"My lady, it was Allegreto who proposed it"—Cara made a courtesy—"that Guy find a place with you, so that I might go home."
Melanthe gazed at her. She could not see in the soft face anything but a tame doe’s stupid trust. "Do not press Allegreto too far." She rose, flinging the pillow aside. "No, if you must have this Englishman, then you’ll both remain here. And count your blessings."
Cara bowed. She went to Melanthe’s bed and began to turn down the sheets. The manor bells tolled matins.
"I’ll go to the chapel," Melanthe said. "In faith, I cannot sleep!"
* * *
She would have preferred to go to the garden, or the mews, but Gian had spies on her in the household, and she did not dare arouse any curiosity. As well accustom herself to altar and roodscreen—it would be the whole scope of her life soon enough.
She thought perhaps she would surprise everyone and be a fiercely austere nun. The ladies who retired as religious and still kept high estate had always seemed pathetic to her—acting out a play without stage or spectators. No, she would give everything to the church, and fast, and have visions. And they would all be of a man who had loved her once.
He hated her now. She had done all she could to drive him to it. She had a conversation in her head with him about it, to explain to him. She had poisoned him, yes, but it was to spare him. She imprisoned him, but it was to keep him safe until she and Gian were gone. If she denied him as her husband, broke her vow and murdered his heart, it was so that she did not have to live knowing that he did not.
She could not kill Gian instead, she told him. She had thought on it long and deep. She knew of wives who had slain their husbands—one had been flayed alive, but the others had only paid fines. But it was no easy task, not with Gian, who had eluded the best of killers, and if she failed once, there would be no magistrate to sentence her, for she would not live so long. Allegreto would not aid her in it, nay, but oppose her.
And if she succeeded—she would be theirs. She would belong to the Devil wholly.
She told these things to Ruck. But it was not a conversation. He never answered. In her mind he stared at her with unyielding silence. He would not understand. Could not. Her deliberate dishonor was beyond his comprehension, as the black depth of Allegreto’s love was beyond Cara’s.
They knew themselves—she and Allegreto. They knew how close the Devil had them. She could almost pity Allegreto, who still held to his own mysterious honor by a thin thread. If he had wished to rid himself of Guy as a rival, he would have done it, and yet this subtle suggestion of his that Cara and her lover return to Italy boded of darker intentions, or else foolish hopes. He was not so old, Allegreto, that he might not have hopes, but Melanthe would not allow Cara to drive him beyond endurance. She and Guy must stay in England, far away from him.
In return for such a kind favor from Melanthe, Allegreto would make certain that Ruck hated her. He would say all the things that Melanthe did not have the strength to say herself, kill pride and hope and future. And Ruck would go home to live in his enchanted valley, where Melanthe had never been meant to go.
They were old allies, she and Allegreto, strange friends and familiar enemies.
* * *
"This is your last lesson, green man. Have you learned it?"
"Ruadrik."
"Ruadrik, then." Allegreto made a courteous bow. "Lord Ruadrik of Wolfscar."
His voice echoed in the old brewery, calling from all sides, whispering back from the high slits of light made in the shape of holy crosses. Ruck had shouted until his voice was nearly gone, but if anyone passed outside those windows, they did not come into his prison.
She had done this. Allegreto made no secret of it. Ruck was to be kept here until she was gone from England, and if he followed her, he would die by some means just as unclean and secret as her sleeping poison, but lethal this time.
His last lesson. If he did not appear to have learned it, then he did not leave this place.
Allegreto sat on the far edge of the huge round well, his legs dangling in it. He pilled one of Ruck’s oranges and tossed the rind. Ruck heard it strike the water with a faint plop. A queer imprisonment, this, with food befitting a banquet table—or a princess—fruit and almonds, fresh cheese and white bread. The brewery was ancient, but his bonds were new and strong, the anchor sunk deep into the wall.
Ruck cursed his own witlessness. To suppose that she ever meant him well, to trust Allegreto for one instant—old Sir Harold had never been so mad and simple as Ruck when he had thought he’d won.
