The Medieval Hearts Series

by Laura Kinsale

  A light-headed sickness hung in his throat. The dry bread seemed to choke him. It was almost too fantastical to believe that it was her; that she was here. He had never expected it. He hardly knew how to fathom the fact, or what he had just done for her.

  Christ—Lancaster’s face—but Ruck could not bear to think of it.

  "Hie!" He knocked Pierre’s hand aside as the squire tried to wipe the shaving soap from him. The barber had been impossible to obtain at such a time. "My hose." He grabbed the towel, cleaned his jaw himself, and finished off the bread before Pierre had the green hose ready for him.

  He didn’t think she remembered him. He couldn’t settle it in his mind. By her young courtier in the yellow-and-blue motley, she had sent him a command to challenge for her. She had looked upon him in the hall with that cool authority...as if she knew his vow to her service—as if she expected it. He had a wild thought that she had known all there was to know of him since that day he had first seen her, that his every move for ten and three years had somehow been open to her. Those eyes of hers, ’fore God!

  She was here. And in faith, it felt more like a blow to his belly than a boon.

  His breath frosted in the cold as he bit into an apple. Holding the fruit between his teeth, he pulled the green hose over his linen. A few gentlemen began to wander out of the great hall to relieve themselves, passing the open door of the buttery where the servants had grudgingly hauled the bathtub for Ruck.

  "La la! Seest thou, Christine," said a feminine voice. "He is not green all over!"

  Ruck looked up from belting his hose to find a pair of ladies leaning in the door. He didn’t know either of them. He dropped the apple from his mouth and caught it in one hand. As he bowed, he grabbed his mantle from Pierre’s hands and tossed it around his bare shoulders. "A common man only, madam."

  The dark-haired one giggled. The other, the one who’d spoken, was blonde and comely and she knew it; she moved upon him with a flow of brilliant parti-color robes. "Thy form gives thee the lie, sir. Thou art uncommon strong and pleasing." Smiling, she traced him with her forefinger from the base of his throat down to his chest. "And uncommon brave, to proclaim such a challenge."

  He lightly clasped her hand and lifted it away from him. "For the honor of Her Highness," he said evenly.

  Her smile deepened. "Such wild courage," she murmured, lifting her mouth. "We have heard much of your ferocity in battle. Stay and tell us more."

  He looked down at her offered lips, the soft smiling curve. "For God’s mercy, you tempt me to dally, but I cannot." He held up the apple, brushed her cheek with the rosy smooth skin, and pressed the fruit into her fingers, setting her away from him. "Accept this, and I know I’ve shared a sweet with a gracious lady."

  A shadow of pique crossed her features. But she stepped back, taking a bite with a crunch of white teeth. "The Princess Melanthe," she said airily. "You know her?"

  "I know her," he said.

  "Ah. Then you know to accept no apples of love from that one. She poisoned her own husband."

  Ruck stiffened. "Madam—it were better that thou spake truth on thy tongue."

  "Oh, I speak true enough." She licked a drop of juice from the apple. "Ask it of anyone. She was put to trial for the deed."

  He scowled at her for a moment, and then held out his hand to Pierre for his tunic. His squire caught the mantle as Ruck shrugged it off and pulled the green wool over his head. A few more gentlewomen hovered outside.

  "She is a sorceress," his blonde temptress said, and looked to the others. "Is she not?"

  "That gyrfalcon," another offered. "The bird is her familiar. Never has she flown it in the light of day."

  "She bewitched the magistrate to release her—"

  "She took her own brother for a lover—"

  "Yea, and murdered him with that very dagger at her waist; whilst he was a guest in her husband’s house."

  "And now on her way to gorge on his birthright! But no Christian knight will escort her hence, for fear of his soul."

  "Nay," Ruck objected, "she is a princess."

  "A witch! Sir Jean will say you!" Feminine hands urged a knight forward from where he’d been lingering at the edge of the group, trying to woo one of the gentlewomen.

  Pierre helped Ruck into his surcoat, smoothing down the cloth-of-silver. Ruck stood facing the other man, his jaw rigid. "Have a care," he said. "The chatter of the women is naught. On behalf of my sworn lady, sir, I will not take thy words so lightly."

