The Medieval Hearts Series

by Laura Kinsale

  He showed no reaction but a turn of his thick gauntlet, gathering the reins. "My court is yours, my lady," he said in French. "And his who rules the palatine of Lancaster."

  "If you love me as your liege," she said, "for today your court is mine alone." She stared at him, to be certain that he took her meaning, a long moment with everything she knew of command in her eyes.

  "Aye, then," he said slowly. "Yours only, my lady."

  THREE

  They called him by this north-name of bersaka with good reason. Melanthe was accustomed to games of combat, the innumerable tournaments and spectacles she had attended, celebrating every occasion from weddings to foreign embassies. A plaisance—pleasantries, as Lancaster had promised. But with his blunted tournament weapons, her Green Knight fought as if he meant to kill.

  Melanthe had led him last into the lists. Two lines had formed: opposing ranks of destriers and knights, their banners waving gently over the fantastical crests of staghorns and griffons and outlandish beasts, as if each man vied to display a deeper nightmare than the next atop his helm. No less than a score of rivals, besides the duke himself, had signaled a wish to fight for Melanthe’s favor. The trumpets sounded, clearing the lists. As the Green Sire reined his destrier into position, the jeers began. They would not sneer openly at Melanthe, but her champion was fair game.

  The entire crowd burst into frenzied acclaim for Lancaster as the duke rode forward into place, surrounded by his squires and grooms. The Green Sire made no sign of noticing either applause or taunts.

  Melanthe bowed to her champion, ignoring Lancaster.

  The trumpets clarioned. The lances swung downward. The green destrier sprang off its haunches into a gallop and Lancaster’s bay mount hit its stride, rolling the sound of hoof-beats over the stands and the crowd.

  An instant before impact, the Green Knight threw his shield away. The crowd roared, obscuring the sound as the lances hit. Lancaster’s bounced upward, flying free and solid into the air along with the shattered splinters of his opponent’s weapon. The Green Sire pulled up at the far end of the list, carrying half of a demolished tournament spear in one hand.

  Tossing away his shield was the entire extent of his consideration for his prince. In five more courses he broke five lances on the duke, and took off Lancaster’s helm on the sixth—whereupon the marshal threw down his white arrow to end the match. To Melanthe’s displeasure, Lancaster accepted this without demur, not even demanding to go on to the foot combat.

  Amid a murmur that spoke faintly of disfavor from the crowd, the duke saluted Melanthe and his brother and left the lists with his retinue.

  She had not counted upon such a paltry showing. Not even the partisan onlookers could accuse her of withholding her favor from him without reason. But when he joined her on the scaffold, he seemed unembarrassed—speaking favorably of his opponent’s skill to his brother Prince Edward for a moment before he sat down beside Melanthe. The musicians behind them struck up warbling tunes.

  "A fair fight, my lady," he said, "though your champion makes no fine distinction between battlefield and tourney. I only hope that he slays none of our guests."

  She felt an irritated urge to rise to this bait. "He faced you without shield," she said shortly.

  "So they told me, but indeed I didn’t know it until he took off my helm, or I’d have done the same." He raised his hand for refreshment and took the cup his squire offered, drinking deeply. "Or perhaps not. Mary, I’ve no desire to be run through in a joust and buried in unconsecrated ground."

  He laughed, but there was a glitter of deeper emotion in him. Melanthe watched him as he drained the wine, tossed the cup down, and turned back to the lists with relish. This was some artificial show—she felt it, studying his unabashed countenance. It wasn’t over yet, not at all. Lancaster had no intention of concluding with such a poor display.

  She turned a look of better humor upon him. "I won’t believe you stand in such peril, sir. Come, you’ll fight again, will you not?"

  The flicker of hesitation told her all that she need know. "Why—no, madam. I’ll take my ease at your side. Here, your champion is in the lists again."

  A challenger, emblazoned in gold and black and crested by the gilt head of a leopard, was being led into position by two squires, while Melanthe’s knight circled his courser and backed it into place. He had resumed his fighting shield. The lances dipped; a gold-and-black squire shouted and stabbed a stick into the rump of the other horse. The animal jumped forward under the goad, galloping wildly, half shying as her champion’s stallion bore down upon it.