He remembered her face in that brief moment of his victory. Smiling at him. In the death-dreams, it was that expectant smile that had tortured him worse than demons.
Allegreto sucked the juice from a segment of orange and spit the seed away. "She told me why she let you live," he said. "She said you prayed too much, and would haunt her to tedium if she killed you."
"Tell her I’ll haunt her into Hell itself if she marries Navona."
"Then prepare your howls and shrieks, for that’s what she’s going to do, green man."
"Ruadrik."
"Ruadrik. Late of Wolfscar."
With a light move Allegreto stood up, pitching the last of his fruit into the well. He came around to Ruck’s side to draw water. The splash echoed, a memory of dreams, scraping and sloshing as Allegreto hauled the bucket up by hand and set it within Ruck’s reach.
The youth sprang up the stairs three at a time. At the door he paused. "I leave you to ponder—will I return, or will I not? Her mind is much occupied with her wedding. She might forget you entirely, green man."
"Ruadrik," Ruck said.
"Did I tell you this was a walled park, my lord Ruadrik? Nothing but deer for two miles in all directions. And the river. I think you should shout, and hope they hear you on the river. Enlarge your skill at haunting." He gave Ruck a charming smile. "Verily, a place like this needs a ghost."
The door boomed shut behind him. Thin crosses of light angled down, illuminating the stone floor, vanishing into the enormous well.
* * *
Cara kept herself in the background while Gian visited them. She was hopeless at concealing things. She could never have contended so coolly as her mistress did with him, insisting that they set forth at once for Italy against his new determination that they marry here in England.
"These fools make a martyr of the fellow," Gian said. "There are a thousand candles for him after just a week—next we’ll have a miracle, and his fingerbones sold in the market square."
"All the more reason to depart." Princess Melanthe gestured at a platter. "Look, there’s a fresh salmon, the best of the year, they say. I could almost be pleased that it’s a fish day."
"No, we’ll not flee from deluded rabble. We’ve only to wait a little time for the banns, and then a feast to make them forget their saintly Ruadrik ever crawled out of whatever wolf’s cave he inhabited. I prefer it, my lady."
"Gian, this business has disturbed your wit. So you’re not popular here. You’re foreign. What matters? Let us go home and leave this unpleasantness."
"You’ve been in no such hurry. Why so anxious to leave, my love?"
"Perhaps I don’t care for the ugly looks I receive when I go out," she said sharply.
"Peasants," he said. "If anyone dares insult you, tell me."
"I’d rather not wait until it happens. I am telling you now, I wish to leave as soon as we may. If you love me, you will agree."
He set down his wine. "That, my dear one, is a device you’ll do well not to invoke too often."
"This fish needs spicing." Princess Melanthe examined the platter with a frown. "Cara, send to the kitchen—a fried parsley, I think. My deepest pardon, Gian, I can’t say why the herbs were forgotten."
Gladly Cara left the chamber. She sent a page with the parsley, and did not return herself, for it was certain that Gian in this difficult mood might take any unholy notion into his head. With one of the laundry maids f
or chaperon, Cara slipped out into the yard instead, passing under the gate to the stables.
In the late evening light Guy curried Gian’s horse himself. Cara stood in the shadow, too shy to approach him. She admired his hair, golden in the last sun rays, and twisted her skirt and the present she’d brought together in her hands. She was glad he’d stayed with the princess. She hoped that he’d made his choice to be near her, though it might equally well be only because the princess could reward him generously.
He reached, sweeping his comb down the rouncy’s smooth gray haunch. All of her heart seemed to run out after him, just watching his sure and simple motions, the shape of his hand, and the breadth of his back.
One of his grooms said a soft word, and all the men looked at Cara and the laundress. Guy straightened, turning. When he saw her, his face grew pleased, but he immediately looked down at the currycomb in his hand as if it held some vital mystery.
