Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  But now that she gave her attention to the matter, she saw that to make a humble marriage was not an ill solution. She would have a man’s protection, and the crown would have the certainty that she could not join her property to another great domain that might threaten the throne. Wherever this place of his might be, this Wolfscar, she had never heard of it. Another Torbec, no doubt, some remote and paltry manor he would be glad to forget.

  And there was Gian...but Allegreto was dead, and Gian had lost his ability to daunt her, so far away he was. She’d left him with the smiling promise that she would return to him with control of her English possessions and income, for the greater glory of Monteverde. It would take him a long time to fathom that she didn’t intend to come back, if he fathomed it at all. Every man had one blindness, Ligurio had taught her, no matter how clever he might be. Gian’s was Monteverde. When he learned where her quitclaim had gone, he could turn his obsession to a new center and leave her in peace to marry whom she pleased.

  Not that he was like to leave her entirely in peace, but his reach wasn’t long enough to be fearsome here. And he was not a man who wasted his energy in any task, including revenge, that didn’t move him toward his goal.

  Yes, a mere goodwife of far distant England, quitted of all claim to Monteverde, was of little interest to Gian Navona. And the king was pliable, his favorites unprincipled and open to bribe.

  Melanthe smiled, smoothing her husband’s unruly hair. She toyed with one lock that would not lie straight, curling and uncurling it about her forefinger as she fell into sleep.

  * * *

  In the frigid dawn light of the stables, Ruck saw to Hawk’s keep, giving the horse-groom twopence for his work. The man had cleaned Hawk’s harness, for which Ruck was grateful—between his headache and his gritty eyes and the uneasiness of his belly, it was all he could do to examine the gear. Bending to pick up the destrier’s hooves was beyond his power without feeling as if his stomach would bolt.

  He would have thought the past night a dream, but for the way he felt this morning. Sometimes he still thought he must have imagined it in a drunken haze, but it had been no fantasy that he’d woken this morning with the Princess Melanthe’s hair spread across his arm and her body curled into his embrace.

  He walked back into the yard, holding his cold fingers stuffed under his arms, and stood staring up at the window of the room where they had slept. Where she slumbered still, languid and warm as he’d left the bed.

  When he had married Isabelle, everything about his wedding had been open and public. But he knew this second one to be as binding. He’d heard of men divorced from a wife when another woman had sworn to earlier vows spoken rightly, witnessed or no, whether it be in a tavern or under a tree or in bed.

  It was a true thing, sealing them until death.

  He had meant it to be.

  This morning, feeling stuporous and ill, he could not believe he’d possessed the boldness. He pushed his hair back with cold-clumsy fingers, wondering if she would laugh at him now, and say that she had slipped in some stipulation that he hadn’t heard—she married him if he would bring her the Holy Grail, or some such thing as peasants said to one another when they were playing May games.

  It didn’t matter, he thought sullenly. He had spent thirteen years as one half of a marriage—if he was to spend the remainder of his life the same, what of it?

  He nodded to one of the young hedge knights who crossed the yard yawning and carrying a mug of ale. The fellow gave Ruck a grin and a shove on the shoulder as he passed. "Long night in the lists?"

  Ruck caught his arm, took the mug, and drained it, ignoring the yelp of protest. He stood still, trying to decide if he would cast or not, concluded that he would not, and opened his eyes. He handed the mug back. "Thank you."

  This one was not quite as old as his friends, sandy-haired and high-colored, wearing a doublet of surpassing shortness over flesh-toned hose. He gave a cheerful, wry shrug. "And welcome."

  Ruck paused. He looked the young man in the eye. "Take heed," he said quietly. "Don’t be here among this company when Sir Geoffrey returns."

  The youngster gazed at him warily.

  "There will be a fight." Ruck nodded toward the hall. "They will lose."

  "What do you know of it?"

  Ruck put the heels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing. "Enough."

  "Are you from Sir Geoffrey?"

  He dropped his hands and grimaced. "No. It’s only free advice. My thanks to you for the ale."

  He walked on, turning in to the door of the hall.

  * * *

  Melanthe was dressed in her own gown again. She was well-pleased to be departing this place, and worked to have what little there was to do in readiness before Ruck came back. Gryngolet had fouled the floor beneath the chair arm, but Melanthe obscured that by turning over the rush mat. No one seemed to be at the peeks this morning—all lying abed dissipated from drink, she supposed. She was surprised that Ruck had managed to rise and dress and leave the solar before she woke.

