She took up his cloak and arranged it as if it had been casually flung over the chair back, cascading down to form a tent over the falcon. "The huntsman saw her," she said.
"Aye." Reaching awkwardly behind his shoulder, Ruck tried to unbuckle his cuirass, managing only the uppermost clasp. "But I think me he says little to his lord, for he’s too shamed and angry over the hart. Even does he, what of it?" He gave up on the buckles, leaned against the wall, and bent down to unfasten his greaves.
"I like it not. Let us fly soon."
He looked up at her. She stood in the middle of the room, staring about at the walls and window with a troubled aspect. "My lady," he said. He straightened and walked to her. "You be not at ease?"
"No." She lifted her eyes to his, and then averted them. "No, in truth I’m not easy in this chamber."
He paused. Awkward silence swallowed the room. She stripped the hawking gauntlet from her hand and cast it down.
"Rather would you bed with the ladies?" he asked.
"No!" she said quickly, and then gave a short laugh. "Ladies, are they? And you name me wench."
He could see apprehension concealed beneath her taut mirth. He did what he should not have; he put his hand to her cheek, caressing her skin with the pad of his thumb. "My lady, only for your safekeeping."
"Nonetheless, I take account of all these wenches on your tongue," she said, with determined irony in the curve of her lips. "You’ll get above yourself."
"Nay," he whispered. "Always at your command, sweet lady."
"Ah, God." A small sound came from her throat. "I’m frightened here. Must we have people and intrigue? The forest was better. I would rather have us sleep upon the ground than be slain in a soft bed."
"What fantasy is this?" He took her face between his hands. "Perhaps this man isn’t as good alloy as the sterling, but what would it gain him to slay us?"
A barely perceptible tremor passed through her. For a moment she stared up into his eyes, and then let go a sharp sigh. "Nothing," she said. "Nothing. I am witless."
"I’ll sleep before the door tonight. You are safe." The urge to enfold her in his arms near took possession of him. His body read the same longing in hers: she stood still, yet it was as if she were drawn invisibly toward him, as if she waited for him.
Fine as the edge of a blade, the moment held him in balance. He looked at the fingers of his own hands against her skin, not daring to seek her eyes. The sight of his flesh touching hers seemed illusion, shameless confidence, as if he truly possessed the right. He dropped his hands.
"Will you give help to me, my lady?" Making effort at a smile, he turned aside. "Be I not above myself to ask it, wench—the buckles."
THIRTEEN
To wear robes, however common the woven stuff and decoration might be in Princess Melanthe’s estimation, was a luxury that never palled for Ruck. Seldom enough did he leave off his armor in the usual way of things; in the past fortnight he’d slept and lived in it as if he were on the march. But for the moment he didn’t have to tolerate the seam in the leather where the corner had pulled loose and curled when it dried, chafing his left armpit with every step, or ignore the pinch of the cuisses’ straps behind his thighs, or bide the clumsy weight of chain mail over every inch of his body. He felt light, as if he were made of thistle silk.
His head felt a little light as well as his body, after whiling the afternoon at Henry’s table. Ruck had joined the company’s meal alone, leaving Princess Melanthe in their chamber. Staring down into his wine cup, he grew warm thinking of her. She had watched the servant bathe him and dress him, sitting cross-legged upon the bed in that way she did—more wench than gentle lady in that pose, he thought pungently—giving keen orders for his care, insisting upon display and pomp as if he were some prince. She’d even rejected the first robes they brought, sending back for a better selection. Ruck suspected he was wearing Henry’s best Christmas houppelande of blue wool and miniver, chosen by her with disdain from among the sparse variety.
The household seemed torn between resentment at such treatment by a stranger’s concubine and awe of her manners. Word had clearly gotten back to Henry. The young man who styled himself the lord of Torbec leaned close at the table and murmured that he supposed Ruck’s lady had been some time at court. Ruck had merely shrugged. Henry, wearing an avid look, had ventured the conjecture that she was accustomed to the favor of great men. Ruck leaned back with his wine cup and smiled. "Aye, and cost me the Fiend’s expense, she does, to keep her as she’s accustomed," he had said, to dampen any covetous ideas.
