Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  Ruck nodded. Outside, the streets were already deep in shadow, but sparked with torches and wandering groups of revelers. They showed no sign of extinguishing their fires and going to lodgings in answer to the curfew. It was often so on tournament days—but this evening every man they passed was armed, common soldiers mixing with the city watch. Colorful retainers of the tourneying knights roamed drunkenly with their swords still at their hips.

  "God’s love," Ruck muttered, "this is ripe to go ill."

  The guard at his side grunted an assent. He grabbed Ruck’s elbow to direct him into an alley. As they emerged on the other end, a hoarse voice yelled, "Hark you!" An English soldier came weaving drunkenly toward them. "Our lord!"

  His companions followed, their wayward steps enlivened by this new goal. Suddenly Ruck and his escort were surrounded by ungoverned men-at-arms, all of them familiar faces to Ruck, scowling and sullen with drink.

  "Unhand our liege, dog!" A soldier tried to pull Lancaster’s guard away from Ruck. "You won’t take him!"

  The guards’ hands went instantly to their weapons, but Ruck shoved the soldier back. "I’m no liege of yours!" he snapped. "Watch your tongue, fool. You’re stupid with ale."

  "He won’t have you, my lord," a man shouted from the back, "or throw you in prison for his pride!"

  Ruck glared. "Get to your places! The curfew tolled a quarter hour since."

  "He’ll not arrest you!" There were other men accumulating now, attracted to the shouts, crowding nearer. "He goes through us first!"

  "Have you ran mad?" Ruck exclaimed. "Disperse! I order it!"

  Some of the ones nearest him made attempts to turn, as if to obey, but the growing wall of men behind them blocked their way. Lancaster’s guards stood with their swords at ready, a tense triangle around him.

  "Disperse!" Ruck bellowed. "I’m summoned by the duke! Out of my way, whoreson!" He shoved viciously at the soldier nearest. The man lurched backward, creating a momentary opening. Roaring his displeasure and intention, Ruck knocked another one aside. He slid between the crowd and a building’s wall, using the shadows for cover to get away.

  * * *

  The Duke of Lancaster had his arm in a sling. In his capacity as Lieutenant of Aquitaine, he sat sprawled on a throne, the walls and floor of the chamber draped in cloth woven with the arms of England and France. At the duke’s side stood his brother the Earl of Cambridge. Ruck recognized the councilors—Sir Robert Knolleys, Thomas Felton, and the Earl of Bohun—men of military craft, veterans of all the savage campaigns of France and Spain.

  "Get up, knight," Lancaster said with a deep sigh.

  Ruck stood, sliding a secret look toward him. The duke appeared wakeful, but he had a sleepiness about his eyes that Ruck had seen before in men hit upon the head. His councilors had barely glanced at Ruck as he entered, but kept their close attention on Lancaster. Sir Robert scowled, standing by a table set with wine and food.

  The duke stared at Ruck for a long time, his eyes half-lidded. "It was," he said slowly, "a good fight."

  A great wave of relief fountained through Ruck. He wanted to go down on his knees again and beg forgiveness, but he kept his feet, only saying, "For the honor of the Princess, my dread lord."

  Lancaster laid his head back and laughed. His eyes focused from their drift with a sharper look at Ruck. "She’s made fools of us both, hasn’t she? Hell-born bitch."

  "My lord’s grace—" Sir Robert said warningly.

  "Ah, but my sentiment won’t leave this chamber, if this green fellow hopes to avoid my most grievous displeasure, and such jeopardy for him as that may entail."

  "My life is at my lord’s pleasure," Ruck said.

  Lancaster sat up, leaning forward on his good arm, his mouth tightened against the pain of the movement. "See that you don’t forget it. What’s your judgment of the temper outside?"

  Ruck hesitated. Then he said, "Uneasy, my lord."

  "Clear the streets, sire," Felton said.

  Lancaster turned a sneer on the constable. "With what? Your men-at-arms? They’re the ones in the streets, making mischief in the name of this green nobody."

  "They haven’t been paid, my lord," Felton said, without embarrassment.

  "And is that my fault?" Lancaster shouted, and then squeezed his eyes shut, laying his head back. "I’ll run my own coffers dry in the defense of your damned Gascon barons."

