The Medieval Hearts Series

by Laura Kinsale

  "My lady, I made a fitter seat for you," he protested.

  "The sand is soft enough." She picked up the knife. "Come, we will counsel together. I pray thee, what best us to do?"

  "Hunt dragons, I trove," he muttered. "Wherefore should we nought, if Your Highness will gaderen fodder and sitten upon the ground like unto a bondman’s wife?"

  She held out to him a segment of orange. "Yea, we will hunt us firedrakes—wherefore not?"

  "Because I’m nought doted in my head, even if you are so." He bit into the orange unthinking, and then realized that she was not yet served. He lowered it hastily, appalled at himself and aggrieved at her for luring him into it by taking no notice of his misdemeanor at all. She peeled the rind and offered the whole fruit to him as if she full expected him to eat before her.

  He refused to do it, but sat sternly with the food in his hands, waiting.

  "Tell me, art thou at my hest, knight?" she asked.

  "By right I am yours, lady," he said swiftly, "in high and in low."

  She smiled. "This is low."

  "What is your will?"

  "That thou wilt eat till thou art sated and leave to me the remainder, forwhy I do not wish thee to wax faint from hunger in this wild place. I doubt not thou wouldst swoon just as a dragon fell upon us, which would be inconvenient, as I am no master of a sword."

  He turned the orange in his hand. "I grant my lady that she is no swordman"—he laid it back upon the cloth—"but I deem it no more convenient that my lady be brought low of a fainting-fit herseluen, and I haf to carry her."

  "For one avowed at my bidding"—she snatched up the fruit—"thou art as obstinate as a wooden ox!"

  Her white teeth sank into the orange. She ate it all. While he watched, she finished the second orange and peeled the third, ate one segment of it and threw the rest over her shoulder, where it plopped into the muddy shallows of the river. Then she nibbled at the almonds until she had consumed them. She tasted the sugar, made a face, and ground the remainder into the sand.

  Ruck looked down at the bare cloth. She had eaten or destroyed everything.

  "If thou wouldst have a forpampered princess, then thou shalt have one, knight. I am mistress of that craft."

  Ruck said nothing. He stared grimly into the darkening woods that lined the shore.

  "If thou wouldst have a companion of sensible wits," she said, "then save this overweening indulgence for the court. It is thine to choose."

  He looked over his shoulder into the twilight shadows where she had thrown the last orange. "My lady, I say you troth, I haf nought seen no such thing as common wit in you yet."

  She drew in her breath at that. He expected temper, but instead the silence expanded between them. Darkness had fallen enough that he could see only the shape of her face, not the contours.

  Her soft laugh surprised him. "Yea, so I imagine," she murmured. "Poor knight—thou must be sore dismayed to have ward of me in this desert."

  He could think of no answer that would combine truth and courtesy but to say, "I am sworn to you, my lady."

  "Ne cannot I conceive how that came to be, but verily—I think it better fortune than I deserve." She made a faint sound of rue. "And how do I favor thee, but to make thee go hungry in my temper? I am full sorry."

  Ruck scowled. He picked up the stick she had dropped and cracked it in two. "I reck nought of it, lady."

  "Tomorrow, Gryngolet takes a duck. It is thine."

  "Less does my belly concern me than your safety." He held the sticks between his fists, frowning down at them. "We’re far out of the way to my lady’s lands, or any dwelling that I know from my faring in this country. In faith, is near forsaken since the Great Death, without souls enow to keepen the weeds back." He hesitated, and then broke the wood again over his knee and tossed the staves on the fire. "Of fortified places, there’s aught but Lyerpool, if any souls be left alive there. To sayen troth, Your Highness, I fear pestilence more than any desert."

  "Allegreto said me that thou art exempt from it."

  "Yea, I am." He looked up at her. "Can my lady sayen the same?"

  Full dark had fallen. The firelight played on the curve of her face, shadowing her lashes. "But thou wilt keepen me," she said softly. "I place my whole trust in thee."

  "Best to put your faith in God’s design, my lady," he replied in a rough tone.

