Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  "Christ’s love!" He staggered to his feet. He’d slept the night through like a dead man.

  A horn called again, and he realized that the sound had been reverberating in his dreams since before he’d come awake. Another followed: relays, he thought, with the quarry sighted. He stared unseeing out the door, listening for the direction that they took. Another hound joined in, and the pack took up their song. Two horns blew the chase, acknowledged by a hou hou hooouuu—more distant yet—and the whole hunt was laid out like a map in his mind.

  "We! Lady!" He wasted no time in formalities, but shook her by the shoulder, all but dragging her to her feet.

  She gave him one wild look, as if she, too, could not find her bearings—and then her expression relaxed, focusing on him.

  He was already gathering up their gear. "A hunt," he said. "Get you and the falcon to horse, all speed, and chance we’ll meet them in the chase."

  "Meet them?" She stood as if bewildered. "But pestilence—"

  "Sick men do not hunt. The falcon, lady. Hood her, so that we may go in haste." He tossed the hawking-bag to her. "A lord it will be, perhaps even the king’s men, to hunt here with hounds. Welcome we’ll plead, on your behalf. Quickly now, my lady, before we lose the horns."

  Already they grew fainter, the song of the hounds almost vanished. As she took up her bird, he forced the buckle of his sword belt closed. He grabbed his helm, not taking time to put it on, and jostled her out the door before him.

  * * *

  Melanthe rode astride behind Sir Ruck, for she couldn’t have balanced Gryngolet on her fist and held to his waist on the pillion. They came upon a straggler first, a sullen huntsman swinging the loose leashes of his hounds, walking as if he had no urgent desire to catch up with his dogs even though the horns had already blown the death. She peered over Sir Ruck’s shoulder as he reined the horse to a walk.

  The huntsman hadn’t even turned to look at them when the destrier broke out from the heavy underbrush behind him, but only moved aside from the path, making way.

  "Hail, good sir," her knight said in English, bringing them up beside him.

  The huntsman turned, as if the address startled him. He ducked into a bow, kneeling with his face down.

  "Rise." Sir Ruck gave a flick of his hand. "What quarry?"

  "M’lord, the great hart, m’lord." He got to his feet, his eyes still downcast.

  "Hart!" Sir Ruck exclaimed. "But it’s not time!"

  The huntsman cast up a quick, keen glance, and then dropped his gaze to the ground again. He shrugged. "My master would have the hart even in forbidden season, sir, nor be induced from it, though we had the tracks and bed of a singular boar."

  "I see," Sir Ruck said with a soft note of distaste. The source of the man’s brooding aspect came clear. No proper huntsman would be proud of his lord for taking a male red deer out of season.

  Without lifting his face, the huntsman gave them a sidelong look. "Good sir, I beg your pardon," he said humbly. He sent a dour glance directly at Melanthe. "Methinks you were not at assembly this morn, good sir, to lend your wisdom to the choosing of the quarry."

  There was a very faint note of accusation beneath his exaggerated humility. She realized that he must believe Sir Ruck to be one of his lord’s guests, who should have been present at the early morning meal, examining the various droppings that had been brought back from the forest and adding his opinion as to which forecast the likeliest game. No doubt the huntsman felt that here was a man who would have put the weight of his argument against the hart, and counted it in the way of a betrayal that Sir Ruck had not been present to do so.

  As to that hostile glance at her—she bit her lips against a smile and laid her head against his back. "Why, did we lie abed too long, my dear?" she murmured.

  He turned his head quickly, flushing hot red from his throat to his cheek. The huntsman tapped his coiled leashes against his leg and all but rolled his eyes.

  "I don’t know your lord’s name, sir," Ruck said brusquely. "We come to crave harbor of him, if he will it. Would you go on errand, good sir, to seek our welcome?"

  The huntsman lifted his head and looked at them straight for the first time. She could see him taking in their baggage and Sir Ruck’s armor. His eyes lingered on Gryngolet with puzzled wonder. "Aye, by Saint Peter, my lord," he mumbled, and stooped into another bow before he turned and went ahead of them at a quick jog.

