Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  Sir Ruck seemed to have a particular interest in this kennel, or the scaffold beyond it that supported men at work on the masonry. They appeared to be about repairs. It was not a highly fortified place. He turned away.

  Amid the general turmoil of arrival, Henry assigned a servant to them. As the man came forward, kneeling and eyeing Hawk warily, Sir Ruck unpinned his mantle, letting it fall back.

  "This needs mending, wench," he said over his shoulder to Melanthe. "Let me see it nought till thy work is done."

  Melanthe gathered the mantle, using it to muffle Gryngolet, holding falcon and cloak in a bundle against her breast. The gyrfalcon’s talons gripped hard on her glove, and the bells gave a muffled plink, but Gryngolet made no other protest.

  Sir Ruck dismounted, swinging his leg high over the saddlebow and dropping to the ground beside her, lifting his arm before the servant could step forward to offer aid. "Come, wench."

  Melanthe held her armful of falcon and wool close to her breast as he pulled her down. "I am counting every one, thou shouldst knowen," she said, smiling up at him as her feet touched the ground.

  He tapped her cheek with mailed knuckles. "Counting what, wench?"

  "Six," she said sweetly, turning to follow the rest into the hall.

  He put his hand on her shoulder. "Do nought stray off from me, wench."

  "Oh, think thee that I jape?" She stopped. "Seven."

  In his eyes was that subtle hint of a smile she was coming to recognize. "Keep thee close. In faith, thou art the comlokkest wench in this company. I be jealous over thee."

  "Ah," she said mildly, "four limbs broken, two eyes put out, and thy nose cut off. But eight—wee loo, I shall have to put my mind to eight and show a little invention."

  He went down on his knee and hung his head. "Truly, I am villainous," he said in extravagant humility. "I beg my lady’s grace. Ye are a true gentlewoman, and no common wench."

  One of the other females clapped. "Now shall we have some noble talking! Certain it is that your lady is the more gracious, sir, and deserves dainty words."

  Amid feminine acclaim, the men groaned. "I warned you," Henry complained from the hall door. "Now will they all wax wondrous proud, these women, and want us to lie abed and write them poetry!"

  Sir Ruck stood up and gave Melanthe a light push. "Nay, nought poetry," he said.

  Henry laughed and shrugged. "Haps not. Bid you enter, my lady, and I pray my hall be not too common for your comfort!"

  * * *

  Ruck did not think they had a chance of concealing the gyrfalcon for long, He had a tale prepared for the moment of discovery, but saw no reason to tell it sooner than he must. They would not linger in this place. Ruck disliked the look of it. Henry was preparing for defense—piercing arrowslits in his wall and strengthening his gatehouse and outer works—by hap it was only with the outlaws of the Wyrale in mind, but Sir Geoffrey of Torbec had no brother that Ruck knew.

  Still, the servants did not appear misused. The only evidence of distaste for Henry that Ruck had seen was the huntsman’s contempt for taking hart out of season. Hospitable the man might be, and affable, but it told something of his nature that he would choose to hunt a hart in fermysoun over a boar fitting to the season.

  His guests appeared to be no more than a pack of gaily dressed young ruffians, idle sons of squires and country knights. If the nearness of pestilence concerned them, they answered it with mirth and jest, as some were always wont to do. Still, Ruck looked them over to see if he might make use of a pair or three as an escort. They might be bored and willing, he thought, if he made it worth their while.

  As they entered the hall, Henry gave orders that as an honored guest, Ruck be conducted to a private chamber. The princess walked ahead of him past servants setting up the trestle tables in the hall, her muddied ermine sweeping the woven rushes, the gold fret in her hair catching what light there was falling down from the smoke hole in the roof. She did not make a half-convincing wench. It was impossible to pass her off as lowborn; clearly she had sense enough not even to attempt it. But she might be as haughty as she pleased; Ruck had no fear that she would be unmasked. It was all too fantastical. What should these men think, that the heiress of the Earl of Bowland would ride out of the woods mounted astride behind a wandering knight? If he had proclaimed her by name, he could not imagine that they would have believed him.

