Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  He came up onto the porch, disposing himself so that he showed a fine length of hose and slender leg. "My heart was full broke," he said, "that thou didst not come down to the hall yesterday, lovely. And now thou art on thy way."

  Melanthe gave him a look of disdain. She would not retreat a step, lest he think he had success at stalking her.

  He moved about behind, into the shadow of the porch. "A kiss to God-speed thee, sweetheart." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Look, he’s not watching."

  "Thy swaddling drags, infant."

  His hand dropped away. She took the moment to move out of the cover, but before she could advance, he gripped her arm. It was the one on which she held Gryngolet; she stopped, unable to jerk free without risking the falcon. In the moment of her hesitation, he hauled her up into the porch and pressed her back to the wall, holding her shoulders.

  "Scream if thou wilt," he said. "It is fifteen to one against him." He grinned in the half-light. "Haps I’ll give thee a better parting gift than a kiss, my duck, here and now."

  Her free hand was already on her dagger. She saw a figure behind him, but Melanthe made a cut just to instruct the fellow. He jumped back with a shriek into Sir Ruck’s arms.

  "Thy duck renays thy gift, infant," she said coldly.

  He was bleeding from a light slash across his upper thigh. Sir Ruck scowled fiercely, gripping the man, but the corners of his mouth would not quite turn downward.

  "Vicious bitch!" Her bleeding gallant made a lunge toward her, but could not free himself.

  "Give thanks that I ne did not prune thee entire," she said, and swept away, off the porch.

  "Bitch!" A scuffle sounded behind her. "Thieving, whoring bitch—stop her! Henry! There’s something in that bundle!"

  Melanthe halted. They stood about her, some grinning, some grim. Henry looked at her and then up at the porch. "In the bundle? Nay, sir—is this how you return my hospitality? To steal from me?"

  Sir Ruck let go of his prisoner and strode down the steps. "Ne would I. Only the food ye ha’e offered us freely do we take, and God give you grace for it. Naught that she carries belongs to thee, in faith."

  "Let us see it then."

  "I will tell you what she holds," Ruck said. "It is a falcon that I recovered in the forest. We take her to her rightful owner."

  "A falcon!" Clearly they had had no such notion. Henry looked about him and then insisted, "Nay, I will see it."

  Melanthe glanced at Sir Ruck. He nodded at her. "Uncover her, then."

  She was wary of this, but saw no choice. Gently she lifted the folds of the mantle, allowing Gryngolet’s hooded head to appear. She kept the wool draped over the rest of her, hoping that would be enough. It was a plain white hunting hood, adorned only with some silver leaf and green and white plumes. She did not allow the snowy feathers of the gyrfalcon’s shoulders to show.

  A ripple of regard passed through the company. Gryngolet turned her head, opening her beak to the cold air.

  "What, a falcon peregrine, by Christ? Why did ye not say? We would have put her in the mews last night. Who owns her?"

  "A lord of the midlands," Ruck said shortly. "I durst nought mix her with other birds, sir, if it offend you nought."

  Henry shrugged. "Our hawks are in health," he said with a little indignation.

  "She n’is nought mine," he said. "I mote take extraordinary care."

  "Yea, there will be a reward in this—" Henry paused, He grinned. "Whose is she?"

  The light of greed in his eyes was unmistakable. Ruck walked to his destrier’s head, taking the reins. "Come," he said to Melanthe. "Sir, I recovered the falcon, and such reward as there might be, though I think it be little enow but a few shillings and thanks, belongs to me."

  "Is she the king’s?" Henry demanded. "Hold the horse, Tom!"

  "Nought the king’s, nay."

  Sir Ruck caught Melanthe at the waist and lifted her, but Henry lunged forward, pulling him backward off balance. Melanthe’s feet hit the ground; she stumbled for balance, clutching Gryngolet to her breast.

  Henry grabbed her arm. "I’ll see the varvels for myself," he snapped.

  Melanthe held the gyrfalcon close. "Here—" She flicked the wool mantle back from her wrist, revealing Gryngolet’s jesses dangling from within her closed gauntlet. "Canst thou read, my prince?"

  Henry cast her a bristling glance and caught the leash, holding it out to peer closely at the flat rings of the varvels where her name was engraved. Like the hood, they were extras for the field that she carried in her hawking bag, made of silver but unadorned.