It was the first time she’d approached him in public since their private speaking. His men grinned, and one of them pitched a pebble at Guy. It bounced off his shoulder. He lifted his hand and brushed at his sleeve absently.
Cara handed her present to the laundress. It was a silk lace. The maid went up to Guy and held it out to him. "From Donna Cara," she said simply. Cara thought she might have had the wit to embellish a little, but she was English.
He looked about at the men instead of at Cara. She held her breath, worried at the solemn set of his mouth. But then he reached out and took the lace, holding it between his hands. Amid whistles and mockery, he grinned at her.
Suddenly one of the grooms came under the gate and snatched her about the waist. He pulled her back. Cara gave a shriek, resisting him, but it wasn’t a very serious abduction, for Guy chased him off with a few hard cuffs and caught her back against his chest. He smoothed her hair and went down on his knee before her, pulling his good white gloves from his sleeve.
"Donna Cara," he said, "I give you these on condition that you will marry me. Will you agree?"
She felt everyone in the yard looking at her. One of Gian’s men called to her in Italian not to be a fool, offering himself as a better choice. She gave him a glare and took the gloves. "Yes, sir. I agree."
Amid the clapping, Gian’s men made ugly mutters. A sudden scuffle erupted, the English grooms converging, but as Cara gripped Guy’s arm, a boy came running from the house.
"Make ready! My lord departs!"
Instantly the fight dissolved. Guy shouted for the saddles, hastening to the gray rouncy. The meal could not possibly be over. Cara feared that Gian and her mistress must have come to open battle. She caught the laundress’s hand to run with her toward the kitchens, but already Gian appeared at the door, walking with such long and angry strides that his white cloak flared out in spite of its heavy embroidery and gold bosses.
He came under the gate, passing Cara without a glance. Then to her horror, he halted, looking back at her.
With a slight move of his hand, he made his men go past. The yard was full of confusion. Cara looked desperately for Guy, but he was swinging one of the elaborate saddles onto a horse’s back. And as she looked, she knew Gian saw her look, and cursed her own weakness.
He smiled at her in a kind way and stood beside her as if he’d suddenly become patient with waiting. "Donna Cara. It’s a pleasant evening to be abroad in the air, is it not?"
She made a slight courtesy, all she could manage on her weak knees. "Yes, my lord."
"A pleasant evening for lovers. But where is Allegreto?"
A flash of utter terror swept over her. She dropped her eyes. "I don’t know! I don’t know, my lord."
She shouldn’t have repeated herself. She should have said it with more surprise. She did not know. Why should she know?
"Why should I know, my lord?" She spoke it aloud, an attempt at the cool tone Princess Melanthe would use.
"Indeed," Gian mused, "why should you?"
His thoughtful tone dismayed her. She made another courtesy, afraid to look up at him.
"He’s been a little absent of late," he said softly. "He told me that he had a lover. I had thought—but you’ll forgive me, Donna Cara, if I offend your modesty—I was so dull as to suppose it must be you."
She didn’t know what to do. She never knew what to do. All she could think was that she should never have let him trap her.
"Ah—but this is your young man, is it not?" Gian asked in French as Guy led up his rouncy. When Cara answered nothing, her tongue frozen, Gian said to him, "My compliments to you. A fair and chaste maiden for a bride."
"Thank you, my lord." Guy bowed deeply. "Donna Cara does me great honor."
To Cara’s vast relief, Gian mounted. As he settled in the saddle, he looked beyond her. The rouncy threw its head and danced a step, though Gian made no visible move.
Cara turned to see Princess Melanthe crossing the yard. Several of the other ladies hurried behind her, lifting her trailing skirts. She stopped beneath the gate. In the dusk her skin seemed white and cool, her breasts rising and falling evenly beneath the low neckline of her gown.
"I came to see you well, Gian," she said. "I would not have us part in anger."
"My lady," he said, "I would not have it, either, but you’ve tried me sorely this night."
She tilted her head, smiling slightly. "I didn’t think you chose me for my docile nature."
