Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  He returned to the arrowslit in time to see Gryngolet pounce upon the lure that Hew threw down on the frozen grass. It was a simple method, the usual way a towering falcon would be brought down. In its very simplicity, with plain Hew making in to the bird like any countryman’s falconer, the sight brought the image of Melanthe lifting her jeweled gauntlet and lure, unbearably vivid, the sky and the bird and the fire of emeralds and white diamonds as the gyrfalcon came to her hand. She had been weeping and laughing, beautiful and not, a dream within the compass of his touch.

  He watched her as she bewitched Hew into a hound in human shape. The man heeled to her with panting devotion, nodding and gazing and nodding again as she spoke. While the gyrfalcon ate, he pointed about the valley, obviously discussing the hunting.

  Ruck felt his heartbeat rise. If she thought to hunt the bird, then she did not wish to leave anon. He wouldn’t have taken her even if she desired to go, not until he could better assure her safety, but he had not relished a quarrel with her about it.

  He rolled on his shoulder and put his back to the tower wall, leaning there and staring at the gash of light that fell across the floorboards from the defensive slit. The stone was so frigid that the cold seeped through his doublet to his body, but he did not move. He knew he was not thinking clearly. Weariness misted his wits. Had it been warfare, he would have distrusted any humor or inclination now, holding himself back from hasty action.

  But it seemed that he had done naught but hold himself back for all of his life. Hard-won habit ruled him: he had only to think of her to want to couple again, and his next thought was that he must not—and only in the eternal struggle to conquer his bodily passions did it come to him that there was no longer a contest to win.

  He stared so hard at the patch of light on the boards that his eyes began to water.

  He had made a particular study of the sin of lust, with careful questions to the priests, and a certain amount of reading in confession manuals when he could examine one in French or English. He felt himself rather a master of the subject. Even on marriage, the religious did not always agree among themselves, which meant there was a little space for preferring one set of advice over another amid the thickets of clerical admonition. All admitted that there was no sin if the intention was purely to engender children, but a few maintained that any pleasure at all in the marriage bed could not be without sinful fault. Others judged that the conjugal debt was a pious duty between spouses to prevent incontinence, and the marriage act only a deadly sin if there was excessive quest for pleasure—with many fine computations of what might constitute excessive pleasure.

  Ruck found his tired spirits lifting. He was clearly incontinent, or like to be if he thought on his wife at any length at all, and the very notion of begetting a child on her sent him into a hot ardor of perfectly sinless passion. Not excessive ardor—but iwysse, if he waited too long, he judged his soul would be in certain danger.

  He pushed away from the wall, finding a new vigor in the gloom.

  * * *

  Melanthe refused to allow herself to hesitate as she opened the door. When she had returned from the mews, a girl had been waiting with the message that Sir Ruadrik asked Princess Melanthe to honor his unworthiness by her presence in his chamber—courteously worded as a request, it was true, but still her hand had lacked a little steadiness as she coaxed Gryngolet onto her perch.

  She entered the lord’s chamber expecting to be confronted by all three of them, including the two Williams, for it was always the way with favorites that they wished to be present when their rivals were diminished. But Ruck was alone. He rose from a chair as she closed the door behind her.

  "My lady," he said, "I would have you eat now."

  He placed the chair by the chimney corner, where a white linen cloth lay over the table, already laden with a meal. In his black weeds he was tall and formidable, the green of his eyes intensified by the night-hue of his clothes and hair. A fire crackled actively, warming the chamber, and fresh-cut boughs of pine drove out the stale atmosphere with their fresh scent. In the late afternoon a candle gave the table extra light.

  She was hungry indeed, but the flutter of dread in her stomach made the food unsavory. She released the pin on her cloak, and tossed it over a chest. "What did they sayen of me?" she asked haughtily, meeting the matter on head so that she might gain the upper hand by surprise.

  He looked up at her. "Say of you?"

