FOUR

      

 

A witch, she was.

Ruck stood beside one of the shadowed columns in the cathedral, staring blindly at the scaffolding beneath a newly installed stained glass window.

He felt robbed. He felt utterly pillaged.

Where was his lady, his bright unblemished lady, lovelokkest of all, who made the blood and boredom and solitary days worth bearing? He hadn’t asked that she be with him. He had never thought he was that worthy, but he had held himself to her standard—when they laughed at him, when he hurt for a woman’s body to the point of despair, he cleaved to the impossible measure that she set by her own perfection.

He had dreamed about her in his bed or on the cold ground; he saw her beside the Virgin in the churches. He even imagined her with Isabelle in the nunnery, praying for his soul, both of them together, both of them the same, fair blue eyes and fair blond tresses and a face too lovely for any woman on earth...

He turned his head and rested his bandaged temple against the pillar. The cut across his skull burned. His cheek stung and throbbed in spite of Pierre’s salve.

The reality of Princess Melanthe had been like a bucket of ice-cold water thrown in his face. He was angry at himself, but he reserved his deepest fury and disgust for her—the witch—she probably had ensorcelled him. How else could he have managed to forget what she was?

The Arch-Fiend’s whore, that was what she was, curling like a silken tiger on the bed with her Satan’s cub caressing her. He could not even find the image of fairness anymore. It had vanished from his soul, blasted by the sight of sable hair and eyes the color of unearthly twilight, the deep strange inner hue of hellish flowers. He recognized them now—but he had not remembered them so vivid-dark, or her coldness so numbing.

She had laughed. He could hear it still, like an echo in the empty cold air of the cathedral, floating above the endless murmur of the priests’ chantries. The sound was branded on him. He had stood with swordpoint to the throat of his gallant liege, who had fought on wounded, unbowed, with no thought of submission—and she had laughed.

The windows glowed with the last faint light of day, spreading colored radiance over the floors and columns, subtle warmth in the soaring blackness. Beyond the cathedral walls he could hear faint sounds of celebration. A few knights came and went in the nave, kneeling to cleanse themselves with prayer, and one youth had been keeping solitary vigil in the Lady Chapel for hours. Ruck stayed to himself, using the pillar for a prop when his cushion grew too uncomfortable for his knees.

Outside of duty and the exercise yard, he spent most of his waking hours in chapels or cathedrals or churches of one sort or another. At first it had been the hardest effort of his knighthood—tedious to the point of screaming agony—but after thirteen years he had come to peace with the cold stone spaces and the fact that his knees could not support hours on the cushion. He stood now more than he knelt, sparing his frame for the field and fighting, sparing his soul with a regular confession of this small sin. He never even got a real penance, the priests being sympathetic in the matter.

He seldom prayed during his hours in church. Isabelle, he’d thought, would be doing that for him better than he could for himself. He’d often imagined her at it, her face alight and the tears flowing, the other holy women ranged behind her. He felt closer to her in the churches and chapels, where he could banish the faint fear that she never thought about him at all. Sometimes he envisioned her in nun’s robes; more often in a sparkling gown of green and silver—and the lonelier the road, the bloodier the combat, the more beautifully and brilliantly she glowed, almost as real as if she stood in the shadows holding her falcon.

It came as a sickening jolt to him now to realize just how often he had confused them in that way. His wife and his nameless liege lady—they had somehow across the years, within the stark isolation of his heart, melded together into a single female image—and he had spent his adult life in rigid devotion to her, celibate, devout, courteous, refusing to stoop to dishonor and bribes of money to win the favor of his prince.

Never had he been invited into his lord’s inner chamber—yet he had waited patiently for God to send his chance. He had risen slowly in Lancaster’s service, earning his place in spite of the half-concealed amusement. He would lead men-at-arms and archers against the French, he would play at unicorn if he must; dragons he would hunt when his liege commanded. He knew the other knights preferred him safely away from court on such commissions. He was mad in action, so they claimed, dangerous, unreliable. By which they meant that he gave no quarter, demanding surrender when surrender galled them—the only way he had been taught to fight. But he had never lost the certainty that he would find a means of proving himself and winning his lord’s boon.

The stained glass panel above him was a lancet, blue and rose, glowing with a painting of the Virgin and Child. Ruck gazed at the Blessed Mother’s pensive face as she looked down at the baby Jesus. He ached with grief and anger.