  "Is in Latin. Pri—ah...Mont—verd?" He dropped the jesses. "Never have I heard tell of the man. Where dwells he?" Before anyone could answer, he grabbed a jess again and reexamined it. "Princ—i—pissa? Is he a prince, by God?"

  "A princess," said the bleeding gallant. "A foreigner."

  Henry scowled. "Foreign."

  "Let me see." Her troublesome lecher moved closer, taking up the jesses. He examined them both. " ’Bow’—the leash has rubbed the letters. ’Count—of Bow and—"

  "Give me the bird, wench, and mount." Ruck held out his thickly gloved fist. "Ne do nought stond there, as if thou be rooted to the ground."

  "Hold!" Henry gripped his wrist. "Ye’ve had my hospitality, ye and your leman, green fellow, without e’en the courtesy of your name. Do ye deny me a small token of your thanks?"

  Ruck tore his hand from the other man’s grasp. "If it is the falcon you desire, n’is nought mine to give."

  Henry smiled. "Only let me carry it. A prince’s falcon. When will I have such a chance?"

  Sir Ruck stared for a moment at him, and then looked at Melanthe. "Let him carry it, then."

  She drew in her breath, standing still.

  "Give me the leash, wench, and mount," Ruck snapped. "Do as I say!"

  She let the folded leash drop from her lower fingers, gathering it untidily in her fist.

  "Bring me my glove!" Henry ordered. "All haste!" A servant ran. "Strike the hood. Let me see her."

  Melanthe glanced at Ruck, feeling her heartbeat rise. "I know not how."

  "Nay, I’ve had nonsense enow of thee," he said as he moved close. He drew the braces open himself, took the plumes between his fingers and lifted the hood. He reached to slip the wool from Gryngolet’s shoulders, but now that the gyrfalcon could see, her patience reached its limit. She screamed, lifting her wings. Without thinking, Melanthe let the mantle drop, fearing she would bate and tangle in it, breaking feathers.

  Gryngolet’s white plumage glowed, marked only by the dark, shining fury in her eyes as she rowed the air, shrieking her displeasure with this place and her treatment.

  In the astounded silence her shrilling was the only sound. Even the loose dogs stopped and looked up. Sir Ruck was the single human who moved, closing his hands about Gryngolet’s body the moment that she folded her wings.

  "Mount!" he said through his teeth as the gyrfalcon shrieked again. He lifted her from Melanthe’s fist.

  He was looking at Melanthe as vehemently as the trapped falcon stared at her tormentors. A boy ran up with Lord Henry’s glove and bag. Melanthe held to Gryngolet’s tangled leash, and let go. She gave Ruck a beseeching look, not to lose her dearest treasure.

  But he only glared at her and jerked his head toward the destrier.

  "A white gyr," Henry breathed reverently, pulling on his gauntlet. "Pure white, by all that’s holy!" He took the jesses and wadded leash as Sir Ruck set the falcon upon his hand. "Ah...depardeu, she is glorious."

  "I haf heard the penalty for theft of such," Sir Ruck said. "An ounce of flesh cut from the thief’s breast and fed to the bird." He put his hands at Melanthe’s waist and lifted her up onto the pillion.

  "Nay, do you think I mean to stealen her?" Henry asked with a false and sweet indignation. He reached to untangle the leash, but Gryngolet bit wildly at him, almost bating off his fist. He jerked his hand away with a curse.

  Sir Ruck wa
s still looking up, scowling intently. Melanthe shifted her leg across the horse and sat astride.

  "I think you too wise a man, my lord," he said, mounting up before her and glancing down at Henry. "Now ye hatz carried her, we will take her back to her true owner."

  The lord of Torbec was still trying to straighten the leash. Unable to risk his free hand near the bird, he opened his lower fingers to let the tether fall free of its tangle. Melanthe saw him do it; she saw Gryngolet bate again, thrusting off, her powerful wings scooping air—and the falcon bounded free, tearing the twisted leash from his loose fingers and carrying it away.

  Henry clutched at thin air, as if he could grab her, but she was gone, pumping up over the stables and the wall. "A lure!" he shouted. "Oh, Christ—here—bring her in!"

