But Ligurio had commanded Melanthe to keep Allegreto close, for her life. Her husband was failing in health, and the balance was all, the eternal balance between Navona and Riata and Monteverde. Allegreto was an assassin to keep her from assassination, a bargain Ligurio had made with Gian to protect her, taking advantage of Navona’s passion to guard her from other enemies who had less than no use for her alive. Her husband had accepted the boy, even been kind to him. Melanthe had suffered him, dreaming of the day she would be free.
Dreaming of this day, when she could put such memories behind her.
Gryngolet’s bells jingled again, and the knight adjusted his arm. He made a low sound. His mouth curved, just visible above the crook of his elbow, a trace of his uncommon smile. Melanthe rested her cheek on the soft trim of her mantle, happily assotted with him. The comlokkest man on earth, the most honorable, humble, gracious, the strongest, the best-spoken, the finest warrior—she diverted herself with heaping extravagant merits upon his slumbering person.
He snorted, denying such exalted perfection in an ordinary man’s sleep, lifting his hand as if to reverse his arm beneath his head. The move seemed to expire halfway. His gauntlet wavered, balanced in mid-arc, the heavy mail and leather curl of his fingers drooping, declining slowly sideways. The back of his glove came to rest on the stone with a soft chink.
She loved the sound of him. The sound of his armor, the sound of his breathing, the sound of his voice speaking English. Forsooth, she loved him.
Having come to this insight, she felt that she must proceed with great care. She found herself somewhat bewildered by it; unable to reconcile such an intangible force with all of her plans and designs.
She ought to be thinking. The whole world would not die of plague; it had not the first time, nor the second, and it would not this time, either. Pestilence came now by fits and starts, killing five here, fifty there, no more than one or two in another place. She could not suppose that God would elect to erase the names of Navona and Riata from the earth merely to save her trouble.
Iwysse, she doubted that God had much use for her at all, in spite of her abbeys. She was unrepentant. She was pleased to look at the sleeping masculine form of her knight. She sore desired him in a most sinful and earthly way, and she was not the least sorry for it.
Her foremost care had been to arrive safely and without interference at Bowland Castle, where amid the native Englishmen, any agents sent by Gian or Riata would be easy to discern and dispatch. But she found that this ambition had now palled, replaced by an acute desire, amazing in its quaintness, to remain in the wasteland with Sir Ruck d’Somewhere, the lord—and his father before him—of imaginary places.
She smiled wryly, thinking of the quick pride with which he’d refused her offer of lands. He spoke himself well enough, like a gentle man, but she remembered his wife—a burgher’s daughter if there had ever been one—and was inclined to agree with Lancaster’s guess that the Green Sire’s splendid tournament armor hid a man baseborn. He had almost admitted as much, had he not, in refusing her?
It was a sign of her corrupted nature, she supposed, that she did not care a whiff for his birth. Haps he was misbegot of some knight too poor to provide for him, but Lancaster was overharsh in judging him a freeman—no son of villeins would be endured by the men-at-arms as their master, far less tolerated by the knights and ladies of court.
Nay, he had gentle manners: a quiet dignity about him, even now in his shabbiness, and a nobleman’s way with a good horse. He was a poet of sorts. He had been brought up in a lord’s household, of that she felt certain, though in the end it made no matter. She was the Earl of Bowland’s daughter, wife to a prince, cousin of counts and kings. As well fall in love with a monk or a merchant, or a cowherd, for that, as with this obscure and humble knight.
Ligurio had taught her many things, but inordinate tenderness and renunciation had not been among them. She was not accustomed to denying herself any worldly richness or temporal pleasure, unless it be in sure disfavor to her own interests. If she had not taken lovers, it was not for virtue or self-constraint, or even concern for the skins of the many men who had offered themselves, but because of the terrible weakness such a union must create.
It was strength that she needed, not weakness. She had meant to use him, this chivalrous, nameless warrior. She had meant to make him love her if she could, daze and blind him, bind him without mercy to her service. She would need such as he, to protect her and act for her.
And she had done it. He had mistrusted her, accused her of witchery, reserved something of himself in spite of his sworn allegiance—but she was certain of him now. She cared nothing that he spoke of this wife of his, beyond that it proved the unlimited bounds of his loyalty once he gave his heart. She would free him of that vain covenant when the time came.
For now she was charitable as she had never been, yielding her own wish to his welfare. She would not repay his service with encumbrance, his honor with dishonor. She would not be the ruin of him, but the making. And haps if she was so, if she gave him the opportunity to rise that Lancaster had denied, if by her support he made a superior marriage to some lady of her choosing and gained land and a higher place, if she educated his children and sponsored them to a better elevation yet...
She gazed across the cold barren space between them, two yards and forever. If she did all that for him, then haps her life would not be without some worth in the end, or so vain in the years to come as it seemed now to be.