  She washed her hands in a basin beside the door. "I warn thee, sir—is a poor master who is ruled by his servants. But of course, they will say thee otherwise, that to be ruled by a wife is worse."

  He gazed at her, a shadow of a frown between his brows. She paced to the table and sat down, scowling at a dish of wheaten frumenty, well aware that he stood close behind her.

  From the edge of her eye she could see his arm, the velvet rich with light and shadow on the black curve of his sleeve.

  She took two swallows of the frumenty, which was nearly cold and only barely palatable, before her throat closed and she could not eat more. She put down the spoon. "I ne cannot eat, ere I hear thy decision."

  "My lady," he said, "what decision?"

  "Wilt thou send me hence?"

  He walked away. Melanthe slid a look after him. He stood at the window, his back to her. "Send you hence?" he demanded harshly. "A’plight, then why haf I troubled to bringen you here, in the stead of drowning you like a kitten in a bag, for to spare myseluen the toil? If that be the decision you would hear—nill I take you hence, nay, nor any here show you the way. In good time, when augurs it safe enow, then will I see you to your hold. Henceforth until then, thou moste biden here, though it displease."

  She bent her head, clasping her fingers tight together. "Nay—I will not displease. I can maken myself pleasant to them. It is the easiest thing possible. I cannot thank them for their injury to thee and thy rightful estate, but I am thy wife, and n’would not have discord sown between us, for it bodes not well in the house." She took up the spoon again abruptly, plunging it into the pottage. "And such is a humble speech as I am not accustomed to making, in troth, but I love thee, even if I do not adore thy churls."

  She forced herself to eat, sitting on the edge of the chair with her back straight.

  From the window he spoke hesitantly. "It is nought that ye will to go?"

  She did not care to admit the depth of her desire to stay. Lightly she said, "Wysse, ne do I languish for the back of a horse again soon."

  The floorboards creaked beneath the carpets. He came behind her. "Haply is rest and a soft bed you desire, my lady, after your meal."

  If some mannered gallant had said such to her, she would have known how to understand it. But she heard naught beyond his careful courtesy in his voice, though again he stood very near her as he took up a napkin and poured hot ale from the hob. He set the kettle back.

  "Thou hast not fulfilled thy own repose," she said, watching steam rise from the gold chalice and vanish against the background of patterned silk on the wall.

  "Nay," he murmured, still close behind her. "Nay, lady."

  He offered no dalliance, and her court wit deserted her. All the words that came into her head seemed green and foolish. He sat on his heels beside her chair and served her a roasted apple. She ate a few bites. He did not rise, but remained there like a man at ease.

  She felt herself strangely daunted by him, overpowered by his greater size, the black line of his legs, the heavy square links of the belt that hung at his hips. He wore it as if it had no weight at all, though each joint, ornate and thick, studded with the silvery sable of marcasite crystals, would have balanced a cobblestone on the measuring scale. But in his velvet he moved effortlessly. When she glanced at him, his eyes were on her, his lashes showing very dark, his face somber, almost severe. As if he had forgotten himself by kneeling there, he rose instantly, drawing away.

  Melanthe was not certain of whether he had made an invitation to share the bed or not. She
ate slowly, delaying the end of her clear reason for being there in his chamber. As she sipped at the honeyed ale, she felt a miserable excitement, doubtful of what he wished. He said nothing to woo or dismiss her. She did not know if he was angry with her still. In this mute courtesy he could hide anything. She did not want to sleep alone, away from him.

  At last she set down the chalice. "I will leave thee respite then, to take thy rest as thou art due."

  She rose. With her eyes downcast she went to him and put her hands upon his shoulders. She reached on her toes and touched her lips to each cheek, lightly, taking a mannerly leave as if he were an honored guest or close kin. "Give thee good eve, sweet knight," she murmured.

  He stood still, only turning his face slightly, returning pressure in response to each kiss. She let her hands slip down his arms. His palms turned up; he caught her fingers for an instant—and then let them slide through his.