  Ruck was surprised to find himself and his leman favored with a solar room, where the winter sun fell through a barred window onto the bedcurtains and a pair of stools. There was even a chair. The servant knelt before it.

  Ruck strode forward and sat down. While the princess stood holding her burden, he thrust out his feet and let the attendant pull off his steel sabatons, then waved the man away. "My woman will despoil me of my harness."

  The servant bowed. "Will you have a bath of water, sir?"

  "Certes he will!" the princess ordered, gesturing briskly, "Needst thou ask such a witless question? Neither hot ne cold, but temperate, with balms as my lord likes. A fire mote be laid here in the chimney and the bath placed before it. Bring him spices, do ye have them, with good wine."

  "Yea, my lady." The servant seemed to hunch before such sharp and easy command.

  She followed him as he retreated toward the door. "And rich robes, to the honor of this house. And cushions for his comfort. And—iwysse, inquire of thy master, fool—if he has sojourned in the halls of great men, he will know alwise what is required. See that thou dost not return ere all is suitably in order for a guest of my lord’s estate!"

  "Yea, my lady. Anon, my lady." The door closed behind him as he bowed out hastily, muttering compliance. Princess Melanthe secured the hasp with her free hand.

  "That should keep him some little while," she said, throwing the cloak off her falcon. "If they can find thee a rag worthy of the wearing in this place, I were seized with surprise."

  The bird roused and stretched her wings. Ruck stood. Princess Melanthe caused the hooded falcon to step backward onto the arm of the chair he had emptied and then gave him a dry look of question.

  "We stay only the night, my lady," he said in answer. He pulled off his gauntlets and opened the buttons on his armor-coat, shrugging it from his shoulders. "If the bird be remarked—I descried and trapped her in the forest, and return her now to the master who was named on her varvels. I do not show her much abroad, for her value is too great to risk."

  She took up his cloak and arranged it as if it had been casually flung over the chair back, cascading down to form a tent over the falcon. "The huntsman saw her," she said.

  "Yea." Reaching awkwardly behind his shoulder, Ruck tried to unbuckle his cuirass, managing only the uppermost clasp. "But I think me he says little to his lord, for he is too shamed and wroth over the hart. E’en does he, what of it?" He gave up on the buckles, leaned against the wall, and bent down to unfasten his greaves.

  "I like it not. Let us fly soon."

  He looked up at her. She stood in the middle of the room, staring about at the walls and window with a troubled aspect. "My lady," he said. He straightened and walked to her. "Ye be nought at ease?"

  "Nay." She lifted her eyes to his, and then averted them. "Nay, in truth I am not easy in this chamber."

  He paused. Awkward silence swallowed the room. She stripped the hawking gauntlet from her hand and cast it down.

  "Rather would ye bed with the ladies?" he asked.

  "Nay!" she said quickly, and then gave a short laugh. "Ladies, are they? And thou namest me wench."

  He could see apprehension concealed beneath her taut mirth. He did what he should not have; he put his hand to her cheek, caressing her skin with the pad of his thumb. "My lady, only for your safekeeping."

  "Nonetheless, I take account of all these wenches on thy tongue," she said, with determined irony in the curve of her lips. "Thou wilt getten above thyself."

  "Nay," he whispered. "Always at your command, sweet lady."

  "Ah, God." A
small sound came from her throat. "I’m frightened here. Must we have people and intrigue? The forest was better. I would rather have us sleepen upon the ground than be slain in a soft bed."

  "What fantasy is this?" He took her face between his hands. "By hap this man n’is nought as good alloy as the sterling, but what would gain him to slay us?"

  A barely perceptible tremor passed through her. For a moment she stared up into his eyes, and then let go a sharp sigh. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing. I am witless."

  "I will sleep before the door tonight. Ye are safe." The urge to enfold her in his arms near took possession of him. His body read the same longing in hers: she stood still, yet it was as if she were drawn invisibly toward him, as if she waited for him.