  A chorus of whistles and frantic shouts followed Gryngolet. Sir Ruck reached back and grabbed Melanthe’s arm, gripping so tightly that a whimper of pain escaped her instead of the cry to call the falcon home that sprang to her throat.

  "Please!" she hissed. Gryngolet had swung back, circling and playing in lazy drifts over the yard, still gripping the tangle of leash, unaccustomed to being flown from inside manor walls where dogs and people were milling in confusion.

  "Get back, give me room!" Henry held up a leather lure, with a hastily attached garnish of meat from the mews. He shouted and whistled, whirling the temptation overhead as the company scattered.

  The falcon dropped playfully toward the toll and rolled out of her stoop halfway, dancing upward over the hall roof. She circled the yard, ringing up to a higher pitch before she stooped again. Henry threw down the lure as she came.

  Ruck still held Melanthe in a death grip. Gryngolet dived on the downed lure and made a cut at it, leash and all, then passed right on over the gatehouse. She soared, silent without her bells. She was in one of her mirthful moods, twisting and pumping lazily, looking back at them as if in jest.

  Henry whistled frantically, swinging the toll again. Melanthe’s heart was in her mouth. She feared the garnish was of pork, a meat that Gryngolet loathed. With no bells to locate the falcon, the dangling leash was a death warrant for her if she escaped now—she would catch it in a tree and hang head downward until she died.

  Gryngolet turned back. She almost came to light on the gatehouse, then changed her mind, nearly catching a loop of the leash on an empty banner pole. Curious of the whistling, the gyrfalcon sailed over them, looking for the other hunting birds that she would expect to see among the company—for Melanthe’s usual call was no whistle, but her own voice.

  The lure spun. Gryngolet trifled about it. She swung in dilatory circles just over their heads. After a few rings she began to ignore the lure and tighten her compass, centering on Melanthe.

  Everyone in the yard stared in silence as the falcon swung about her, disdaining the meat, passing Melanthe’s head so close she could feel the windy whisper. Sir Ruck kept her hand forced down.

  "Princess!" It was the chestnut-haired gallant shouting. "Shut the gate! Look at it—Christ’s rood, she’s a princess!" He began to run for the passage. "That bird belongs to her!"

  Ruck released her hand. Instantly Melanthe lifted it, calling Gryngolet urgently to her fist as he spurred the horse. There were men already running toward the gatehouse, Henry yelling frenzied commands, a sudden tumult, shouts of "Princess!" and "To ransom!"

  Gryngolet came, landing just as the destrier lunged into motion. Melanthe grappled for the tangled leash; in the sudden thrust forward the gyrfalcon near fell backward, beating her wings, but her talons gripped and Melanthe swung her arm back to absorb the force.

  A pair of men almost reached the gate too soon, but a blond youth in skin-toned hose collided with them, such a bumble that it was as if he’d intended it, sending them all sprawling to the ground only a foot from the horse’s massive hooves. Hawk swept past them.

  His hooves hit the bridge like the sound of boulders rolling, a pounding rumble and then the wind as he lengthened his stride to a gallop beyond the walls.

  * * *

  Sir Ruck guided the stallion out from among the trees into an abandoned charcoal burners’ clearing. They had made haste some distance down the road from the manor of Torbec and finally slowed to a walk, allowing Melanthe a few moments to untangle the leash and jesses she’d been gripping and arrange herself and Gryngolet to more secure positions. When he’d turned the horse off the road, circling back through the forest, Melanthe had realized for the first time that they had been fleeing in the same direction they had first come to Torbec.

  They had traveled without speaking. Melanthe did not know whether they passed near again to Torbec; the woods were thick and crossed by many paths. He had reined the horse sometimes left and sometimes right, halting now and then to shade his eyes and look up through the bare branches at the winter sun. His mantle was missing, dropped in the yard in the wrangling over Gryngolet, and the light gleamed on his shoulder harness, showing scratches and the arcs of cleaning scours in the green-tinged plate.

  In the deserted clearing they dismounted. Gryngolet was flustered and hungry, and Melanthe felt likewise. Sir Ruck reached for the bag of foodstuffs. "Sit you, my lady, if you will, and take refreshment."

  He nodded toward a thronelike seat that had been cut out of a tree stump. Melanthe perched Gryngolet there on the tall back of it, tying the leash to a heavy shoot that had sprouted from the old roots. He brought the bag and handed her a piece of rolled fustian.