  She turned swiftly, taking up her cloak as she went to the door. At that moment she would gladly have given up all of her noble estate and forgone the cold and private luxury of the ladies’ chamber. At least she did not intend to sleep with the dust: she would rouse out these useless minstrels for a fire and proper comfort, be they pleased by it or not. By hap she could find a maid or two among the women, to make the bower clean without moving any item from its sacred place, and then invite him there on the morrow, when he might be—

  "Melanthe."

  She halted with her hand on the door hasp. He had never before called her by her name.

  He stood, all black, his legs set apart as if someone might come at him with a sword. "Art thou sore weary?" He made a trifling motion of his hand. "I ne am nought one to sleepen in the light of day."

  Pleasure and relief soared through her. "Nay, how is this?" She crossed the carpet to him and lifted her hand to his forehead. "Dost thou go sick? I have seen thee snore with some success in daylight ere now."

  "I n’would nought have thee depart so soon, if it please thee."

  "Please me?" She let her hand slip down and sighed. "What—forfeit a cold chimney and empty bower, only to suit thy liking? Verily, thou art a tyrant, husband."

  He caught her waist, holding her between his hands. She had been wary of mirrors, and compliments, but in his face as he looked down at her what she saw was desire, open and vehement, unembellished.

  "Wilt thou have me?" he asked softly.

  Almost, he frightened her, in the lightness of his hands and the calmness of his voice. He was like Gryngolet when she hunted, a silent rage, hushed violence, riding currents beyond knowing.

  "Yea," she said. "Gladly."

  His hold tightened a little. "Then I would hear—how I can best please you."

  She rested her hands on his arms uncertainly. "I am pleased with thee," she said.

  His jaw was tense. "On hap I am nought gentle enow, or skilled enow, or—what would delight thee."

  All of her experience was in denying men. For delight she knew naught beyond kisses, and lying beneath him as she had done. There was more to it, experience and skill, as he said, and a new fear sprang alive in her, that he would expect her to know such things.

  She made a small lift of her shoulders, feigning sport. "Thou moste guess what delights me."

  He looked down upon her. He lifted his hand and drew his thumb across her mouth. His green eyes showed a new light, a trace of amusement. "Then I shall take experiment of thee, lady. Happens I haf made me a modest study of wicked delectation."

  She murmured, "I thought thee chaste, monkish man."

  "Yea, I haf been." He closed his eyes and bent to her, kissing the side of her mouth. "But no monk am I in my head, God grant me pardon," he whispered. His body drew closer, velvet and taut elegance. "My confessor has chastised me oft, and bade me study on my sins at length. And so, lady"—he kissed her, the hunger in it sinking down through her like a comet falling—"I have studied."

  SEVENTEEN

  Melanthe drew a breath, tasting him on her lips, inhaling his scent. "And what hast thou mastered in thy study, learned husband?"

  He seemed to grow abashed, turning his face away. "My lady, it is all nonsense. Better thou shouldst sayen me how to give thee pleasure. Ne am I accomplished in luf wiles, truly."

  She drew her palm down the soft nape of velvet on his chest. "I would hear what thou hast learned. For my pleasure." With a light pluck she freed the topmost golden buttons on his doublet.

  He made a low unhappy laugh. "I know well that ye wields more skill in this art than I."

  She stepped back. Standing in the half-light, he appeared no innocent, but a man full in prime of carnal boldness, no more chaste than a stallion might be chaste, being beautiful and strong and only what it was, a creature made for life and union.

  "But a child am I in the craft," she said lightly. "Thou moste be my master, or nill we proceed far."

  He made no move, but stood with his hands open, a signet gleaming on his middle finger, the light sliding on his golden belt.

  She lifted her eyebrows. "Or be thou courageous in war and coward in chamber, knight, for shame?"

