The Medieval Hearts Series

by Laura Kinsale

  "She is not his betrothed, but my wife, my lord."

  "You are zealous," the archbishop said. "So too was the princess in her denial. But—if you speak true, then she married without the king’s license and now has a great lord for a suitor. Many a man and woman, rightly wed, has made mock of their vows for less than this." He leaned back on the settle and rubbed his nose. "And when I asked of her where she lay for the months of February to May, in her impudence she told me she had spent the time so deep in prayer that she did not recall the place." He lifted his brows. "I be little convinced that such a female can benefit your spiritual welfare, my son in Christ."

  Ruck knew that she could not. His spiritual welfare was in bloody shreds. But he bowed his head and said, "Good father, I wish to honor the bonds of holy matrimony."

  He did not dare raise his eyes, for fear the man of God would see the depth and heat of gall in him. He listened to the scratch of the quill as the archbishop made a note in the margin of the document.

  "I will forbid the banns and delay sitting of the canonical court on this matter until the outcome of the combat," the churchman said. "If God sends that you are successful in your defense against the charge of falsehood, then follows it that between you and Dan Gian, the weight of truth is yours. The court will take fitting account of the point. If you fail—and live, by God’s mercy—then I forbid you as a proved deceiver to make further cause before the church. In absence of any earthly witness, let the Holy Spirit direct."

  * * *

  They left the archbishop’s lodgings, Ruck’s canon triumphant with success and John Marking striding ahead, clearing a path through the orderly confusion of the courtyard with ox-like resolution. Even John had to pause for a moment as the horns rang out and an opulent procession came through the gate.

  Ruck felt his elation grow cold. Behind a scarlet vaunt-guard, Melanthe rode beside Navona, who did not appear much discommoded by his ankle. She was robed in red and gold; he all in white. A tall knight trailed them, armed and horsed and squired—the Flemish champion, without doubt, looking about himself with a keen interest.

  The rest of their company came behind, faces shocking in their strange familiarity in this surrounding—Allegreto, the gentlewomen—and Desmond in the scarlet livery, wearing gloves in high summer and sitting a delicate palfrey with bored arrogance.

  "There he is!" John suddenly leaned close to Ruck. "Your friend, my lord, who gave warning of the sword."

  Ruck looked at Desmond, so unfamiliar and familiar in his finery.

  "Rides he the fourth," John said under the rising sound of halloes and grumbles, "the first in the white surcoats. Young and comely."

  "Nay—" As the company halted, Ruck’s gaze shifted from scarlet Desmond to the first rider in the milk-white livery of the Italian. It was Allegreto. "Nought in white?"

  But at that moment Allegreto’s lazy glance passed along the crowd. He looked directly at Ruck. His dark eyes took note, expressionless. With a deliberate move he pulled his light sword from its sheath and examined the blade.

  Ruck found the area around himself opening. Someone pressed him forward from behind. The Flemish knight had dismounted; the space between them was suddenly empty—a confrontation, and the voices around rose in shouts of "Saint George! Saint George!"

  The champion was a tall man, younger than Ruck by years. He skimmed the cheering English with a smile of delight and made a bow that held just the right touch of mockery, as if they were hailing him. It brought the shouts to a peak.

  Ruck stood alone but for John. The Fleming examined him and then made a courteous nod. Ruck acknowledged it. He looked past the knight to where Melanthe sat her black palfrey. Though every eye in the courtyard was fixed on him and the man he would fight, she dismounted as if neither of them existed.

  Her path lay away from Ruck. Her Italian lover took her arm, showing only a slight hesitation in his walk as he led her toward the great double tower entrance of the royal lodgings. The Flemish knight saluted Ruck and turned to follow.

  Ruck had been prepared for their first encounter by the ford, armored in hate and determination. He had wanted witnesses. This time he wanted witness as he would have wanted staring eyes on him while a lion tore his heart from his chest.

  She denied him. To his face, to the church, before the court. And Desmond—who did not look at Ruck, who did not pause or speak—Desmond saw it, and that was worst of all.

  * * *

  "The madman haunts me," Melanthe murmured, before Gian could mention it.

  He smiled, patting her arm. "Put him from your mind."