  "The prince your brother—"

  "The prince my brother is sick unto death. He’s to know nothing of this! Do not disturb him."

  There was a little silence. Then the constable said tentatively, "I believe—if my lord’s grace appeared with this knight"—he made a faint gesture toward Ruck—"they would obey this man, my lord, if he ordered them to submit to curfew."

  "By God," Lancaster exclaimed, "he knocks me off my horse and holds his sword to my neck, and now I’m to stand by him while he gives orders to the men-at-arms? Why not appoint him lieutenant and be done with it?"

  Ruck pressed his lips together, appalled. He’d felt the threat hovering over him; now it crystallized into real danger. He’d never thought Lancaster would imprison him for pride—but suddenly a new and horrifying vista opened.

  The duke seemed to catch his mute response, for he looked again at Ruck. He stared for a long, speculative moment, an assessment that chilled Ruck to the bone.

  "What do you think, Green Sire," he said, in a serious voice. "Can you control them?"

  "Your grace has the right of it," Ruck said. "It’s not seemly."

  "But you can do it?"

  "It’s not prudent, my lord," Ruck repeated, trying to prevent any note of alarm from entering his voice. "It’s not wise."

  "But if I can’t command them, or their own constable here, and you’re the only one who can keep the city from strife and riot?"

  Ruck shook his head. "I pray you, dread lord, don’t ask that of me."

  "I ask it of you. I command you to take charge of the garrison and the men-at-arms and control them."

  Yesterday such a command would have been a wonder for Ruck, a victory. Today it was the edge of a pit: the precipice of war between nobles and common soldiers, rebellion with himself at the center.

  "My lord," he burst out, "reconsider! Your head pains you to folly." He sucked in his breath, as if he could take back the brazen words as soon as they escaped.

  Lancaster rubbed his face with his good hand and looked to Sir Robert. "My head pains me in truth," he said, with something of a smile. "What do you think of him?"

  Knolleys shrugged. "He’ll be a loss to us."

  "A loss," Lancaster repeated in a silken voice, looking at Ruck from beneath lazy eyelids. "Well for you, that you didn’t leap at the command. Some here have counseled me that you’re a sly rebel, Green Sire. That you’ve kept your name secret for something less than honor, and wormed your way into a place and gained the love of my men only to inflame disloyalty and rebellion with this spectacle today. That you conspired with the princess to weaken us, in preparation for a French attack tonight or tomorrow."

  Ruck dropped to his knees. "No, my lord! By Almighty God!"

  "Who stands behind the Princess Melanthe, traitor?" Knolleys demanded.

  "I don’t know!" Ruck exclaimed. "I’m no traitor to you, my lord, I swear on my father’s soul. Her man told me that she wished me to issue challenge in her name."

  "Against your liege?" Sir Robert demanded. "And you took her up?"

  "My beloved lord, I meant you no insult. I was to challenge all comers. I’m sworn to her. Years ago—and far from here. I didn’t even know her name until yesterday. I never thought to see her again. She was..." He paused. "I swore myself to her service. I don’t know why. It was long ago." He shook his head helplessly. "I can’t explain it, my lord."

  Lancaster lifted his brows. "Can’t explain it?" He burst out in caustic laughter and held his head. "Has she bewitched us or besotted us?"

  "Send for the inquisitor," his brother said. "If s
he’s a sorceress, he’ll discover it."

  "And meanwhile? There’s no time for the inquisitor." Lancaster rested his head against the throne. "Much as I’d like to see her burn." He drew a deep breath and sighed. "But here—I find I can’t execute my green companion-in-arms, in spite of my aching head and dislocated joint. I have a fellow feeling for him, the love-struck ass. Moreover, it provokes riot."

  "Nor let him walk free," Knolleys said.

  "Nor let him free, for if he wills it or not, the men gather to him, and with the temper of the nobles, we’d have disorder enough to burn this city down. I want no rivals to my command. I need my men to fight France, not one another."

  Ruck knelt silently, awaiting his fate, watching his future dissolve before his eyes.