  Fine as the edge of a blade, the moment held him in balance. He looked at the fingers of his own hands against her skin, not daring to seek her eyes. The sight of his flesh touching hers seemed illusion, shameless confidence, as if he truly possessed the right. He dropped his hands.

  "Will ye given help to me, my lady?" Making effort at a smile, he turned aside. "Be I nought above myseluen to asken it, wench—the buckles."

  THIRTEEN

  To wear robes, however common the woven stuff and decoration might be in Princess Melanthe’s estimation, was a luxury that never palled for Ruck. Seldom enough did he leave off his armor in the usual way of things; in the past fortnight he had slept and lived in it as if he were on the march. But for the moment he did not have to tolerate the seam in the cuir bouilli where the leather corner had pulled loose and curled when it dried, chafing his left armpit with every step, or ignore the pinch of the cuisses’ straps behind his thighs, or bide the clumsy weight of chain mail over every inch of his body. He felt light, as if he were made of thistle silk.

  His head felt a little light as well as his body, after whiling the afternoon at Henry’s table. Ruck had joined the company’s meal alone, leaving Princess Melanthe in their chamber. Staring down into his wine cup, he grew warm thinking of her. She had watched the servant bathe him and dress him, sitting cross-legged upon the bed in that way she did—more wench than gentle lady in that pose, he thought pungently— giving keen orders for his care, insisting upon bobbaunce and pomp as if he were some prince. She had even rejected the first robes they brought, sending back for a better selection. Ruck suspected he was wearing Henry’s best Christmas houppelande of blue wool and miniver, chosen by her with disdain from among the sparse variety.

  The household seemed torn between resentment at such treatment by a stranger’s concubine and awe of her manners. Word had clearly gotten back to Henry. The young man who styled himself the lord of Torbec leaned close at the table and murmured that he supposed Ruck’s lady had been some time at court. Ruck had merely shrugged. Henry, wearing an avid look, had ventured the conjecture that she was accustomed to the favor of great men. Ruck leaned back with his wine cup and smiled. "Yea, and cost me the Fiend’s expense, she does, to keep her as she’s wont," he had said, to dampen any covetous ideas.

  "Witterly, I can believe it," Henry said, losing his eagerness and turning to his unpolished country maid with a little better cheer.

  A bachelor’s hall it was, full of hunting dogs and weaponry, with no mistress to foster seemliness or hold the rougher games in check. After a plain and abundant dinner, no one answered the bell for Nones or left to train in the yard. Instead, they spent all the day and into the evening talking of hunt and battle, arguing the merits of Bordeaux steel against the German, wrestling between themselves or, near as ungently, with their willing ladies.

  Ruck offered no opinion on the question of the best steel, though they pressed him for his judgment. He listened to them talk. They had the restless violent vigor of youth, and words enough to spend about weapons and fighting, but no more discipline than a band of untaught mongrels; half wolf and half cur, without the sense to know that only because they sat at table in drink and idle discourse about a warrior’s concerns, they were not, ergo, great warriors themselves. He might have made much of them, given the time. But he counted them useless for his immediate need, too full of themselves to be trusted.

  Arrowslits in the wall or no, Sir Geoffrey of Torbec would make short work of these infant brigands when he returned from Gascony. However that might be, alone and responsible for the princess, Ruck did not care to stir the hornet’s nest.

  He sat without saying much, though he took care to be a pleasant guest, not to smile too little or drink too lightly or leave too soon. At evensong he rose, standing carefully to surmount the turngiddy feel of the wine in his head, and shamed them into mass only by asking the way to the chapel.

  * * *

  He came at dusk, at last. Melanthe was furious, mad with waiting. She rose and went forward as the servant lit him into the chamber with a branch of candles. As if she were the fondest of lovers, she put her arms about him, stood on tiptoe, and hissed French in his ear. "There are spying holes."

  He looked down at her. In the falling shadows his face was handsome; his breath heavy with wine. If he heeded her warning, or had even heard it, he made no sign. He sighed and stood holding her, his hands clasped around her hips.