  She paused in the echoing gate passage, lowering her voice below the sound of talk and movement, speaking Italian. "Avoi, Gian, I pray you not to have him killed before this cursed duel! Or after, if you please, for they’ll never let you leave this misbegot country then!"

  "You upset yourself for no cause, sweet." His eyes went briefly to Allegreto. "Put your faith in me, and say no more."

  "Gian! You do not understand the English! If he dies by any way but in this combat, you’ll not go unscathed. Let the lawyers pay him off. Or the—"

  "I have told you not to speak of him." His fingers closed cruelly on her arm. He made her walk slowly on.

  "I only—"

  "My dear princess, if you add another word, I shall be forced to think you plead for his life because you love the poor devil."

  She bore his painful grip without wincing. "My dear Gian," she said, "if you do not heed me, I shall be forced to think you are a great fool."

  "Shall you?" He slanted a look down at her. "But in truth, Melanthe—I do not think I am."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Inside the tent the sound of the spectators was a steady mutter embroidered by music, the king’s favorite airs. John knelt at Ruck’s feet, fastening on spurs. His green plate was polished and restored, the dents beaten smooth and the silver bosses renewed.

  Ruck wore her colors, but he went to the fight not knowing her. She was the argent and green of Monteverde, or the red and gold of Bowland. She was his murderess, or she was trying to save him. She kept Wolfscar a secret to preserve it, or to discount him as a nameless adventurer. She had sent Allegreto with the warnings, or her lapdog betrayed her.

  He did not know if she wished for Ruck to win and free her, or if she hoped that he would die and free her. He did not know.

  But he shook his head to clear away fantasy. He knew. If she wanted him, all she had to do was speak what was true.

  The flap of the tent flashed open, and Allegreto stepped inside, dragging the silk full closed. "I’ve only a moment," he said quietly. "My father must not smell me here. The Fleming has been told that you cannot withstand blows to the head. ’Ware your bascinet."

  John instantly snatched up the helm. It glowed with the new burnish as he turned it over in his hands. Nothing showed on the surface. He lifted the aventail to examine the staples and then smoothed his hand over the outside curve.

  With a sudden exclamation he seized his dagger, slashed through the padded lining, and scored the inner surface. "God’s death." He held out the blade. "Look at this, my lord."

  Dark bluish shavings lay curled on the shining surface. Ruck knocked them into his palm. "Lead."

  John clouted the helm with the hilt of his sword. It cut a dent in steel too soft to withstand even a one-hand blow. He tore the leather out and explored the interior with his fingertips. "There." He pointed inside. "You can feel the place, my lord."

  The patch had been made with masterly skill, sheathed on the outside by a thin skin of finer metal. The flaw was invisible, but rubbing his fingers over the inner and outer surfaces at once, Ruck could detect the faint difference in the finish at the edges of the place, and the slight hollow in the thickness.

  It was too late to fit another bascinet. "I’ll have to use the great helm and a mail coif," he said.

  "My lord!" John stood up. "This is too much. Lay it before the marshal!"

 
"Nay," Ruck said softly. He looked to Allegreto. The youth tilted his head, a smile on his mouth that never reached his black eyes. "Why dost thou aid me?"

  Allegreto put his fingers around the tent pole. He examined the ruby ring he wore. "You were kind to me once." He shrugged, with a short laugh. "I remember it."

  "Who tries to kill me?"

  "If you will make mischief—many people."

  "Thy mistress?" Ruck’s voice was strained.

  Allegreto lifted his brows. "Show a little wit, green man."

  Ruck felt a tightness leave his muscles that he had not known was there. "Then it’s she who sent thee."

  "Must someone send me?" Allegreto made a smirk. "I come for love of you, Green Sire. How else?" He swung about the pole and paused. "Be wary," he murmured, and vanished outside.

  * * *

  The sound shivered Ruck’s head: pain first, a bright arc through his brain, and then his ears aching in the peal of metal. Each time he took a stroke, the clang stopped in his ear, building pressure, until the roar of the crowd and even the blows grew distant. He could only hear himself panting, sucking hot air through the pierced breaths in the helm; he could only see black and his opponent through the eyeslits and feel the violent swacks when he could not parry them.