* * *
Ruck woke to the music of hunting horns. With an oath he rolled over and shoved upright. He’d been so deep in sleep that for a moment he blinked in the morning light and stared about himself, unable to recall this place.
Then he saw the princess curled in her mantle, slumbering in a drooping huddle against the wall. She had not woken him.
"Christ’s love!" He staggered to his feet. He’d slept the night through like a dead man.
A horn called again, a mote and a rechase—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. Two motes more, to call the berner with the hounds, and a distant yut yut yut in answer.
He stared unseeing out the door, listening for the direction that they took. All was silence for long moments—and then the sudden bell of a rache, far off, farther than the last relay. 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 ye and the falcon to horse, all speed, and chaunce we will meet them in the chase."
"Meet them?" She stood as if bewildered. "But pestilence—"
"Sick men do nought hunt. The falcon, lady. Hood her, so that we may hie us in haste." He tossed the hawking-bag to her. "A lord it will be, haps even the king’s men, to hunt here with hounds. Good hostel we’ll plead, on your behalf. Freshly now, my lady, ere we lose the horns."
Already they grew fainter, the song of the raches 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 could not have balanced Gryngolet on her fist and held to his waist on the pillion. They came upon a straggler first, a sullen vewterer 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 vewterer had not even tur
ned to look at them when the destrier broke out from the heavy underbrush behind him, but only moved aside from the path, making way.
"Ave, 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 ’tis fermysoun time!"
The vewterer 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, good sir, nor be not induced from it, though we had the tracks and bed of a singular boar."
"Avoi," 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 vewterer gave them a sidelong look. "Good sir, I beg your pardon," he said humbly. He sent a dour glance directly at Melanthe. "Methinks ye 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 wist nought thy lord’s name, sir," Ruck said brusquely. "We comen to crave harbor of him, if he will it. Wouldst thou go on errand, good sir, to seek our welcome?"
The vewterer 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. "Yea, 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. Winding through the underbrush by a path of snapped branches where the hunters had passed, they came upon the boisterous gathering around the unmade hart and a hastily built fire.
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 few guests notable for their laughter and amorous attention to the several ladies among the group. The vewterer had sought out a neat, compact young man who stood by the fire and the carcass, nibbling at the roasted delicacies reserved to him from the fourchée 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 vewterer 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 welde my house and my home as you likes. 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 ne’er would I, worthy lord, but I mote withhold my name and my house until I am 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! Is marvelous in truth, that such an excellent green knight comes among us. 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 is my leman," he said.
The whole company broke into appreciative laughter. Henry of Torbec said, "By God, here is a shrewd man, who ne denies to himself no comfort in his undertaking!" He gave Melanthe a knowing survey, as if she were a horse or hound. "Ye deck 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 wench warned her full well that he was not at ease.
"From the warring in France, I brought her menskeful things and gifts," he said.
"You’ve been in France?" Henry asked swiftly.
"At Poitiers."
"Poitiers!" Henry gave a short laugh. "So long ago?"
"Yea," Sir Ruck said without elaboration.
"Ye know not my brother Geoffrey, then."
"A large country, France," Sir Ruck said. "Ne haf I nought the honor to meeten with all good men who serve the high king there."
"And wendeth ye how since Poitiers, green knight?"
"Over allwhere," he said. "Lately on my left half I held Lyerpool, but entered nought, for I feared sickness there. The priory is forsaken. Had ye news of it?"
Henry scowled. "Nay—forsaken?" He looked to his aides. "Is Downy ne come of Lyerpool not yet?"
Heads shook. Henry gave an oath, as if he had already known the answer. He stepped back from the horse.
"Ye ne did not enter the town, sir?" he demanded.
"As I am a knight and Christian, I say you I did nought. The pestilence ne touches me, but I feared for my damisel. She would fain have me take her within the gate, for she delights to display her rich weed to plain country maids." He shrugged again. "Women haf them no wit, depardeu. Fair wide did we disturn around Lyerpool."
Henry appeared to think that a convincing tale. "Well done, sir. I thank you to bringen this warning." His scowl had faded and he seemed to become quite cheerful. "Hie, men, fette 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 did not answer, but only reached back and gave her a light bob upon the cheek. "Possess thyself in patience, wench," he said aloud in English. "Thou’lt haf a wash and a bed soon enow."
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.
Except to bend his head and pull free, he ignored her while the huntsmen coupled their hounds and the guests mounted. 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 t
heir lovers’ breasts than in the breaking of 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 thyseluen in meekness according to thy place, wench." His voice carried in reproving English. "We are nought now alone in the woods, for thee to play off thy noble airs."
She saw Henry lift his hand. "Hold the yoke fast upon her neck, green knight!" he called back in warm humor. "Iwysse, it were wise to keepen 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 thou namest me wench again, sir," she said affectionately aloud, "I will see thee 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 dark gray 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.
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