  "You have sworn to her?" the blonde asked, stepping back.

  "Yea. I am her man."

  "For the tourney," the other knight said. "My lord the duke will abide no more." He gave Ruck a shrewd grin. "It was a bold stroke you took. He’s angry now, but he’ll value you to show him at his finest on the morrow."

  "I am her man," Ruck repeated.

  Sir Jean looked at him. "Nay, you don’t mean to be serious in this?"

  Ruck stared back, eyes level, showing nothing. "I am sworn to her. I am honored with her gift. I fight for the Princess Melanthe."

  The spectators began to depart, withdrawing with sidelong glances and murmurs among them. Ruck threw his mantle round his shoulders and stabbed the pin of his silver brooch through the cloth. When he looked up, he and Pierre were alone in the buttery.

  The mute squire elevated his eyebrows expressively. He dug in his apron and held out a leather-bagged amulet.

  "She is not a witch," Ruck snapped.

  Pierre crossed himself and mimicked a priest blessing the charm.

  "Curse thee! She is my lady!"

  Pierre ducked and genuflected. With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, he tucked his saint’s tooth away.

  TWO

  "Tell me," Melanthe said lightly in Italian. "I can see thou art full of thine own shrewdness."

  Allegreto Navona rested against the curve of the spiraling stairwell, his arms crossed, grinning down at her from two steps above. The last thin light fell between them from an arrowslit. "The green man is invincible, my lady," he whispered, leaning as near as he dared while she had Gryngolet on her fist. "Your fine Duke of Lancaster will have his tail feathers plucked tomorrow."

  "Will he? After they have sent half their knighthood against my poor—champion?" She made a short laugh. "So I suppose I must title him."

  "Nay, you miscalculate your knight, lady. They have another name for him here. They call him after some barbarian tale from the north—Berserka, or some such." He gave an elegant shudder. "I’m told it is the north-name of a savage in bear-coats. A warrior who would as soon kill as breathe."

  "Berserker," Melanthe said, gazing at Allegreto thoughtfully. "Thou hast busy ears, to know so much of him. Where didst thou find this great warrior?"

  "Why, in the stable, my lady, braiding his green destrier’s green mane with silver, in preparation to fight in the hastilude tomorrow. A most pure and courteous knight, well-liked by common men-at-arms. He keeps to himself and the footsoldiers and the chapel, and has no traffic with ladies. But when they ordered him to play your unicorn because of his color...I thought to take him aside, Your Highness, and tell him of your wishes."

  "My wishes." She lifted her eyebrows.

  "You wished to bestow your tournament favor on him, lady." Allegreto smiled angelically. "Did you not? But he would have none of it, I fear—until I walked with him past the hall. I caused him to look upon you, lady...and sweet Mary, I only wish you might have seen his face."

  "What was in his face?" she asked sharply.

  Allegreto leaned his head back against the curving wall. "Indifference. And then—" He paused. "But what does my lady’s grace care of his thoughts? He is only an English barbarian."

  She stroked Gryngolet’s breast. The gyrfalcon’s talons relaxed and tightened on the gauntlet. Allegreto did not change his lazy stance, but he moved a half-step upward.

  "Indifference, my lady," he said more respectfully, "until he had a fair sight of you. And then he b
ecame just such a witless lover as we needed to dissuade your duke, though he veiled it well."

  "Thou promised him no promises," she said coldly.

  "Lady, the sight of you is promise enough for a man," Allegreto murmured. "I made none, but I cannot vouch for what blissful hopes he might have in his own mind."

  She regarded him for a long moment. He was young and beautiful, dark as a demon and as sweetly formed as the Devil could make him. Gryngolet roused her feathers, pure ruthless white. He glanced at the gyrfalcon for the barest instant. Allegreto dreaded naught on earth but three things: the falcon, the plague, and his father. Gryngolet was Melanthe’s one true shield against him, for she had no mastery of the plague—and none over Gian Navona, for a certainty.