"No more did I, but I’d have you know who rules between us."
"Then choose your battles more carefully, my love. For I make my respects to the king tomorrow and leave for London before sunset—and to Calais from there. It will be a lonely wedding without a bride."
In the whole yard there was not a sound but for the chink and soft breath of the horses. Such brazen defiance was beyond Cara’s grasp—all the alarm and confusion that Princess Melanthe should be feeling seemed to be concentrated in Cara’s trembling limbs.
"Then you’ve won, my lady," Gian said at last. "I’ll be at your side. But take care that your victories are not often bought so dear, or you may find that you’ve purchased defeat."
She sank into a deep courtesy, spreading her skirts. The rings on her fingers caught light. "As you say, Gian. I look forward to your company on the road."
* * *
Cara folded and packed. It had all come much faster than she’d expected. They were to leave, everyone to go home, and she was to be left behind.
With Guy, she told herself. But still she was afraid. The house was in confusion and disorder with Princess Melanthe’s command to be gone by sunset, chests and trunks piling up on the wooden dock below the manor. When Cara had finished emptying the princess’s bedchamber and seen the baggage safely aboard the waiting barges, her duties here would be completed.
She had no desire to linger until her mistress returned from the king’s audience, having leave to go at once to Guy. He was to take the horses to some castle Cara knew not where, but not too far away; he had a letter commanding that he be given charge of the stables and stud there, a great advancement, he had told her, an unbelievable stroke of fortune. They could marry immediately, thanks to her mistress’s benevolence.
Such favor did not come free. Cara had a charge on her—but only one, and not difficult. She was to make certain that, after Princess Melanthe and Gian had left the country, Allegreto freed the poor chained madman in the abandoned brewery. When she saw that it was so with her own eyes, Cara was to write a letter herself to her mistress, and that letter was to contain three times the words by the grace of God, and then the princess could be sure.
Cara thought that when she could pen the last "God" of the three, it would truly be by His grace. She made a cross and said a prayer of thanks, begging Him to let her somehow free her sister, too. And she felt a strange certainty that it would be so. Allegreto had promised, and against all reason, Cara believed him.
But there was the way Gian had looked at her. She knew she had aroused his suspicions. If only he hadn’t mentioned
Allegreto to her. But surely, he would only think that she disliked him speaking of love with another, when Guy was so near.
She finished filling the chest, spread strawberry leaves and rose petals over the top layer, and hastened downstairs to call a page to bind and carry it. For a moment, on the stairs, Cara had a moment’s vision of what life might be without the princess and Gian and Allegreto. Without thinking each thought in fear of their response, or listening each moment for some fatal word. At this time tomorrow, they would be gone. She would be almost alone in an alien land, but they would be gone.
A tremulous joy filled her. She took a deep breath, thinking of Guy with secret pleasure, and hastened down the curve of the stairs.
At the bottom Gian waited. He stood in the open door, looking out at the barges and the river. His cape swept about him as he turned to her, the golden bosses clinking heavily against one another. "Donna Cara," he said, smiling. "Well met! It’s you I came to see."
TWENTY-SIX
She had thought of throwing herself in the river. She had thought of calling out to the single boat they had passed. She had thought of refusing to speak, pretending she didn’t recognize the place. She thought of everything, but in the end she only wept.
She could not lie. She had never been able to lie perfectly, and with Gian she was beyond even being able to think. Her sister, he murmured, and she babbled out what he asked to know. Guy, he said, and she went with him when he commanded it, without a word to anyone, without a scream or a plea, a rabbit carried helpless away by the wolf.
He would kill the poor mad knight who loved her mistress. She did not want to see it, and put up her greatest resistance at the old stone wharf, half-hidden in reeds. But he laid his fingers close about her neck and crushed her throat until she gave in to pain and fear. Gasping air into her bruised throat, she crawled out of the boat and led him up the path through the reeds.
The Medieval Hearts Series Page 90