  Lancaster gazed at him with that sleepy speculation. "Tell me, Green Sire, what is it you hoped to gain of me, that you joined my court?"

  "My liege..." Ruck’s voice trailed off. He hadn’t envisioned that his moment with Lancaster would come this way.

  "Position? Lands? A fine marriage? I hear that the ladies admire you."

  "No." Ruck lowered his face. "I ask nothing of you now, my lord."

  "And I offer nothing," Lancaster said, "for I want no more of you. I’ve detained Princess Melanthe at the gate, so that you’ll be seen alive and well to escort her into the city. At dawn you must be off, with your princess and all her train." He smiled sourly. "And look to see me at the quay, to bid you both a cordial farewell."

  * * *

  It was for her protection, the message said. Melanthe pulled her cloak close about her in the cold darkness outside the city gate. Her little hunting entourage huddled before her. She could see torches and hear drunken shouting from within.

  If she’d had another choice, she would have turned away. The message—and signs of riot inside—were ominous. She didn’t think real trouble had erupted yet, but it might flare at any moment. Her presence alone might be enough to spark it. She doubted that Lancaster’s message to await an escort at the gate had been sent with loving concern for her safety.

  Gryngolet fluffed her feathers to keep out the cold, perching quietly on the saddlebow. The greyhound sat shivering. Melanthe looked into the blackness behind her, and admitted wryly to herself that nothing stopped her at the moment from fading into the gloom, as free as she dreamed of being, except for the mystery of how to live as anything but what she was.

  "My lady—" One of the guardsmen came striding from beneath the black bulk of the gatehouse over the bridge. "Your escort."

  Even as he spoke, the arch brightened with the flare of many torches. At the head of a score of armed men her green knight rode toward her beneath the gate.

  The torches behind him lit his mount’s breath and his own in transparent gusts of frost. He wore no armor now, only a light helmet over a bandage that shone white across his forehead. The bridge thudded with the sound of hooves and boots.

  He never looked directly at her. With a perfunctory bow he made a motion to the men to surround her horse. Placing half of the company before them, and half behind, he wheeled his mount next to hers, swept his sword from its sheath, and shouted the order to march.

  She rode beneath the archway beside him. Inside the city walls, the streets were full of men. They stared and shouted and ran beside the company. Melanthe kept her eyes straight ahead and up. Her palfrey felt very small next to the destrier, and the score of men a thin wall against violence. In some of the side streets other knights sat their mounts, swords unsheathed, staring malevolently as her escort passed. Limp bodies lay in doorways—drunk or dead, she could not tell. The high bulk of the keep itself was a welcome sight, until she saw the crowd milling and pressing below it.

  The castle gates opened slowly amid noise and disordered motion. He yelled an order, and the men-at-arms began to move, stabbing into the crowd ahead of them. In the light of the torches her cavalcade pushed through the mob. Her palfrey danced along beside the war-horse, taking hopping, frightened steps, half-rearing. Melanthe gave the horse a quick spur, and it sprang off its haunches. The gate was overhead at last—and they were through, passing into the inner courtyard. The gates boomed closed behind them, shutting out a rising roar.

  Her knight dismounted and came to her, offering his knee and arm. Melanthe took his hand for support. Hers was shaking past her ability to control it. As her feet touched the ground, she said, "You were long in coming. I’m nearly frozen through."

  She didn’t wish him to think that she shivered from fear. Nor did she thank him. She felt too grateful; she felt as if she would have liked to stand very close to him, he seemed so sure and sound, like the enclosing walls of the keep, a circle of sanctuary in the disorder. For that she gave him a sweeping glance of disdain and started to turn away.

  "My lady." He looked at her with an expression as opaque as a falcon’s steady cold stare. "I’m to escort you from here without delay. We leave at dawn, upon the tide."

  "Ah." She smiled at him, because he expected her to be shocked. "We’re cast out? Crude—but what does an Englishman know of subtlety? Indeed, this is excellent news. You’ll make all preparations for our departure to England and attend my chamber at two hours before daybreak."

  His face was grim. He bent his head in silent assent.

  "The duke has denied you, then?" she asked lightly. Melanthe held out her hands in the flicker of torches. "Green Sire, swear to me now as your liege, and I will love you better."