  Sir Ruck followed, keeping the horse to a sedate walk. Another great fanfare began. The woods echoed with a united long blare of many horns and the baying and barking of hounds. It lasted as long as the air could hold in a man’s chest, and then all broke off together into friendly shouting and a few yips.

  The hounds were in the midst of their curee, climbing over one another in their eagerness to reach the mixture of bread and blood set aside for them as reward. Horses and men stood about, the soberly dressed huntsmen all business with the hounds and the deer, the guests notable for their laughter and amorous attention to the several ladies among the group. The huntsman had sought out a neat, compact young man who stood by the fire and the carcass, nibbling at the roasted delicacies were reserved to him on a special stick.

  The laughter quieted, leaving only the yelps and growls of the hounds as the destrier came to a halt.

  The young man touched his beard, watching Sir Ruck and Melanthe as his huntsman knelt before him. The words were too soft to hear, but the master’s astonishment was hidden somewhat better than his servant’s. He thrust the stick at an aide and strode forward to meet them.

  "Henry of Torbec, sir, your own servant." He swept a courtly bow. "I hold sway in this land. You’re welcome to use my house and my home as you like. All is your own and your lady’s, may God protect her."

  "The Lord on high reward you," Sir Ruck said with great formality. "Displease you never would I, worthy lord, but I must withhold my name and my house until I’m shown deserving. Some thereby call me for my color green."

  A hum of interest animated the bystanders. The lord of Torbec smiled, looking about at his guests. "Green! It’s marvelous in truth, that such an excellent green knight comes among us. Do you keep this fair lady from peril by your quest?"

  Sir Ruck was silent for a moment. Melanthe expected that he would announce her with some brilliance, he was always so concerned for her high estate. Instead he merely shrugged. "She’s my whore," he said.

  The whole company broke into appreciative laughter. Henry of Torbec said, "By God, here’s a shrewd man, who denies himself no comfort in his undertaking!" He gave Melanthe a knowing survey, as if she were a horse or hound. "You dress her right richly, knight."

  The way Hawk stood, Gryngolet was still hidden from him and the others behind the bulk of Sir Ruck’s armor and mantle. Melanthe lowered the falcon farther yet, resting her gauntlet upon her knee and drawing her elbow slowly back into her cloak, so that the folds fell over the gyrfalcon’s white plumage. Sir Ruck turned his head briefly and took a glancing, casual note of her move. This sudden descent from princess to common whore warned her full well that he was not at ease.

  "From the warring in France, I brought her elegant things and gifts," he said.

  "You’ve been in France?" Henry asked swiftly.

  "At Poitiers."

  "Poitiers!" Henry gave a short laugh. "So long ago?"

  "Yes," Sir Ruck said without elaboration.

  "You know not my brother Geoffrey, then."

  "A large country, France," Sir Ruck said. "I’ve not the honor to meet with all good men who serve the high king there."

  "And journey you how since Poitiers, green knight?"

  "Everywhere," he said. "Lately on my left hand I beheld Liverpool, but entered not, for I feared sickness there. The priory is forsaken. Had you news of it?"

  Henry scowled. "No—forsaken?" He looked to his aides. "Has Downy come back from Liverpool yet?"

  Heads shook. Henry gave an oath, as if he’d already known the answer. He stepped b
ack from the horse.

  "You did not enter the town, sir?" he demanded.

  "As I’m a knight and Christian, I say you I did not. The pestilence doesn’t touch me, but I feared for my damsel. She’d have been pleased for me take her within the gate, for she delights to display her rich clothes to plain country maids." He shrugged again. "Women have them no wit, before God. Far wide did we turn away from Liverpool."

  Henry appeared to think that a convincing tale. "Well done, sir. I thank you to bring this warning." His scowl had faded and he seemed to become quite cheerful. "Hie, men, ready the venison and let us turn to home. Green knight, you honor me, to join my guests."

  As the hunters fell to work, Melanthe felt Sir Ruck reach under his arm and take hold of the edge of her cloak. He pulled it forward, tucking a fold into his sword belt, so that Gryngolet was enclosed fully. Melanthe leaned on his back, as if he were caressing her, and said softly in French, "Jeopardy?"

  He didn’t answer, but only reached back and gave her a light bob upon the cheek. "Possess yourself in patience, wench," he said aloud in English. "You’ll have a wash and a bed soon enough."