  Prince Ligurio of Monteverde had been dead three months, but for years before he drew his last breath, Melanthe had upheld her husband’s place and powers. As he declined into illness and vulnerability, she had defended him by the methods he had taught her himself. He it was who had schooled her to guard her back, who had been her father from the age of twelve when a terrified child had left England to wed a man thirty years her senior; he who had ordered her to deal with the Riata, to tantalize Gian Navona—because the triangle would always hold, there would always be the houses of Riata and Navona and Monteverde like wolves prowling about the same quarry.

  Now Prince Ligurio was gone. The triangle of power fell in upon itself, leaving Melanthe between the wolves and the fortune of Monteverde.

  She relinquished it to them. She did not want Monteverde, but to yield her claim was as perilous as to contend for it. Like a fox making for a safe earth, she must dodge and deceive and look always behind her as she escaped.

  She had bargained with Riata—safe passage to a nunnery in England, in exchange for her quitclaim to Monteverde. She had bargained with Allegreto’s father: she had smiled at Gian Navona and promised to be his wife, gladly—so gladly that she would even travel to England first, to confirm her inheritance there, that she might bring that prize, too, with her to their marriage bed.

  Promise and promise and promise. They were made to betray, in layer upon layer of deception.

  She kept only one, if she died for it. To herself. She was going home—to England and to Bowland. The fox escaped to earth.

  "I am displeased with thy interference," she said to Allegreto. "Thou dost not understand the English. If thou thought to discourage the duke by such a challenge—it has done no more than place him so that he must prove his devotion, and now tomorrow I must spurn him yet again."

  "I know aught of these boorish English manners, my lady," he said with light malice, "if a man must thrust his attention upon a lady without her encouragement."

  "Save thy indignation for a fool who meddles in his mistress’s business. I had my own intent with regard to Lancaster."

  Allegreto merely grinned at the rebuke. "Not to take him in marriage, lady, so I hope."

  "If he will not bring himself to the point and ask, I cannot take him, can I?"

  "He will," Allegreto said. He made a mock bow. "But my lady’s grace would not break my father’s loving heart that has bided so long in silent hope."

  Melanthe returned his salute with an affectionate smile. "I will not have Lancaster at any price—but Allegreto, my love—when next thou dost write to thy father, tell Gian that in truth, thou art such a tender gentle boy, there are moments I should rather take thee to husband in his stead."

  Allegreto’s face did not change. He maintained the pleasant curve of his lips, his dark eyes fathomless. "I would not be so foolish, my lady. That price has indeed been paid already."

  Melanthe turned her face. She shamed herself even to taunt Allegreto with it. What Gian Navona had taken of his bastard son, to be certain that Allegreto would sleep chastely in Melanthe’s bedchamber, was beyond cost or pity.

  "Let us go." She lifted her skirt, stepping upward, but he made a faint hiss of warning and raised his forefinger. Instead of waiting for her to pass, he turned, going lightly up ahead of her, his yellow-and-blue slippers silent on the stone stairs.

  Melanthe’s pulse heightened. That was her weakness, as the falcon was Allegreto’s—she could not for her life keep her heart cool when her mind required it. Through the harder beat in her ears, she turned to listen behind her. "Come, give me a kiss, Allegreto," she said to the empty stairwell, "and let us be gone."

  She heard nothing but the rhythm of her own blood. After a moment she stepped up quietly after Allegreto, her hand on her dagger, her eyes on the turning of the newel. This winding stair gave onto the ramparts above and the chapel below, with a door into a small stone passage connecting to her inner apartment. She had not liked the insecure arrangement when she saw it, and she liked it less now.

  The door stood open to empty darkness. She hesitated, staring at it, assessing it. Gryngolet preened calmly, but the falcon was no dog to bark at danger. She held aloof from human matters, as did all her kind. Melanthe took her misericorde from its sheath and turned the blade outward. She lifted Gryngolet, ready to fling the falcon safely free if she must.

  "Come, lady."

  Allegreto’s ghostly voice drifted on silence, beckoning her. She took a quiet breath and stepped upward through the door.