  She smiled, her skin kindled rose by the fire, her hair black shade. "Forbye, monkish man, what art thou if not part of God’s design?"

  He felt anything but monkish, sitting beside her, all semblance of respectable reserve between them in ruins. It seemed to him that God’s design must be to make him live a lifetime of temptation, the half of it condensed into this moment, when it would be no more than a movement of his hand to touch her.

  "Haply I might be part of God’s scheme, too," she mused, "though I’ve not much odor of sanctity, I trow."

  He turned his face away from the firelight, unable to disagree with that even for courtesy.

  "Well, I have endowed an abbey, so let it be a secret betwix us," she said, as if he had assented aloud. "The nuns have made an eloquent record of my faith and good works. We would not wish to casten doubt on such a pleasant document."

  He tried to think of his empty belly, which was her perverse doing, and failing that, of the danger that she was to his soul. He tried to hope that she would move away from him, and instead could not stop gazing at her, at any part of her that he could see while he turned his face away, even if it was only the ermine fringe of her cloak.

  With the corner of his eye he saw her yawn deeply. The ermine fell from his knee as she drew her cloak close about her.

  "Sore weary I am," she murmured, leaning back against the fur-covered seat he’d made for her.

  "I will lay you a place to bed, Your Highness." But he did not rise, unable to shake off the witching of her nearness. He was weary himself, and hungry. And when she closed her eyes, with her chin tucked down against the folds of the cloak, he could watch her without her knowing.

  "Thou mote be wondrous sleepy thyself, knight," she mumbled. "It is my turn to stay waking."

  "Nay," he said quietly. "I will keep thee, lady."

  A faint smile curved her lips. She let go a long, deep sigh.

  * * *

  Melanthe slept easy against the hard lump of the saddle as she had never slept in silk and featherbeds. She was vaguely aware of awakening sometime in the dark, with the knight arranging furs and a softer cushion for her head. She knew him by the light chink of his armor and the scent of orange and leather and metal as he tucked something soft beneath her cheek—Ruck, she thought with cloudy fondness, and felt pleased and secure.

  "Grant merci," she said, but if he heard her he did not answer. For a few instants she saw him through leaden eyes, down beside her on his heels, with one knee pressed into the sand, the firelight gleaming on the curved fan of his poleyn.

  Thou wilt keep me...She dreamed of his dark silhouetted figure beside her all night, and slept sound in the wilderness.

  * * *

  There was no start or dread in waking. The first thing she saw was Gryngolet, and the next was her knight, squatting at the river edge bare-chested, splashing water against his face. With his back to her, he shuddered in the cold like a wet dog, flinging droplets from his fingers as he whooshed a harsh breath of air between his teeth. The steam made a frosty curl against the bright river and vanished.

  He held a razor to his face, and then cursed softly. Melanthe saw a scarlet welling of blood mingle with the wetness at the edge of his jaw.

  She sat up. "What art thou about?"

  He startled and grabbed up his tunic, pulling it over his head as he turned. The linen clung to his chest, showing damp through it, and the dark lump of some amulet he wore. Blood from the place he had nicked himself trickled down to a pale band of reddish-orange that ringed his throat, where sweat had rusted his mail and stained the linen and his skin.

 
"My lady—your pardon—I thought you heedless in slumber."

  She squinted at the sun overhead, surprised at the height of it. "Have I slept so long!"

  He turned, gathering up his surcoat and armor. "Anon I go a way off, my lady, and dress my horse."

  She realized that he was offering her a discreet spell of privacy. As he turned and walked away, he wiped at the nick on his jaw and smeared bloody fingerprints on the hem of his linen shirt.

  "What thou art dire in need of, Sir Ruck," Melanthe murmured into the furs, "is a neat, goodly housewife to love thee." She smiled, sinking down in her warm coverings. "I will arrange it for thee."