  "I did steal something of Henry after all," he said. "Two cockerels fresh from a hen’s nest, for the bird."

  Melanthe accepted the packet, drawing a deep breath. "Almost were we without need of food for her."

  He shrugged. "With a choice betwixt the two of you to bringen out of there—" He hesitated. "In faith, I reckon that a wife warms me more pleasantly than a falcon, my lady."

  Immediately he turned away, as if he shied from his brash speaking. He squatted down and held the food bag open, scowling into it.

  Melanthe felt the touch of shyness, too. She laid one of the cockerels across her glove and offered it to Gryngolet, then sat down on the edge of the tree stump, taking refuge in a pragmatic tone. "We could have ransomed her back, if that little mar-hawk of a lord could have retained her long enough." She made herself look at him, though his head was still bent over the food. "Sir Ruadrik, I have been in consideration of our nuptial contract."

  His hand arrested in his laying out of bread and cheese. Then he went on with the task, saying nothing. He rose and bent knee before her, offering food on a white cloth. Melanthe took it on her lap.

  "There are many matters to be studied," she said. "My dower and thy courtesy, and—how best to reconcile the king that we have married without his license."

  "My lady wife." He stood up. "I ne haf thought on naught else all this morn. If ye wish it—" He stared past her at the ground, his face grim and empty of emotion. "There was no witness on earth to our vows. Nill I nought hold you fast to your words, do you think on them today, that they were said in haste or to your harm. It is a poor cheap for thee, such a marriage. All the advantage be mine, though I seek it nought. I ask nothing of thy wealth; I will have none of it, and yet still I know that the king may in his anger strippen thee of what is rightfully thine. Therefore, I will release thee from any duty or avowel to me, if thou wish it so." He raised his eyes to meet hers, his jaw firm-set. "As for myseluen—if be so much as high treason that I haf married thee, then I will die for it, but ne’er will I forswear it."

  "How then could I do less for thee?" she asked softly.

  He turned away to the horse, removing its bit so it could graze. With his back to her he said, "God save us both."

  "Amen," she said. "Have a little faith in my wits, too. I have me more than the king."

  He remained gazing at the horse and then looked over his shoulder with a slight smile. "My lady, look what you come to—" He shook his head, opening his arms to take in the clearing. "A stump f
or a chair and me for a husband. There be peahens with greater wits than yours."

  "A poor comment on the king," she said.

  He turned, with a serious look. "When I haf my lady safe, I will go and supplicate of him at any price, that thou moste nought be disseized of thy possessions and title on account of me."

  "Nay, leave the king to me." She frowned thoughtfully at the black mound of a decaying charcoal kiln. "I think His Majesty may be appeased, if the thing is laid before him deftly. And even should he not, or someone else make trouble—well, I have searched on the matter in my heart." She took a deep breath. "I have said that my estates are of no great concern to me. I will sweepen the hearth myself if I mote."

  He laughed aloud, a sound that rang in the little clearing—the first time Melanthe had ever heard his uncontained amusement.

  She turned in indignation. "Thinkest thee I would not?"

  He was grinning at her. "I think me thou wouldst maffle the business right royally, madam,"

  "Pah." She flicked her fingers and ate a bit of cheese. "How difficult can it be?"

  He came to her and took her face between his bare hands. "Ye ne were born to sweepen a hearth. I’m nought so poor that my wife mote be a chare woman, but n’would I haf thy property reduced one shilling by cause of me."

  "Think again on it. The favor of kings be not meanly bought. For such a crime as this, gifts and presents moten be spent to appease him." She lifted her brows. "Lest thou wouldst rather forswear this marriage thyself, so that I may keep all."

  His gaze traced her face. "I have said that I will nought, for my life."

  Melanthe dropped her gaze. "Speak not of such cost; I dislike it." She reached up and pulled him down toward her. "Enough of heavy words. Sit by me, beau knight, and let me feed thee milk and honey with my own fingers."

  He sank down cross-legged beside the stump, leaning his shoulder on it. "Hard cheese and havercake, it looks to me."

  "Ah, but I have said a great spell and turned it to honeycomb." She passed him down a lump of cheese and broken bread.