It appalled him to realize what he had done, how the years had gone by, how he had deluded himself and confused her with his pure sweet wife. Tainting his memory, his only connection to Isabelle, who even now must be devoting herself to solitary worship. Alone, as he was. He was sure that she must have taken vows of seclusion and silence in the convent, for even though he sent money and tender greetings every year to Saint Cloud, she never wrote him back. He only received an acknowledgment of his gift from the abbess, with no word from Isabelle even by proxy.

Her loss seemed a fresh wound now, stinging as sharp as the cuts on his cheek and head. He missed her—and he could hardly recall her face. All he saw clearly were purple hell-flower eyes and a white flash of skin; all he felt plainly were wrath and anguish and the degrading burn of his body’s appetite in spite of everything. He struggled to remember Isabelle, to rededicate himself to the purer image, and could not. She was lost now, by his own folly, as lost as the bright illusion that had sustained him.

Outside the bell rang to signal curfew. Ruck leaned down and retrieved his cushion, scowling at the worn white threads of the embroidered falcon that adorned it. He thought of having it ripped out and replaced with the azure ground and black wolf of Wolfscar, but to take up his own true arms now, in disillusionment instead of honor, seemed the final defilement of his dreams.

He left the falcon be. He left all of his green-and-silver vestiture as it was, determined to wear it as a constant reminder to himself of how a woman—this woman—could twist a man’s mind into the Fiend’s knots.

 

* * *

 

As he pushed out the great wooden door onto the stone porch, his head aching, a hard hand cuffed his shoulder. Three guards in Lancaster’s livery stood just beside him. They offered silent sketches of bows, and one nodded toward the outer entrance.

Pierre hung back in a corner of the porch, looking terrified. Ruck glanced at him and at the guards.

"Ye alone are summoned, my lord," one of them said. His tone was curt, but not hostile.

Ruck nodded. The door opened to the last of twilight spilling over the city roofs. The streets were already deep in shadow, but sparked with torches and wandering groups of revelers. They showed no sign of extinguishing their fires and going to lodgings in answer to the curfew. It was often so on tournament days, and armed guards usually much in evidence—but this evening every man they passed was armed, common soldiers mixing with the city watch. Colorful retainers of the tourneying knights roamed drunkenly with their swords still at their hips.

"God’s love," Ruck muttered, "this is ripe to go ill."

The guard at his side grunted an assent. But he did nothing to urge anyone to go home, only lengthened his stride, grabbing Ruck’s elbow to direct him into an alley. As they came out on the other end, a hoarse voice yelled, "Hark ye!" An English soldier came weaving drunkenly toward them. "Our lord!"

His companions followed, their wayward steps enlivened by this new goal. Suddenly Ruck and his escort were surrounded by ungoverned men-at-arms, all of them familiar faces to Ruck, scowling and sullen with drink.

"Unhand our liege, dog!" A soldier tried to pull Lancaster’s guard away from Ruck. "Nill ye not take him!"

The guards’ hands went instantly to their weapons, but Ruck shoved the soldier back. "I am no liege of thine!" he snapped. "Watch thy tongue, fool. ’Tis stupid with ale."

"He will not have you, my lord," a man shouted from the back, "nor throwen you in prison for his pride!"

Ruck glared. "Get ye gone to your places! The curfew tolled a quarter hour since."

"He will not arrest you!" There were other men accumulating now, attracted to the shouts, crowding nearer. "He goes through us first!"

"Haf ye ran mad?" Ruck exclaimed. "Disperse! I order it!"

Some of the ones nearest him made attempts to turn, as if to obey, but the growing wall of men behind them blocked their way. Lancaster’s guards stood with their swords at ready, a tense triangle around him.

"Disperse!" Ruck bellowed. "I am summoned by the duke! Out of my way, whoreson!" He shoved viciously at the soldier nearest. The man lurched backward, creating a momentary opening. Roaring his displeasure and intention, Ruck knocked another one aside. The path begun by force began to open of its own accord. Lancaster’s guards came with him, but he stayed in front of them to show that he was not in duress.

The way cleared before him. Though he didn’t look, he was aware that the men did not scatter, but only fell back, following close at his escort’s heels. He cursed them silently, deliberately taking a route down narrow alleys and close streets to spread them out into a weaker force.

But outside the bannered lodgings of the highest nobles, the curfew was no more in force than in the lower streets, though it was full dark now. Knights and valets reeled in and out of the bright doorways, young squires singing war songs and scuffling. Ruck strode past, his eyes straight ahead, but his luck did not hold. A youth in blue-and-white reached out and grabbed his cloak. He jerked it free, but not before he’d been recognized. Shouts erupted, and as the men-at-arms issued from the narrow passage behind, they began to run, pressing up around Ruck, elbowing the noble retainers back. More men began to pour out of the doorways, filling the street with shouting shadows, with torches and the glint of steel.