  "I am old," he said gloomily.

  Melanthe commanded the servant with a gesture, dismissing him. She had intended to point out to Sir Ruck the carved masks in the wall, where the peeks were concealed, but she hesitated.

  "Old," he said. "Three ten years."

  She pushed back. "No more old than I, then," she retorted in French, disengaging herself. "So spare my feelings and say no more of it. Come and sit thee down."

  There had been watchers off and on at the holes all the day. She could not hazard speaking to him openly, even in French. And she had never seen him in his cups; she did not know how much wit she might expect of him. Haps it were better to curb any discourse and put him readily to bed.

  His fingers twined loosely in hers, he let her lead him. He did not sit, but looked at the bed as if it were the grave of a long-lost faithful hound. He shook his head, pulling his hand from hers and reaching for his sword that lay with his armor. "The door," he said, using English. "For your safe keep, my lady."

  "My safe keep!" she responded lightly, as if he japed. "What safer than thy close embrace? Best-loved, come thee all haste to bed."

  "To bed?" With a newly aware look, he stopped in the midst of a half turn away. "Lady?"

  She tilted her head toward the masks, smiling. He only gazed at her carefully, with the diligent attention of a man mindful of his dazed condition.

  "My truelove, my honeycomb—" She put her arms about him again, and leaned until he took a step backward. "Lovedear, sweeting, ne let us not linger in disport and speech as is our wont. I can govern my ardor no longer. I crave a kiss for thy courtesy." Fervently she embraced him, pressing him off balance in the zeal of kisses that she showered over his chin and throat, pushing him step by wavering step until his back met the wall beneath the masks.

  Before she could point upward, he grasped her close and hard, making a sudden mockery of her wiles. The abrupt grip stole her balance. His hands spread across her loins, pulling her against his body. With a low, hoarse sound he buried his face in her neck and made a motion of pure lust, straining her to him.

  It was no counterfeit passion or monkish restraint. Through the muffling robes, his full member thrust between them. His fingers pressed into her, spreading her buttocks, touching her in a way no man had ever dared touch her. He pushed his knee into the space between her legs, forcing her to open for him as if she were an unwilling whore.

  Melanthe drew in a sharp breath as the embrace spun beyond familiar ground. He lifted his head, resting it back against the wall, his eyes closed. But he did not let her go. His hips moved in a pushing stir against hers, without shame, rubbing the firm bulk of his tarse to her belly, even against her privy-most quaint.

  Kisses she knew, and courtiers’ games of dalliance, but nothing of a man’s member beyond
the cramp and discomfort of her husband’s bodily company, so long past and fleeting that it seemed to have no share of this. A spring of delicious sensation arose from this touching, ungentle though it was, a delight in fleshly vices. She let it take her, became his common wench and leman in truth, as light as these brazen country maids whose loves made no difference to the world beyond their beds.

  He was wanton drunk; she knew it, but she made no warning or protest when he sought her lips and kissed her, searching inward with his tongue, wine-flavored and reckless in his trespass. She took his tongue into her mouth and pressed her lap to his in pleasure, welcoming the hunger in him.

  His open hands slid across her hips and up to her waist. Her hair was loose. She had left off her heavy azure gown after her bath, to be brushed and cleaned, changing it for a lent one of scarlet that was made for close measure and immodest display.

  He ran his hands up and down her sides, from her hips to her breasts. "I haf seen this," he said, his mouth close to hers. "Your white skin." There was a doted awe in his voice. "Your body all bare, below thy mantle."

  She smiled, tilting her head back. "Suis-je belle?"

  "Ye are beauteous," he said, closing his fingers on her hair. "By Christ, ye are beauteous."

  From overhead issued a feminine giggle, smothered but distinct. His hands leapt away from Melanthe; he jerked upright, searching the shadowed chamber with appalled bewilderment.

  Melanthe put her fist under his jaw and made him look upward. Faint light from the hidden holes illuminated odd shadows, picking out detail in the dusk.