  From the river she heard the dim conversation of ducks and geese. She pushed her nose out of the furs, welcoming the chill morning air. It made the moment real, an awakening from deep nightmare into life: this was sure fact, this cold morning, this river and woods and this muddy sand, the small smoking flame in a circle of gray and black ash, the curling rinds of oranges on a cloth spread on the ground—no servants to distrust, no Allegreto, nor slim daggers or poison, no Navona or Riata or Monteverde. Only her knight nearby to keep her from all harm.

  In the warm security of it she flipped the fur back over her cold nose and closed her eyes. Her body relaxed in the soft haven. She lay slipping, half dreaming, letting the silent river take her safely again.

  * * *

  Ruck donned his armor, watered Hawk, checked the horse’s hooves and curried his coat. He took his time, yawning, lingering until he was certain that he could not possibly shame either of them by returning while she was still in the midst of her gearing.

  As he led the horse back, he made sure that they raised a noise, rattling dead reeds as they passed through. He called softly, not caring to advertise their presence too much abroad, neither to outlaws nor to the great flocks of ducks that floated and fed near shore. He was looking forward to breaking his fast.

  On the sandy bank where they had made camp between the water and the coppice-alders, there was no sign of her. A spark of alarm flared in him. He dropped Hawk’s lead and strode forward.

  Just as he drew a breath to shout for her, he glanced down. He froze half a step from treading on where she lay, still wrapped about in furs and cushions.

  He gazed at her, incredulous. She had gone back to sleep! Here in this desolate place, on a saddle, as if at any moment they might not be set upon by perils human or unhuman.

  He sat down hard on a hummock. He had never in his life known man nor woman to sleep so much as the Princess Melanthe.

  He put his jaw on his fists. He waited. As the shadows grew shorter, the ducks floated past and flew on, at first a few pairs, and then covies, and then whole flocks, as if at some soundless call to the distance. The noise of their wings resounded across the water, feathered thunder. The gyrfalcon roused eagerly, standing first on one foot and then the other upon the bowed stave, but its mistress did not wake.

  After a long time Ruck picked up a pebble and aimed it for a point a few feet away from her head.

  It hit the sand with a light plop. She didn’t move.

  His belly growled. He tried a slightly larger pebble, a little closer.

  * * *

  Melanthe dreamed it was beginning to rain. She heard the single drops and felt their airy impact on her coverings. A faint stinging drop struck her hair and she jerked awake.

  She sat up, scrambling to pull her hood over her head, looking about for shelter.

  On a grassy tussock a little distance from her, she saw the knight hastily lower his hand. He was full dressed and armored; he stood up, flashing her a look as guilty as a thieving boy caught up a pear tree, before he fell to one knee and lowered his face in formal respect.

  There was not a cloud in the cold sky. The tanned folds of the fur overtop her were littered with tiny pebbles, as if it had rained stones.

  "Knave!" she gasped in laughing outrage. "Thinkest thou to cower behind this meek bow?" She threw off the furs and scooped up a handful of sand, sending it toward him in an extravagant spray.

  He flinched back, lifting his arm against the shower. She sat up on her knees and dug both hands into the ground. Her second discharge spewed over him, making him duck his head. Melanthe took advantage, laughing and scooting forward, kicking up a relentless cloud of sand with her hands as he tried to rise and step back, his arms up to defend himself. Awkward in his armor, he tripped over his spurs, falling on his seat with a surprised grunt.

  She gave a hoot of victory and tried to stand in preparation to launch a triumphant volley from both hands. Her cloak tangled underfoot and she lunged forward, saving herself and losing her balance, catching on the cloak in half steps as she tottered wildly. She loosed the sand, sprawling full atop him with a cry of merriment, grit in her mouth and under her palms, a bruising impact against hard metal. The jar knocked him back against the tussock as they fell together.

  It took the breath from her. She blinked her eyes open, pushing herself up against his shoulders.

  He lay with a look of utter consternation, his face close to hers. No humor answered her amusement. He was frozen still beneath her hands.

  She felt the short rise and fall of his breath under her. Dirty sand dusted his cheek and brow. His green eyes, so close to hers, refused to see her. He stared past her and tightened his mouth, as if she were some enemy set to slay him.