Ruck seized a fagot and jumped atop an upended barrel. He lifted it high, waving it, so that sparks flared.

"What folly is this?" he roared. "Silence!"

For an instant his voice caught their attention.

"Who are ye?" he shouted. "The duke’s soldiers. The duke’s knights and their squires. I am the duke’s man! He calls me to him. Will you forestall me? Fight among yourseluen, if ye be great fools enow—but hinder me in obeying him, and I’ll see every villain of you with your guts strung on the city walls!"

The silence held, a sullen acknowledgment. Threat or no, there was nothing that they wanted better than a reason to brawl, drunk as they were, commoners and gentles alike. He did not stay to see them come to that inevitable conclusion, but tossed the torch into a watering trough below him. It gave him a moment while they were still dazzled blind—he jumped down and slid between the crowd and a building’s wall, using the shadows for cover to get away.

 

* * *

 

The Duke of Lancaster had his arm in a sling. In his capacity as Lieutenant of Aquitaine, he sat sprawled on a throne, the walls and floor of the chamber draped in cloth woven with the arms of England and France. The flood of richly colored squares obscured the shape of the room, so that it seemed to Ruck that he and the men he faced floated in a bowl of gilded red-and-blue. At the duke’s side stood his brother the Earl of Cambridge. Ruck recognized their councillors—Sir Robert Knolleys, Thomas Felton, and the Earl of Bohun—men of military craft, veterans of all the savage campaigns of France and Spain.

"Get up, knight," Lancaster said with a deep sigh.

Ruck stood, sliding a secret look toward him. The duke appeared wakeful, but he had a sleepiness about his eyes that Ruck had seen before in men hit upon the head. His councillors had barely glanced at Ruck as he entered, but kept their close attention on Lancaster. Sir Robert scowled, standing by a table set with wine and food.

The duke stared at Ruck for a long time, his eyes half-lidded. "It was," he said slowly, "a good fight."

A great wave of relief fountained through Ruck. He wanted to go down on his knees again and beg forgiveness, but he kept his feet, only saying, "For the honor of the Princess, my dread lord."

Lancaster laid his head back and laughed. His eyes focused from their drift with a sharper look at Ruck. "She has made fools of us both, has she not? Hell-born bitch."

"My lord’s grace—" Sir Robert said warningly.

"Ah, but my sentiment will not leave this chamber, if this green fellow hopes to avoid my most grievous displeasure, and such jeopardy for him as that may entail."

"My life is at my lord’s pleasure," Ruck said.

Lancaster sat up, leaning forward on his good arm, his mouth tightened against the pain of the movement. "See that thou dost not forget it. What is thy judgment of the temper outside?"

Ruck hesitated. Then he said, "Uneasy, my lord."

"Clear the streets, sire," Felton said.

Lancaster turned a sneer on the constable. "With what? Your men-at-arms? They’re the ones in the streets, making mischief in the name of this green nobody."

"They have not been paid, my lord," Felton said, without embarrassment.

"And is that my fault?" Lancaster shouted, and then squeezed his eyes shut, laying his head back. "I’ll run my own coffers dry in the defense of your damned Gascon barons."

"The prince your brother—"

"The prince my brother is sick unto death. He is to know nothing of this! Do not disturb him."

There was a little silence. Then the constable said tentatively, "I believe—if my lord’s grace appeared with this knight"—he made a faint gesture toward Ruck—"they would obey this man, my lord, if he ordered them to submit to curfew."

"By God," Lancaster exclaimed, "he knocks me off my horse and holds his sword to my neck, and now I’m to stand by him while he gives orders to the men-at-arms? Why not appoint him lieutenant and be done with it?"

Ruck pressed his lips together, appalled. He had felt the threat hovering over him; now it crystallized into real danger. He had never thought Lancaster would imprison him for pride—but suddenly a new and horrifying vista opened.

The duke seemed to catch his mute response, for he looked again at Ruck. He stared for a long, speculative moment, an assessment that chilled Ruck to the bone.

"What thinkest thee, Green Sire," he said, in a serious voice. "Canst thou control them?"

"My lord’s grace has the right of it," Ruck said. "Me think it not seemly."

"But thou canst do it?"