  In spite of the padding his great helm shifted whenever a blow caught it, obscuring his vision for an instant. The Fleming didn’t take advantage; he flailed over and over at Ruck’s head and only shifted a few times to any other assault. The strong onslaught left the man’s body undefended on the side opposite his shield, but he rained blows so swiftly that Ruck was too occupied with deflecting them to attack.

  If the helm had not blinded him, Ruck would already have cut under this crude beating and had the man on the ground. But he dared not leave his head unprotected long enough to strike, for fear the helm would be knocked askew too far to seat again and screen his sight entirely.

  He defended with shield and sword, watching the Fleming’s arm strokes. He squinted through the slit, blinking back the sting of sweat. Stepping backward, he let the champion have control of the rhythm, retreating slowly from the blows. Through the dint and clang, the dim shouts of the spectators rose to passion as he gave way.

  The Fleming heard them, too: he renewed the vigor of his onset, faster and harder. Ruck parried in his attacker’s cadence, falling back. Inside his brain, with the ringing clash, he sang a song of war that Bassinger had taught him, the swords tolling each note. The Fleming pealed the steady motet; Ruck answered in even time.

  Then he took up the hocket—a hitch in the rhythm, counterpoint as he dropped the parry and swung his blade in attack.

  Brilliant pain flashed in his ear, a tumble of light as the inevitable strike came. His sword bit, silence to him amid the belling in his head, but he felt the jolt and pause in his arm, swung through and past it, blind entirely. The Fleming missed his motet note, but Ruck sent the hocket back in treble, up and up, a half breath off the beat, a full double-handed swing overhead and down.

  He killed the man. He could not see it, but he knew it: an instant of impact as his sword cleaved steel—and the collapse, a perception, and a dull chime of metal falling to the ground.

  He stood in sweltering darkness, gasping with exertion, the skewed slash of eyeslit a white radiance above his line of sight, the cheek padding pressed painfully against his nose. It gave him a horrible moment of helplessness, his ears ringing and his eyes blind, without defense.

  Then John was there, divesting him of the helm. It did not come off easily, beaten and wedged as it was, but when Ruck bent over and let the squire give the steel a bang from behind, the helm loosened. Ruck could barely hear the hit; he couldn’t tell if the roar in his ears was the crowd or his head. As the helm fell, the warm summer air felt like a blessed rush of coolness on his face.

  At his feet the Fleming champion lay in the trampled grass. His attendants and a physician clustered around him, but he was lifeless, his helm sundered through. Ruck stood straight. He lifted his bloodied sword and turned about to the stands. The constable and earl marshal sat beneath a canopy. A cross and Bible lay on the tapestry-covered table where Ruck and the Fleming had sworn their oaths. Beside them, on a slightly higher dais, sat King Edward himself, leaning forward, his face red with excitement, his long beard flowing down over his robes like a living and gleeful statue of Moses. The well-fed Lady Alice stood behind him, unashamed to have her hand on his shoulder.

  Ruck barely found enough breath to speak. "I wish to know—if I have done my duty—to my honor," he asked of the justices. His own voice sounded strange to him, muffled and remote. When the marshal answered that he had, it seemed that the man spoke from very far away.

  Ruck handed his sword to John and walked forward to the king. As he knelt, the block in his ear burst, and he could hear again.

  All was silence, but for his own heart and heavy breath, and the rustle of the pages of the open Bible. The crowd in the stand waited.

  "Rise, bold knight," the king declared in English. "Thou hast defended thy honor before our court of chivalry with hende sword as proper." He chuckled. "A great dunt it was! A delight to see."

  Ruck stood up. He lifted his eyes. The king was grinning, a little childgeared as they all said of him, but still a royal presence. He stroked his beard, his smile fading as he looked down into Ruck’s face.

  "But why dost thou wear those colors?" the king asked on an aggrieved note. "We ne do not like thee to changen, Ruck. Did we give thee leave to changen thy arms?"

  He spoke the name without hesitation or title, as if he knew Ruck like an old friend. A faint murmur passed over the crowd. In his amazement Ruck could not find his tongue to answer,

  "Why doth he wear green?" The king turned to Alice. "It should be azure ground, and the device a well huge werewolf depainted in black. Where is our herald of arms?"