  A terrible abandon seized her. She could do anything here in the empty wilderness; she did not have to lie—

  She bent and kissed his mouth, fierce as Gryngolet, senseless and violent as Allegreto in a temper, forcing herself on him. He made a despairing sound, half turning; but she followed, letting her weight fall against the rigid curve of his breastplate beneath the tunic, sliding her hands up beside his head.

  He was breathing hard into her mouth, kissing her and pulling back at the same time, opposing his own action. He might have pushed her off with a fraction of his strength, but Melanthe held him with only her fingers spread in his hair.

  She softened her touch, brushing her lips featherlight where she had pressed ruthlessly a moment before, exploring his jaw, tasting grit and dirt and the faint, rusty note of blood. He held motionless, arrested in a straining tension.

  She pulled back a little. His mouth was drawn into tautness. His eyes glittered with water, the black lashes spiking together. He brought his hand up and pushed back her hood. He touched her hair, lightly, and curled his fist and dropped it.

  "I beseech thee," he uttered from deep in his throat. He closed his eyes, "I beseech thee. Lady—I cry peace."

  "A bargain," she said. "One kiss of thine—and I will let thee go."

  "Nay." He moistened his lips. "Ne can I play a courtier’s game." He would not look at her. "I cannought, lady, for God’s love."

  "Why, monkish man? Because thou art my servant? One kiss. I command thee."

  "One!" He gave a bitter laugh and laid his head back. He squeezed his eyes hard, baring his teeth like a man in pain. A drop rolled from the corner of his lashes down his temple. "Kill me now, my lady, and let me live in Hell, and you will be kinder."

  She pushed herself from him and sat back. Immediately he rolled away, shoving to his feet. Without looking at her he walked to the furs and hauled his saddle from beneath them. He shouldered it, carrying it to his horse.

  Melanthe looked down at her palms. Sand clung there, the same sand that seasoned her tongue with the taste of him and cleaved in ragged arcs to the back of his tunic where he’d lain pressed against the ground. She blushed hot.

  To fling sand at him—to press her mouth against his as if she could be part of him by doing it—to force herself upon him—the clumsiness appalled her.

  The wilderness abruptly seemed a strange surrounding, and herself stranger yet.

  She had known that he wanted her. A hundred men had wanted her. She trifled gracefully with them. In smooth gallantries she had heard her beauty praised, her hair adored and her lips cherished, her eyes co
mpared to jewels and stars. Every gift and finery had been proffered, extravagant self-destruction threatened if she withheld her favors. She toyed and smiled and refused, binding them on a velvet leash.

  But she dared not look in mirrors; she had never been certain if she was truly so tempting in herself, or only the irresistible symbol of her power and position.

  And she had not known that she wanted him.

  Until now, when she had gazed down at his face, into another kind of mirror—and thought that all before had been the mere shadow of this desire.

  She stood, shaken and mortified. He did not look at her, but went about his work with grim concentration, as if absorbed in it beyond thought.

  She brushed sand from her cloak and strode toward the high reeds and blessed privacy.

  Ruck stilled as he heard her go, sitting on his heels above the soft furs where she’d slept. He bent his head.

  His soul seemed near to shattering within him. With laughter she smashed his shield to splinters. She lay upon him, careless as a child—reckless as a whore.

  He touched his jaw where she had touched it, drew his fist down his own skin where her mouth had brushed him, and then stared at his knuckles.

  As long as she held aloof and disdained him, he was safe. Her tempers and arrogance defended him; her station was a wall between them even in this desert; if he felt himself weakening, he had only to recall that she liked her not rough and runisch men.

  But nothing could save him if she was to cast this spell of laughter. That was where her power lay, he thought, not in charms and incantations—she had laughed at Lancaster and brought a king’s son to his knees; she laughed now and Ruck was lost, helpless as one of Circe’s beasts.

  And he hungered for his downfall. The ache in his belly was nothing to the tension of waiting, to the hot pain of love’s appetite. A lance through his body was nothing to it.

  He closed his eyes. He’d sworn himself to the Devil’s daughter. Thirteen years—ill-omened number—and she came for him again.