  The green lance caught its target full in the chest. With a jerk he sailed from the saddle as the horse went down. They somersaulted in opposite directions, the destrier hauling itself upright in a flail of hooves and caparisons to trot intemperately about the list, evading attempts to capture it.

  "Poorly mounted," Lancaster murmured dryly.

  They did not proceed to the sword combat.

  While the musicians played harmonious melodies and Melanthe sat calmly beside Lancaster, her champion smashed the pretensions of three more challengers. Two lances were shattered on him, but no contender fought as far as the swords, and one left the first course of axes with a broken hand.

  Outside the lists, where common men-at-arms mingled with the squires and pages, there was a small but growing band of onlookers who met the Green Sire’s victories with a ragged volley of cheers. Melanthe made no sign herself, but a feeling of pleasant awe began to steal over her, watching him fight. Berserker, indeed. It only remained to see that Lancaster be fired to face her champion again.

  Melanthe already suspected the duke’s intention. To allow a goodly number of challengers, wearing his rival down and painting him invincible at the same time...then perhaps a private visitation by some secret "friend," warning him of his prince’s displeasure and designed to shake his nerve...and somehow Lancaster, fresh from hours of relaxation in the stands, would find a reason to meet the Green Sire at the end of the day.

  She could appreciate Lancaster’s design. It required a fine judgment—Melanthe smiled inwardly as he lifted a finger to communicate with the marshal of the lists, who instantly caused the heralding of a new set of combatants, allowing the Green Sire his first rest. It would not do to have him appear too easy—and just as vital to properly exhaust him before the coup de grace.

  Melanthe prepared to ensure that the duke misjudged his moment.

  She toyed with the jeweled jesses, turning a disinterested look on the new jousters. "Tell me of my champion," she said. "He’s nameless in truth?"

  "Nameless, my lady. A nobody. He gives homage and claims our service, but brings no men of his own beyond that malformed squire."

  "No lands, then? But such rich gear, and a great war-horse. He’s won many prizes in tournament, I expect?"

  The duke laughed. "Few enough, for I’ve better use for him in real fighting, but it’s true that when he enters the lists, he prevails. I’ve sometimes sent him on a dragon hunt, for sport, but he brings me no prize yet."

  "And still he hasn’t proved himself worthy of his name?"

  Lancaster turned his palm up casually. "The fortunes of war and dragons, my lady. All must await their great chance at honor, if it ever comes." He shrugged. "Perhaps he has no name. God only must know where he thieved his gear. It’s my thought that he’s nothing but a freeman."

  "A freeman!" Melanthe turned in amazement.

  "Else why hide his lineage? That falcon device is recorded on no roll of rightful arms, so say the heralds. But the Green Sire has a talent to lead common soldiers. What men he commands, they come to love him, and the French dread his name. No great chivalry in that, but it’s a useful art." He leaned back in his chair and smiled. "So we tolerate his whims and his unlawful device and green horse, Princess—and if he likes to call you his liege lady for a fantasy, then we’ll enjoy the game."

  Melanthe swung the jesses lightly between her fingers, d
rawing them over the back of his hand. "A poor game to the present, my lord! You know of no man strong enough to win my favor from this odd knight?"

  Lancaster caught up the jesses and kissed them. The bells rang brightly. "I’ll find one, Princess," he murmured. "Fear not for that."

  Furious shouts drowned the music as a fistfight broke out between a foot soldier and a youth from the retinue of a defeated challenger. Lancaster watched until some of the guards had separated them, and then turned again to Melanthe. "Will you take wine, my lady? The dust rises."

  As the duke reached to pour, Melanthe sat back in her seat with a pert moue of impatience. "No, sir, I shall not." She waved the cup away. "This sport is too tame. I vow by Saint John, my lord—nothing, food nor drink, shall pass my lips until a new champion wins my admiration."

  He lifted his brows, his hand poised with the ewer. "So eager, my lady? The day is long, and the earth dry."

