drew up to the howling rock and passed it by. The slate cliffs loomed above. Ruck kept expecting to hear Desmond's flute, to meet them all coming down; his nerves grew more taut as Hawk climbed on alone.
The sudden hush of the tarn was like a sound of its own. Beyond the moaning crevice, the pool was tranquil as it always was, black, still ice-skimmed in the cold shadow of the cliffs. As they entered, Hawk shied violently. Ruck grabbed for his sword as a figure rose from the bushes.
It was Hew, without the horses or Melanthe. Ruck controlled the destrier, spurring him forward. "Where is she?" His alarm echoed off the slate, mingling with the ring of Hawk's hooves.
Hew sank to one knee, his head bowed. He had no blood or look of a fight on him. Ruck threw himself from the saddle and grabbed the man's shoulders. "What happened?"
"My lord—a message, my lord. For you, my lord."
For an instant, sight and heart and lungs failed him. She was abducted. Blindly he grabbed for Hawk, to remount. "How long? How many of them?"
"My lord!" There was a hot strain in Hew's voice. "A message from my lady!"
Ruck paused, leashing his urge to throw Hawk into a pell-mell charge down the path. As soon as he turned, Hew stood up and closed his eyes. He looked miserable and scared, squeezing the wool mitts on his hands.
"My lord, my lady commanded me. I am to say you as if she herself spoke, my lord, and her message to you be thusly—" He wet his chapped lips. "'I leave you of my own desire. Desmond says that Al—Allegreto lives, and his father comes in this country to wed me. I love this man as my life, better than ever I loved you.'" He took a breath while Ruck stared at him. "'What was between you and me is nothing and naught,'" he recited with a nervous flick of his tongue. "'I sore repent it. Do nothing to shame me, for henceforth I desire never to beholden you again, for disgrace and disgust of such a connection.'" He opened his eyes and flung himself down on his knees. "And so did she charge me to say exactly, my lord!" he cried. "I swear to you, for never should I speak such words else!"
"It is false!" Ruck shouted. "The horses are gone! They took her; they forced her!"
He gripped his hands together and bent his head down. "No, only Desmond was here, my lord, and she went apart and spoke to him within the sight of my eyes, lord! And she mounted him upon my horse, and said that he would have it to carry him, and bade me on pain to stay you from following her."
"No." Ruck took a step forward. "She did not!"
"My lord, she instructed me to say to you, if you would not abide her word"—Hew lifted wretched eyes—"to remember, my lord, that she warned you once, that always she deceived."
TWENTY-TWO
He had no memory of coming down from the mountain. Hawk was galloping, pounding down the road before the castle. The May pole stood in the meadow. He sent Hawk flying off the track, drawing his sword, careering down the slope with his arm outstretched.
The sword hit, slashing through the ribbons, a violent impact in his hand. The stave vibrated wildly as he swept past. He reined Hawk on his haunches and spurred the destrier at the pole. He was yelling as he rode it down, swinging his sword overhead. The bright silks flew in the wind. The blow rang through him, opening a white gash in the wood.
He flung the weapon from him as he passed the lists, leaning down to catch the haft of the battle ax. He swung upright in the saddle and char
ged the May pole howling fury in his throat.
The blade flashed and bit deep in the wood. With a crack the pole bent drunkenly. He drove the horse around with his legs, hefting the length of the ax in both hands. He cut at the stave, spurring Hawk in ever smaller circles around the fractured pillar, swinging again and again as wood chips flew past his face, chopping until the log fell with a squealing groan.
He raised the ax over his head and brought it down, cleaving the stump down the center with a crack like a lightning bolt. He yanked the weapon free and dismounted amid trampled ribbons, assaulting the downed spar.
The wood splintered beneath the blade. He had no thoughts, no idea of time. He hewed until his hands went numb with the work, until he couldn't pull the blade from its seat but stumbled forward over it when he tried.
He fell on his knees amid mutilated silk and sundered wood. With his dagger he stabbed at a scarred length of pole beside him, the only thing in reach. He could hear nothing but his own heaving breath and the sound of the point impaling wood. Sweat trickled down into his eye, sharp salt. He wiped it with the back of his leather sleeve.
The cold wind bit his cheeks when he looked up. All of his people stood at the edge of the lists, a cluster of color and silence except for one little girl who was weeping. Their May stave and garlands lay maimed and dismembered about him.
He shook his head. He shifted the dagger and speared the mud beside his knee. Torn strips of blue and pink fluttered and curled around his gauntlet. He pulled free and gored again, his fist rising and falling weakly. He shook his head once more.
"My lord." It was Will Foolet's voice, heavy with fear and question.
"I can't speak of it." Ruck's throat was hoarse. He shoved himself to his feet. "Ask Hew."
For My Lady's Heart Page 83