  While Ruck stood with his limbs and his speech beyond command, the herald came forward to wait on the king. The ladies in the stands craned over the railings, staring. People whispered and leaned near one another.

  "Lord Ruadrik of Wolfscar," the king said, waving at Ruck. "Tell his arms."

  The herald bowed. "Sire, the lord of Wolfscar of the County Palatine of Lancaster may bear him a blazon of bright azure, the device a werewolf of sheer sable within."

  "There, we are exact in our memory!" The king looked triumphantly at Ruck. "We command our subject Lord Ruadrik of Wolfscar to divest himself of these and bearen his right device and colors."

  "Sire," the herald said softly, "Lord Ruadrik died in the year of the great pestilence, and all his household with him."

  "Nay." Ruck heard his own voice, still short of breath from his fight, but strong and clear. He fell on his knees before the dais. "Sire, I have sworn to conceal my name and place until I was proved worthy of it, but if God has sent to you to descry me, by what grace or method I know nought, then I avow that I am Ruadrik, son of Ruadrik of Wolfscar and my lady mother his wife Eleanor."

  The audience broke into a clamor. The king looked bewildered.

  "What proof hast thou of this, sir?" Lady Alice’s sharp voice cut through the noise.

  Ruck ignored her. She was the king’s mistress. He had heard that she would have profited greatly from Dan Gian’s betrothal bargains.

  "Sire," he said to the king, "my sovereign and beloved lord, gladly will I obey you and resume my own arms of Wolfscar from this day forward."

  The king nodded, his perplexity brightening to simple satisfaction. "We are pleased. Full oft have we been glad to see thy blazon spread in battle with our enemies. Thou mayest rise, our trusty and well-loved Ruck."

  Lady Alice put her hand on his arm and whispered into his ear. He frowned and shook his head as he listened to her. "Nay, my dear lady, we are not mistaken." He patted her hand. "The herald supports us. It is the azure-and-black wolf. Lord Ruadrik himself doth admit our verity."

  "Voire." Ruck stood with his smile breaking,
impossible to restrain. The king had recognized him. Or mistaken him for his father, but that was no less a triumph, and an elation in itself, for he had not known it possible. "Truly, sire, it is as you say." He felt sweat trickling down his temple and had to prevent himself from wiping it away.

  "Thy prize," the king said, looking about him. A man came from among the attendants, offering the king a wallet of coins. "How much?" the king whispered audibly as the attendant bowed at his knee.

  The man murmured. King Edward frowned and nodded, beckoning Ruck to approach.

  "One hundred mark," he declared.

  Ruck stepped onto the dais and bent knee, his armor clunking loudly as it hit the wooden platform. He accepted the modest purse and rose at the king’s command. Edward stood up with him.

  "A dear fight! God and Saint George!" The king clouted Ruck’s face between his palms and kissed him on the mouth.

  Then he fumbled at the golden clasp on his robes and pressed the jeweled pin into Ruck’s glove. "And here—a small love-drury, for thy service at Nottingham."

  Ruck lowered his eyes, shaking his head at the mention of Nottingham and the king’s love. "Sire, ne can I nought accepten this. My father it watz who climbed from the cellars with you and the others, sire, at Nottingham Castle. Ne yet watz I e’en born upon earth that day."

  The king held the clasp, blinking down at it. He rubbed his thumb across the gold. "Not born, by God," he muttered. "Not born." He gave a deep sigh. "Yea, it is long ago now." He looked up, his eyes vague. "Thou wert not born?"

  "Nay, sire. Watz my father who was with you, sire."

  The king seemed to grow shamefast. "Ah. Thy father. Who is he?"

  "Ruadrik of Wolfscar, sire. You called him Ruck, as I am called, too."

  "His son!" A pleased smile grew on the king’s face. "But how much thou art like him, in thy face, and thy uncouth northern tongue! Remember when we—" Then he shook his head. "But he is dead. All of them dead, Montagu and Bury—the best of men." He suddenly took Ruck’s face between his hard old hands again, the clasp pressing into Ruck’s cheek. "The most remembrance that I have shall be upon thee, and on thy needs. Keep this, I command thee."