  Melanthe bore it, but she wound her finger in one of the black curls at the nape of his neck and gave it a cautionary tug.

  The other women rode pillion, pitched up into place giggling and ardent, with open kisses for their swains. Henry took up a plump blonde maid, no lady, grinning as he rode past. Sir Ruck let Hawk fall in with the other horses. They strung out in a file between the trees.

  It was country manners, but no more licentious than many a hunt Melanthe had attended where the hunters had been more interested in their lovers’ breasts than in the kill, openly fondling one another during the hounds’ curee. As they rode, Sir Ruck turned his head, reaching for her. Melanthe obligingly leaned nearer, and he put his mouth against the corner of hers, holding his glove over her ear as if to steady her. A day’s bristle of beard grazed her skin.

  "Sir Geoffrey of Torbec is with Lancaster," he said in French, moving his lips on hers.

  Melanthe hugged herself close, leaning her chin on his shoulder. She kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear, "His brother?"

  He caught her hand and brought it up to his lips. "Geoffrey has no brother," he murmured into her palm.

  "Fie, sir!" She snatched her fingers away.

  "So acquit yourself in meekness according to your place, wench." His voice carried in reproving English. "We’re not now alone in the woods, for you to play off your noble airs."

  She saw Henry lift his hand. "Hold the yoke fast upon her neck, green knight!" he called back in warm humor. "Indeed, it’s wise to keep such proud women low in their conceit."

  Masculine whistles and agreement ran up and down the line. Melanthe slid her fingers into Sir Ruck’s hair. "If you name me wench again, sir," she said affectionately aloud, "I’ll see you racked and flayed."

  He looked over his shoulder at her, lifting an eyebrow. "God shield me, wench."

  That raised a general laugh. Henry gave his own lady a pinch and slapped his horse’s rump, sending it into a trot as they turned onto a better path.

  * * *

  Torbec Manor had new earthworks and a gatehouse with a door of fresh planks bossed in iron still shiny from the hammer. Inside, buildings of plaster and lath extended from the old stone hall, ranging about the dirt yard.

  Henry had another fanfare blown as they entered the gate, all horns in unison, though there appeared to be no lady of the house waiting to greet the returning hunt. The hounds, freed from their couplings, streamed past the horses toward a kennel-yard fenced against the wall. At the gate, one gallant played with a big lop-eared lymer from his horse, offering the scenting hound a wadded lady’s scarf, and then hiding it about his person—a poor game, Melanthe thought, for a hunting dog that ought to concentrate on the smell of its quarry alone.

  Sir Ruck seemed to have a particular interest the scaffold 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 not till your 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’m counting every one, you should know," 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 not stray off from me, wench."

  "Oh, think you that I jest?" She stopped. "Seven."

  In his eyes was that subtle hint of a smile she was coming to recognize. "Keep you close. In faith, you’re the comeliest wench in this company. I be jealous over you."

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

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

  One of the other females clapped. "Now we’ll 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 they’ll 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, not poetry," he said.

  Henry laughed and shrugged. "Perhaps 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 wouldn’t 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—perhaps 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 didn’t 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 forbidden time 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, the princess walked ahead of him past servants setting up the trestle tables, 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 didn’t 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 heires
s of the Earl of Bowland would ride out of the woods mounted astride behind a wandering knight? If he’d proclaimed her by name, he could not imagine that they would have believed him.

  Ruck was surprised to find himself and his mistress 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?"

  "Certainly he will!" the princess ordered, gesturing briskly, "Need you ask such a witless question? Neither hot nor cold, but temperate, with balms as my lord likes. A fire must be laid here in the chimney and the bath placed before it. Bring him spices, do you have them, with good wine."

  "Yes, 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—indeed, inquire of your master, fool—if he’s sojourned in the halls of great men, he’ll know everything required. See that you don’t return before all is suitably in order for a guest of my lord’s estate!"

  "Yes, my lady. Straight away, 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 you a rag worthy of the wearing in this place, I’ll be 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 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 discovered and trapped her in the forest, and return her now to the master who was named on her varvels. I don’t show her much abroad, for her value is too great to risk."