  She wasn’t concerned that he’d gone far, for his armor and sword remained. But the sun was well up and the yard full of servants’ voices before he returned to their chamber.

  As he came in, she looked up quickly, finding her heart abruptly in her throat. She had a smile ready, but he did not smile, or even look at her. He glanced toward the peekholes and then walked over to his armor and bent to pick up the plate.

  A strange alarm possessed her. She looked at him with a feeling of having gone too fast. Was she married to this man—actually bound—united to him for all of the unknown future?

  "We depart the moment you’re ready, my lady," he said to the cuirass in his hands. There was no welcome or fondness in his voice, only a stiff and brooding subservience.

  "Good morn," she said. "Husband."

  He held the armor, his head bent. She could see color in his neck.

  He lowered the cuirass. Quietly and fiercely, without lifting his eyes, he said, "Aye, husband. I swore not in jest, my lady, though you may regret it this morn."

  She pressed her lips together. The fear rose higher in her, the realization that she had given him a power over her; that even if she should regret it, she could not undo it. Bone-deep, she felt the weakness he represented. She had made a vow to him. And worse, oh, worst of all—she had let herself love him.

  He threw the armor down with a clash and a wordless curse. He turned his face from her, setting his arm against the bedpost.

  "If I say to you"—Melanthe’s voice was unsteady—"that I cherish and love you, but that I’m frightened at the weight of it—would you understand me?"

  He leaned his forehead against the post. "Frightened!" he said with a muffled laugh. "I’m so seized with love that I’ve a mortal dread even to look at you."

  She took a soft step toward him. "Dread of a mere wench...and your wife?"

  He turned. Without lifting his head, he reached out and pulled her close to his chest. He held her tight. Melanthe leaned her head on his shoulder.

  "I know not what we’re to do," he muttered. "I know not what can come of this."

  "Let us be gone from here in haste," she said.

  He released her. "Yes, my lady. I’ve packed us food from the larder here—we’ll make away and come to your hold at Bowland."

  Melanthe didn’t say that she would rather dwell alone with him in the forest for the rest of her life. He wouldn’t understand her; he would think her reluctant because of him. She watched him as he donned his armor, helping him with the buckles and straps that he could not reach.

  When he had his plate and mail upon him, she held up his surcoat. He stepped back, sliding his arms into the sleeve holes. Melanthe buttoned him down the front and then brushed the wrinkles out. It seemed a wifely thing to do.

  * * *

  As Sir Ruck made farewells in the yard, standing beside Hawk and speaking a courteous word to each of the men, Melanthe lingered on the steps to the hall po
rch. She carried Gryngolet in the bundled cloak—feeling too noticeable to stand beside Ruck amid the company of guests and servants.

  She didn’t care for these knights, if knights they could be called. Ruffians, more like, playing at fine manners. One of them stood near, attempting to lovetalk her, but Melanthe ignored him haughtily. He was a good-looking wretch who clearly fancied himself with the ladies, his chestnut hair curled and his doublet padded out like a pouting pigeon. She would have eaten him alive in Italy, led him on and made such a mock of him that he couldn’t have shown his face in public after, but now she wished only to be gone.

  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 you didn’t come down to the hall yesterday, lovely. And now you’re on your 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 you, sweetheart." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Look, he’s not watching."

  "Your 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 you will," he said. "It’s fifteen to one against him." He grinned in the half-light. "Perhaps I’ll give you 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.

  "Your duck rejects your 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 did not prune you 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. "No. Only the food you’ve offered us freely do we take, and God give you grace for it. Nothing that she carries belongs to you, in faith."

  "Let us see it then."

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

  "A falcon!" Clearly they’d 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 didn’t 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 didn’t you say? We would have put her in the mews last night. Who owns her?"

  "A lord of the midlands," Ruck said shortly. "I dare not mix her with other birds, sir, if it offend you not."

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

  "She’s not mine," he said. "I must take extraordinary care."

  "Aye, 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 enough but a few shillings and thanks, belongs to me."

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

  "Not the king’s, no."

  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. "Can you 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 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. "Don’t stand there as if you be rooted to the ground."

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

  Ruck tore his hand from the other man’s grasp. "If it’s the falcon you desire, it’s not 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."

  "No, I’ve had nonsense enough of you," 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...by God, she’s glorious."

  "I’ve 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.

  "No, do you think I mean to steal 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 was 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 you’ve carried her, we’ll 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.