  "So it is," she agreed. She trifled with the jesses, allowing the bells to tinkle. "But I’m dauntless. I challenge you to join me, and dedicate your comfort to this quest. Surely it’s little enough to venture"—she glanced at him beneath her lashes—"as you don’t bestir yourself to fight for my prize again."

  Lancaster’s mouth showed a very faint tautening. She saw the struggle in him, pride against guile, but he smiled at last and nodded toward her. "As you will, my lady." He set down the ewer. "By Saint John, I vow it. No food or drink shall I take until you’re satisfied with a new champion."

  * * *

  As each new course of jousting sent dust into the air, Melanthe covered her mouth with a scarf and coughed lightly to convey her discomfort. She looked with a great show of longing at a tray of lozenges and cream tarts that passed to some other guests. The duke made no such indication of interest, but she was pleased to note that he swallowed once after the wine had traversed their view. The day was warm enough that winter clothing weighed heavily. The duke in his blue-and-crimson houppelande was a little flushed at the neck, his crown resting on hair that curled damply, darkened against his temple.

  The Green Sire was handily trouncing all comers. Melanthe sighed, watching a knight outfitted in a boar’s head helm pick himself up from a fall, the boar’s tusks smashed and drooping askew. "I weary of these trials," she said. "Has he some magic, or are your men all weak as willow wands?"

  "No magic, my lady, but goodly strength and skill," Lancaster said. "He, too, is mine," he added in a cool reminder.

  Melanthe returned a taunting smile to that and casually jingled her bells. The noise of the onlookers grew, a confusion of cheers and scorn, passions flourishing as support for the Green Sire seemed to increase, scattered widely now among the mixed crowd below. Around the stout fence that enclosed the lists, youths and attendants thronged beside men-at-arms, all pressing as close as they could while the next combatant and his retinue surged through the gate.

  The Green Sire pulled off his great helm, bending awkwardly to wipe his eyes and forehead with the tail of his tunic. A man-at-arms shouted, ducking through the fence to hand him a clean cloth. His intrusion past the lawful barrier sparked a great roar.

  In the stands noble ladies shrilled their disapproval, answered by impudent shouts from some of the common soldiers below. Another scuffle broke out and spread. Guards moved quickly, laying about with clubs and staves and hauling the brawlers away.

  Melanthe watched as her champion left the gate for another respite. He and his squire were surrounded instantly by soldiers and commoners, who made a phalanx about his horse and escorted him through the mob toward the tents.

  "But if you allow him yet more rest, my lord," she complained petulantly, "what chance have these beardless children to defeat him?"

  Lancaster swung a goaded look upon her. She swished her plume lightly.

  "There are other matches to be fought, Princess," he said. "We have a hundred knights who desire to joust."

  "I suppose my champion hasn’t time to fight them all," she murmured. "I vow, I hadn’t truly supposed him the greatest of the lot. I believe my father or brother could have knocked him down several times over."

  He managed a creditable smile. "Perhaps so, my lady. But the day is not yet gone."

  "I despair of surprises at this late hour." She shook her head. "The great days of the tournaments are past. We’ve only boys’ games now. The king your father, God’s blessing upon him, would find this a pale image of the splendid spectacles he’s hosted."

  Lancaster had become quite red now about the neck, but still he only nodded, stiffly polite. "There’s nothing to surpass the tournaments of our beloved lord the king."

  Melanthe gazed upon the pair now thundering toward each other. To her pleasure, and the crowd’s sneers, they missed each another entirely—a commonplace in any ordinary pas de arms, but the first time it had occurred today. She clucked ruefully. "I suppose the Italians care more for their honor in these matters," she commented. "They take their ease upon the hearth rug instead of in the lists, and joust like gallant men before the ladies."

  Lancaster made a sudden move, sitting straighter in his chair. A page moved quickly to him—they bent their heads together for an instant, and then the duke rose. "You’ll forgive my discourtesy, Your Highness." He bowed deeply. "A summons from my brother the prince—I regret I must leave your companionship awhile."