  She had not expected such a crude hit to touch him, but he flushed at her words, response so quick that she thought it a taunt he must have heard before. The severity came into his face again, the hunting coldness. He closed the space she had made between them and lifted his hands. Without speaking, he began to unfasten her gown.

  Melanthe stood still. The cote-hardie was not an elaborate fashion, but simple and warm for traveling, ermine-lined and buttoned. He pushed it off her shoulders. The fur hem brushed over her hands, dropping to the carpet.

  Her white damask kirtle laced beneath her arms, fitting to her body. He loosened the cords. She felt the lace slip and knot in an eyelet. He worked at it, looking down, his face close to hers. A line formed beside his mouth. He gave the tie a tug, and then a jerk, breaking it, a force that made her take a step backward for balance. Without even unlacing the other side, he lifted the damask over her head and tossed it away.

  Through her linen, she could feel the cool air. He opened his hands over her, his palms against her hips with only her thin shirt between.

  Melanthe closed her eyes. Abruptly she put her arms about his neck, arching against him on tiptoe as she had done before, seeking that delicious sensation he had given her at Torbec.

  Velvet touched her breasts. She could feel his hard belt, and silk and pressure against her belly—but somehow she could not come within reach of the pleasure. With a small sound of frustration, she fell back onto her heels.

  He pulled her closer. "Lady," he whispered against her ear. "Lie you down."

  His hands slid upward, lifting the linen with them. On the eastern carpet before the chimney, he stripped her of her shirt, baring her of all but her white hose and garters, drawing her down with him as he knelt.

  She lifted her chin defiantly, resting back on her elbows, refusing to be mortified by her nakedness like some fluttering novice nun given to visions and starvation. Shameless, he had called her—so let him see.

  But she was terrified, her heart beating so rapidly that she was sure he must discern it. She wasn’t a delicate blonde beauty, frail and dainty—she was dark-haired and white-skinned, and not a girl. Above the garters at her knees, she had two bruises on one thigh from some encounter on their wild travels, and another at her hip. He could not have spanned her waist with his two hands, and her breasts were too full to be the high round strawberries, or nuts, or even pears, sung of the ladies in romances.

  He only looked at them for an instant, before he averted his face and closed his eyes, sitting beside her with his weight on his hand.

  She lost her rebellious nerve and curled upright, hugging her legs to her. "Uncommon sour I am to beholden, then," she said sullenly. "Iwysse, a hag as old as thee!"

  "What?" he said, in a distracted voice.

  He looked strange and uneasy, frozen in place. For a moment she was in fear that he was
near a swoon or a fit.

  "What passes?" she demanded, catching his arm.

  He moistened his lips, pushing off her hand as if she offended him.

  "Avoi!" she hissed. "Do not say me thou art praying now?" She let go and plumped back upon a cushion. "Monk man!"

  "I am counting," he said tightly.

  She stared at him. "Counting what?"

  "The chimneys."

  "The chimneys!" she cried.

  He opened his eyes, looking straight ahead over her. "The chimneys, the doors—for God’s sake, ne do I hardly know what I count." He drew a breath. "I am—better now."

  He glanced at her, and then away again. Melanthe curled her fingers in her crumpled shirt. "Depardeu, I will cover myself, to spare thee this dire distress."

  His hand landed firmly over hers. "Nay—lady. If you please." He turned a look full on her, his eyes near dark as the deep evergreens, the hidden life of winter. Like a secret his faint smile touched his mouth. "In faith, is nought affliction, but too great bliss."

  Melanthe regarded him a moment. His courtesy was beyond calculating; he might say anything to maintain it. "In troth?"

  He crossed himself, his face sober. She asked suspiciously, "N’is not my body uncomely, thou think?"

  With a sound low in his throat, he stretched out his legs and lay at his length alongside her. He laid his hand between her breasts and drew his knuckles downward, over her belly. His dark lashes lowered. He smoothed his hand up to her knee and down her hose to her ankle, up again, then between her legs, burying his fingers in her curls.