"Undoubtedly, I can believe it," Henry said, losing his eagerness and turning to his unpolished country maid with a little better cheer.
A bachelor’s hall it was, full of hunting dogs and weaponry, with no mistress to foster seemliness or hold the rougher games in check. After a plain and abundant dinner, no one answered the bell for Nones or left to train in the yard. Instead, they spent all the day and into the evening talking of hunt and battle, arguing the merits of Bordeaux steel against the German, wrestling between themselves or with their willing ladies.
Ruck listened to them talk. They had the restless violent vigor of youth, and words enough to spend about weapons and fighting, but no more discipline than a band of untaught mongrels; half wolf and half cur, without the sense to know that only because they sat at table in drink and idle discourse about a warrior’s concerns, they were not, ergo, great warriors themselves. He might have made much of them, given the time. But he counted them useless for his immediate need, too full of themselves to be trusted.
Arrowslits in the wall or no, Sir Geoffrey of Torbec would make short work of these infant brigands when he returned from Gascony. However that might be, alone and responsible for the princess, Ruck didn’t care to stir the hornet’s nest.
He sat without saying much, though he took care to be a pleasant guest, not to smile too little or drink too lightly or leave too soon. At evensong he rose, standing carefully to surmount the giddy feel of the wine in his head, and shamed them into mass only by asking the way to the chapel.
* * *
He came at dusk, at last. Melanthe was furious, mad with waiting. She rose and went forward as the servant lit him into the chamber with a branch of candles. As if she were the fondest of lovers, she put her arms about him, stood on tiptoe, and hissed French in his ear. "There are spying holes."
He looked down at her. In the falling shadows his face was handsome; his breath heavy with wine. If he heeded her warning, or had even heard it, he made no sign. He sighed and stood holding her, his hands clasped around her hips.
"I am old," he said gloomily.
Melanthe commanded the servant with a gesture, dismissing him. She’d intended to point out to Sir Ruck the carved masks in the wall, where the peeks were concealed, but she hesitated.
"Old," he said. "Thirty years."
She pushed back. "No more old than I, then," she retorted in French, disengaging herself. "So spare my feelings and say no more of it. Come and sit down."
There had been watchers off and on at the holes all the day. She couldn’t hazard speaking to him openly, even in French. And she’d never seen him in his cups; she didn’t know how much wit she might expect of him. Perhaps it was better to curb any discourse and put him readily to bed.
His fingers twined loosely in hers, he let her lead him. He didn’t sit, but looked at the bed as if it were the grave of a long-lost faithful hound. He shook his head, pulling his hand from hers and reaching for his sword that lay with his armor. "The door," he said, using English. "For your safe keep, my lady."
"My safe keep!" she responded lightly, as if he joked. "What safer than your close embrace? Best-loved, come you all haste to bed."
"To bed?" With a newly aware look, he stopped in the midst of a half turn away. "Lady?"
She tilted her head toward the masks, smiling. He only gazed at her carefully, with the diligent attention of a man mindful of his dazed conditio
n.
"My truelove, my honeycomb—" She put her arms about him again, and leaned until he took a step backward. "Lovedear, sweeting, let’s not linger in diversion and talk. I can govern my ardor no longer. I crave a kiss." Fervently she embraced him, pressing him off balance in the zeal of kisses that she showered over his chin and throat, pushing him step by wavering step until his back met the wall beneath the masks.
Before she could point upward, he grasped her close and hard, making a sudden mockery of her wiles. The abrupt grip stole her balance. His hands spread across her loins, pulling her against his body. With a low, hoarse sound he buried his face in her neck and made a motion of pure lust, straining her to him.
It was no counterfeit passion or monkish restraint. Through the muffling robes, his full member thrust between them. His fingers pressed into her, spreading her buttocks, touching her in a way no man had ever dared touch her. He pushed his knee into the space between her legs, forcing her to open for him as if she were an unwilling whore.