  Melanthe acknowledged him with good grace. "Be pleased to go at once," she said, "with my health and dear friendship, may God keep our esteemed Lord Edward the prince."

  He turned, with a degree less than his usual elegance, and strode down the steps behind his page. The musicians continued to play their merry melody. Melanthe looked after him, fanning herself slowly and smiling.

  * * *

  The crowd had grown dangerously restless with the lesser jousts, and Lancaster was still missing from the scaffold by the time the heralds’ trumpets blew a great fanfare, silencing the musicians and the noise. The marshal of the lists held up his arms and strode to the center of the ground, his slashed sleeves showing blue under scarlet and his cape flying out behind him.

  "Now comes the one who will take their measure!" he shouted. "The one who will take their measure has arrived!"

  As he declared the ritual words, old as the legends of King Arthur and Lancelot, the throng burst into frenzy. The discharge of sound beat against Melanthe’s ears like the blare of the trumpets themselves.

  From between the tents came a knight the color of blood-sunset, galloping with his black lance balanced on one hand above his head, his armor shining reddish gold. He rode a massive black destrier encased in the same shimmering metal. His shield was sable, as dark as his lance and horse, without device or color.

  A hush fell over the onlookers, delicious expectation; a carnal pleasure in this drama. The black lance poised over the line of shields hung at the entrance to the lists—and came down on the silver falcon, rocking it with force of the blow. The shield he had chosen rang with a wooden resonance as the cheers hit a new plane of passion.

  A outrance.

  The black lance had no safe coronal to blunt it, but a sharp tip. The shield it had struck was the Green Knight’s silver bird of prey unhooded, offering combat à outrance—beyond all limits.

  A joust of war, fought to the death with real weapons.

  His attendants came behind him, a full score, masked, dressed as fools in rainbow colors, playing flutes and hunting horns. The curling toes of their shoes were so long and pointed that they were attached by belled chains at the knee. They made a grotesque fantasy behind the blood-gold knight, an uncanny contrast to his hostile silence.

  Amid the cries and tumult, Melanthe’s green knight rode out to meet him, armed with a sharpened lance. She pressed her palms together and tasted the salt on her fingertips, then folded her hands and held Gryngolet’s jesses motionless in her lap.

  The hunting horns mingled their clear notes with the trumpets, rising higher and higher into the air. They broke of
f one by one, leaving a single carol from the herald’s horn to ascend and echo back from the stands and the river and the city walls, dying away like an angel’s voice.

  The knights saluted Melanthe, the golden one with an extra flourish.

  As they faced their mounts toward each other, the Green Sire pulled his arm from within the leather straps and threw his shield away.

  He knew it. Melanthe knew it. The crowd guessed it—and burst into a furor of scandalized exaltation as the man hidden inside the ruddy gold armor tossed down his blank shield in answer.

  When the lances couched level, an instant of silent anticipation blanketed the onlookers. The black horse threw its head and charged. The Green Sire spurred his destrier. In the hush the thunderous roll of the animals’ hooves made the wood vibrate beneath Melanthe’s feet.

  The lances impacted with the sound of fractured bone, of a hundred hammers against steel. Both knights fell backward and sideways, clinging to smashed lances; hanging half off their mounts against the weight of armor as the onlookers broke into an uproar.

  The rainbow attendants rushed to propel their master back into place and supply him with a fresh lance. He was already at the charge before the Green Sire had hauled himself upright and grabbed his new lance from the hunchback. As the green spear swung up, tip to the sky, Melanthe realized that he had it in the wrong hand to meet his opponent,

  A sound like a great moan rose from the crowd. His dancing mount froze in place. As the challenger realized his advantage, he aimed for the most vital target, leveling the black lance at his adversary’s head. The green knight didn’t even attempt to compel his horse forward, but faced the oncoming lance and rider as if he were entranced. The onlookers’ groan rose to voluptuous agony.

  Then the Green Sire seemed to collapse; an instant before the black spear hit his faceplate, he and his lance both toppled sideways—a sheer perpendicular to his course. As the tip of the black spear grazed his helm, the green lance swung down across his opponent’s path.