  He knelt behind it over a deep shadow. Melanthe saw a white shape, a limp palm half-open—and the shadow became a form: the Riata assassin sprawled dead in the half darkness.

  There was no blood but on Allegreto’s slim dagger; she had seen him practice his thrust on pigs—to make a stab that stopped the life flow instantly—what little gore there was bled to the lungs and not the surface, as he had once informed her with his sweet pride and pleasure in his craft. He was not smiling now, but sober, skilled in his task, stripping the corpse of her livery.

  She pressed her lips tight together. "To my garderobe," she murmured. "I’ll send Cara and the others away."

  He nodded. Melanthe moved quickly back down the stairs to the chapel whence she’d come, spent a moment pretending to pray, and then climbed to her apartments by the grand staircase. She retired to the solar, demanding a preparation of malvoisie wine sweetened with scented flowers and roses, and peace for her aching head. Her ladies knew better than to be in a hurry to return when she gave such an order.

  When she was certainly alone, she unbolted the door onto the passage. Allegreto waited in the darkness, his prey stripped naked at his feet. He hefted the body to his shoulder, adept at that, too, though he staggered a little beneath the weight. "Fat Riata swine," he muttered, and flashed Melanthe a grin over the pale legs of the dead man.

  She stood back with an unforgiving stare—which made Allegreto laugh silently. Bravado, perhaps, or real amusement: it was no more possible to know his true feeling than it was for her to reveal the emotion that swirled in her stomach. She would punish him for this murder, because she had ordered him to refrain—but that did not diminish the horrible shock of triumph, the elation of safety, however brief; of knowing the thing done.

  He carried the body before her, naked arms dangling—a sight that she disliked—but worse yet was the garderobe, a cold small chamber and a cold stone bench, a revolting moment while Allegreto worked to arrange the Riata’s flaccid torso, forcing it head downward into the shaft of the privy well, so that it would not wedge in the fall. He gripped it by the thighs, panting a little with his efforts. The white corpulent limbs scored against stone without bleeding, opposing him with slack resistance until he had shoved the thing in past the shoulders to the waist.

  He let go. The feet vanished. For a long moment there was nothing. Then the sound as it hit the river—not what she’d expected, not a splash, but a boom like a stone catapulted against steel, echoing and echoing in the rank well.

  He crossed himself and knelt before her. "I beg you pray for me, my lady," he said humbly. "I know I have displeased you, but I did it for your life."

  She said nothing. He rose and caught up the pile of green-and-sil
ver livery, folding it into neat lengths. From the yellow shoulder of his doublet, he plucked a loose hair. He held it over the privy and flicked his fingers, sending the strand drifting into darkness.

  Melanthe watched him. She had no nightmares. She never slept enough to dream.

  * * *

  The Princess Melanthe held audience amid Tharsia silks and exotic courtiers, warmed by a perfumed fire. And of course she did not remember him.

  Ruck had himself not recognized her at once there in the hall, at a distance, chafed as he’d been by the duke’s sudden demand to appear in full tournament armor for the pleasure of some highborn lady, distracted by the strange foreign youth who dogged his heels. He’d thought nothing of the duke’s guests, annoyed by the whelp’s insistence that Ruck pause at the door to look. He had seen only a bored and black-haired feminine figure on the dais—until she had turned her head and gazed with that cold irony upon Lancaster himself, had lifted her fingers to stroke the white falcon’s breast—not until that crystallized moment had her face and the silver-and-green colors that matched his own burst into recognition.

  Now that he saw her again, he could not imagine that he hadn’t instantly perceived the lady of his life. She was precisely as he recalled; all of his dreams, all of his aspirations, thirteen years of fidelity and devotion come to pass in gemstone radiance...except that he had thought her hair not quite so dark, and her eyes a paler blue.

  In fact, he’d thought her more like Isabelle, only comelier.

  She was comely indeed; gloriously, magnificently beautiful, none could gainsay it, but in a bold style that made the ladies’ gossip just a trace more credible. Her chamberlain intoned, "The Green Sire, Your Highness," and she didn’t even glance up at Ruck from the jewel casket that one of her gentlewomen held before her, merely lifting a hand toward the side of her bed.