Melanthe drew in a sharp breath as the embrace spun beyond familiar ground. He lifted his head, resting it back against the wall, his eyes closed. But he didn’t let her go. His hips moved in a pushing stir against hers, without shame, rubbing the firm bulk of his tarse to her belly, even against her privy-most parts.
Kisses she knew, and courtiers’ games of dalliance, but nothing of a man’s member beyond the cramp and discomfort of her husband’s bodily company, so long past and fleeting that it seemed to have no share of this. A spring of delicious sensation arose from this touching, ungentle though it was, a delight in fleshly vices. She let it take her, became his common wench and mistress in truth, as light as these brazen country maids whose loves made no difference to the world beyond their beds.
He was wanton drunk; she knew it, but she made no warning or protest when he sought her lips and kissed her, searching inward with his tongue, wine-flavored and reckless in his trespass. She took his tongue into her mouth and pressed her lap to his in pleasure, welcoming the hunger in him.
His open hands slid across her hips and up to her waist. Her hair was loose. She’d left off her heavy azure gown after her bath, to be brushed and cleaned, changing it for a loaned one of scarlet that was made for close measure and immodest display.
He ran his hands up and down her sides, from her hips to her breasts. "I’ve seen this," he said, his mouth close to hers. "Your white skin." There was a doted awe in his voice. "Your body all bare, below your mantle."
She smiled, tilting her head back. "Suis-je belle?"
"You’re beautiful," he said, closing his fingers on her hair. "By Christ, you are beautiful."
From overhead issued a feminine giggle, smothered but distinct. His hands leapt away from Melanthe; he jerked upright, searching the shadowed chamber with appalled bewilderment.
Melanthe put her fist under his jaw and made him look upward. Faint light from the hidden holes illuminated odd shadows, picking out detail in the dusk.
She didn’t know if he would recognize what he saw, but just as she was about to lean forward and whisper to him, the strange glimmer vanished as the spy pressed to the peek again, blocking it. Sir Ruck went stiff, turning his shoulder to the wall and staring up.
"Hang them," he breathed, his lip curling.
She put her hand over his mouth, leaning close to his ear. "They can’t see us here beneath it. Only hear."
Immediately he looked over her head, about the room, not too much in his wine to reason that there would be another peek to cover the blind position. Melanthe knew where it was, but she’d already pulled the bed curtain a little way, as if by chance, just blocking the line of sight to where they stood.
His lashes lowered in wine-maze. He gazed down at her, then lifted his eyebrows and blinked, like a man struggling to wake from a walking dream.
She brushed back a rough black curl that had fallen over his ear, brazen wench that she was. "I’ll serve as your chamberlain, handsome sir, to prepare you for bed. Come."
* * *
If not for the wine in his head, Ruck thought, he would have found a more reasonable means of dealing with the spyholes. He wanted to. He thought of covering them, but she distracted him, putting out the candles, leaving only the firelight that sprang in crimson arcs over the folds of her gown. It was cut low across her shoulders and back, the gown; he watched the curve of her breasts as she leaned to take up a mantle that had been warming by the chimney, her black hair falling in a cascade across her shoulder—and then remembered again that he was thinking of some cheat for the spying.
Darkness would do it, but there was the fire. He might bank that, take up his place on guard by the door; she was like a living flame in crimson.
He could not keep his mind fixed, not with her beckoning him near the fire. He went, light of weight in his body and brain, soft wool brushing his skin. He sat on the stool and let her pull the robes off over his head. His linen lay drying before the hearth after washing—beneath the robes he wore only slippers and socks for his feet. She had seen him in his bath, his body and the scars of fighting that he carried, but it embarrassed him anew and painfully now to be exposed, his scars and his lust together, unworthy of her.