  His mouth grew harder, as if she offended him. "My lady, I was sworn to your service long since. Your man I am, now and forever." He held her eyes steadily. "As for love—I need no more of such love as my lady’s grace has shown me."

  Melanthe raised her chin and shifted her look past him. Allegreto stood there, watching with a smirk.

  She bestowed a brilliant smile upon her courtier and lowered her hands. "Allegreto. Come, my dear—" She shivered again, turning, pulling her cloak up to her chin. "I want my sheets well warmed tonight."

  FIVE

  The old King of England was a haggard and drunken shadow of the tall warrior Melanthe remembered. Edward’s regal progresses and tournaments lay as gemstones amid her childhood, all luster and polished steel and dazzling majesty: her father’s red and gold glistening among the other colors, sparks flying from his helmet at a hard strike; her mother’s fingers tightening for an instant over Melanthe’s hand.

  King Edward drank a long swallow of wine and handed the cup aside hastily when Melanthe entered his royal bedchamber. The king’s gray hair lay loose over the broad shoulders that once had borne armor, his mustaches flowing down into his long beard. He had the reddened nose and cheeks of too much drink, but he kept a regal posture in his chair.

  A day in London had been ample time for Melanthe to discover that he was in utter thrall to his mistress, a fine female of a stamp that Melanthe understood perfectly well. No one attended the king without consent of the feared and hated Lady Alice—and Melanthe was no exception. Alice Perrers sailed into the chamber on her heels.

  "I bring you someone you will like, my dear," Lady Alice said, plucking the goblet from the servant’s hand. She leaned over the king’s chair and kissed his forehead as she poured him more wine. He smiled dreamily at the ample bosom hovering so near his face. "Here is Lady Melanthe, the daughter of Lord Richard of Bowland, God give his soul rest. She bears gifts for you, and letters from Bordeaux. The duke writes."

  "John?" The king’s eyes brightened. He held out both his hands. His fingers shook.

  Melanthe made a deep courtesy. She rose, giving Lady Alice a significant look before she moved forward to make her offerings.

  The mistress had fattened her unofficial power so far that it was said she even sat upon the benches and threatened the justices. But Melanthe could play that game. She had lavished compliments and gifts upon this overripe and overblown person, along with hints that their interests were quite compatible. Lady Alice would not wish any powerful man, mo
st particularly someone like John of Lancaster, to marry Melanthe and combine their great estates into a domain that would challenge the king’s.

  No more did Melanthe care to marry such a man, she had assured Lady Alice. She had no ambitions beyond her father’s inheritance. Her greatest desire was to pay her levies to the king so that he might be enriched, and thus more generous yet in bestowing suitable presents upon his favorites. In her excess of goodwill Melanthe herself would make a generous present to the king’s intimates the moment a private audience might be arranged.

  Of course, if a private audience was impossible, if Lady Alice did not trust her new friend, then in Melanthe’s crushing disappointment and hurt, she feared that she must return in disgrace to Aquitaine, where his lord’s grace the duke had been most flattering in his attentions.

  Lady Alice gave Melanthe a narrow smile as she straightened from bending over the king. With much petting and many careless endearments, she withdrew. He retained her hand in a lamentably fatuous manner, but when she finally departed, leaving only the chamberlain—Alice’s man—and the servant, Edward seemed to forget her, leaning forward in his eagerness for his son’s letter.

  Melanthe made another courtesy and gave him Lancaster’s missive. She could have recited it to him, having made herself free with the wax seal before they had left Bordeaux. She watched the king frown over his eldest son’s poor health, and quicken at the news that the prince would return home to recover. She saw Edward’s mouth purse at the report of the empty treasury in Aquitaine, and the uneasy temper of the Gascon nobles.

  The tournament went unmentioned in the letter, as did the Green Sire and Lancaster’s shoulder and the duke’s soured courting of Melanthe. Lancaster merely recommended her to his father’s favor as the daughter of a loyal and beloved subject, suggesting that she be confirmed in her inheritance with all due haste—a forbearance that spared everyone, including himself, considerable embarrassment. Melanthe was greatly in charity with Lancaster at present.