She laid the warmed mantle over his shoulders. He dragged it around to cover him as she knelt and drew the socks from his feet, massaging them like a fond wife. Her hands moved up his calf, and then his thigh. He felt helpless, in utter wonder of what she might do next. Definitely he had taken too much wine. He could not think in straight lines.
"Right seldom do I drink so deep," he muttered.
"Well, I hope you’re not unabled." She touched him beneath the mantle, caressing her hand boldly over his yard. He clapped his fingers on her wrist, sucking in his breath.
"In good order, so I see!" she said laughingly, rubbing her palm against his rigid part in spite of his resistance.
"My lady—" he said.
She stood on her knees on the rush mat, putting her free arm about his neck. "You’ve named me common wench all the day—so now I’m become one." Leaning close to his ear, she whispered, "These spies, they must see loveplay, true? That I’m no more than your whore?"
They must see it? He thought there was some flaw in that reasoning, and arrant iniquity, but her seeking touch seduced him from the last of his wit. She wasn’t tender; her handling was without art to the point of hurting him, but it was her hand upon him, and her body leaning close, and he could achieve no more than to pull each breath into his chest with a harsh sound.
"You are shameless," he said with effort. "Ah...Mary and Jesus."
She hid her face in his shoulder, but she didn’t stop her unchaste behavior. Then she twisted her wrist free of his hold and took his hand against her, strangely innocent in the way she held it over her womb, stilling her whole body, waiting.
The power of his will broke. He stood, lifting her up in his arms. His limbs acted without his reason—he carried her to the bed. The mantle fell from his shoulders, cold air on his skin as he lay down with her.
Then he let her go and sat up, yanking the bedcurtains closed, shutting out the spyholes, enclosing and muffling the bed in heavily quilted winter hangings.
He stayed sitting up in the bed. He would wait until the fire died and the light was gone, he thought desperately, and then he would take his sword and lie by the door. He would pray. He tried to pray now, his arms gripped about his knees, his forehead down upon them, but his brains spun with drink and passion.
He would think of other things. Important things—where they must go now, whether the falcon had been discovered, how far beyond Liverpool the plague had spread, if it had spread at all. Her leg rested against his hip. He felt her sit up beside him, running her fingertip down the leather cord about his neck, brushing her mouth against his ear, and then he could not think at all.
"I will go," he whispered. "Lady, I am drunk; do not kiss me."
"You like me not?" she murmured.
&nbs
p; "You slay me, my lady." He turned his face from her. "You slay my reason. I am in wine. I’ll dishonor you."
She rested her forehead on his bare shoulder and ran her fingertips down his back. "I wish it," she said, so low that he could hardly hear.
"No," he said. "I will not."
Her hand curled around his arm. She rocked him, her face still pressed to his skin, like a child entreating.
"Ah, lady. I love you too well."
Her fingers slipped away. She was silent, still leaning her forehead against him.
"Who would know?" she asked, muffled. "Once. Only once. For this one night."
He drew a deep breath, speaking low. "My sweet lady, you have a demon of hell in you, that takes hold of your tongue sometimes and tempts me beyond what I can bear."
"It’s no demon. It is me." Her hand crept up and twined with his. "I’ve been so much alone. You do not know." She squeezed his fingers. "I didn’t know, until I found you."
"My luflych, my precious lady, I have me a wife."
She was still for a long moment. Then she said, "Is that why you deny me? For your wife?"
"For my wife. And for the dishonor to you."
"Do you love her still?"
He gave a bitter chuckle. "Ten and three years has it been. I can’t even see her face in my head. But she’s my wife, before God and man, for we were rightly wed."
"I thought her a nun."
"Yes," he said.
She lifted her head. In the blackness of the heavy curtains, he could see nothing, only feel her.
"But never have I adultered, or profaned my vows." He paused, gripping his hand tight in hers. "Not with my body."
She stroked his hair, and his back. "Ah, what have they done to you, these priests?" she whispered sadly. "Have you lived in this thought, that you’re wed and yet bound to be chaste, since that day I saw you last?"
The Medieval Hearts Series Page 71