"It be unmeet, my lord," Ruck repeated, trying to prevent any note of alarm from entering his voice. "It be not wise."

"But if I cannot command them, nor their own constable here, and thou only canst keep the city from strife and riot?"

Ruck shook his head. "I pray you, dread lord, ask it not of me."

"I ask it of thee. I command thee to take charge of the garrison and the men-at-arms and control them."

Yesterday such a command would have been a wonder for Ruck, a victory. Today it was the edge of a pit: the precipice of war between nobles and common soldiers, rebellion with himself at the center.

"My lord," he burst out, "reconsider! Your head pains you to folly." He sucked in his breath, as if he could take back the brazen words as soon as they escaped.

Lancaster rubbed his face with his good hand and looked to Sir Robert. "My head pains me in truth," he said, with something of a smile. "What think you of him?"

Knolleys shrugged. "He will be a loss to us."

"A loss," Lancaster repeated in a silken voice, looking at Ruck from beneath lazy eyelids. "Well for thee, that thou didst not leap at the command. Some here have counseled me that thou art a sly rebel, Green Sire. That thou hast kept thy name secret for something less than honor, and wormed thy way into a place and gained the love of my men only to inflame disloyalty and rebellion with this spectacle today. That thou hast conspired with the princess to weaken us, in preparation for a French attack tonight or tomorrow."

Ruck dropped to his knees. "Nay, my lord! By Almighty God!"

"Who stands behind the Princess Melanthe, traitor?" Knolleys demanded.

"I know not!" Ruck exclaimed. "I’m no traitor to you, my lord, I swear on my father’s soul. Her man told me that she wished me to issue challenge in her name."

"Against thy liege?" Sir Robert demanded. "And thou took her up?"

"My beloved lord, I meant you no insult. I was to challenge all comers. I am sworn to her. Years ago—and far from here. I knew not even her name until yesterday. I never thought to see her again. She was..." He paused. "I swore myself to her service. I know not why. It was long ago." He shook his head helplessly. "I cannot explain it, my lord."

Lancaster lifted his brows. "Canst not explain it?" He burst out in caustic laughter and held his head. "Has she bewitched us or besotted us?"

"Send for the inquisitor," his brother said. "If she’s a sorceress, he will discover it."

"And whiles? There’s no time for the inquisitor." Lancaster rested his head against the throne. "Much as I should like to see her burn." He drew a deep breath and sighed. "But here—I find I cannot imprison or execute my green companion-in-arms, in spite of my aching head and dislocate joint. I have a fellow feeling for him, the love-struck ass. Moreover, it provokes riot."

"Nor let him walk free," Knolleys said.

"Nor let him free, for if he wills or no, the men gather to him, and with the temper of the nobles, we’d have disorder enough to burn this city down. I want no rivals to my command. I need my men to fight France, not one another."

Ruck knelt silently, awaiting his fate, watching his future dissolve before his eyes.

Lancaster gazed at him with that sleepy speculation. "Tell me, Green Sire, what is it thou hoped to gain of me, to join my court?"

"My liege..." Ruck’s voice trailed off. He had not envisioned that his moment with Lancaster would come this way.

"Position? Lands? A fine marriage? I hear that the ladies admire thee."

"Nay." Ruck lowered his face. "I ask naught of you now, my lord."

"And I offer naught," Lancaster said, "for I want no more of thee. I have detained Princess Melanthe at the gate, so that thou wilt be seen alive and well to escort her into the city. At dawn thou must be off, with thy princess and all her train." He smiled sourly. "And look thee to see me at the quay, to bid you both a cordial farewell."

 

* * *

 

It was for her protection, the message said. Melanthe pulled her cloak close about her in the cold darkness outside the city gate. Her little hunting entourage huddled before her. Behind lay the distant fires and tents of the tourneyers who had no lodging within the walls. That the gate was still open this late was strange. The guards were men in Lancaster’s and the prince’s livery—not the usual gatekeepers. She could see torches and hear drunken shouting from within.

If she had had another choice, she would have turned away. The message—and signs of riot inside—were ominous. She did not think real trouble had erupted yet, but it might flare at any moment. Her presence alone might be enough to spark it. She much doubted that Lancaster’s message to await an escort at the gate had been sent with loving concern for her safety.

Gryngolet fluffed her feathers to keep out the cold, perching quietly upon the saddlebow. The greyhound sat shivering. Melanthe had not dressed for darkness. Even in gauntlets, her fingers were cold. She looked into the blackness behind her, sparked by open fires, and admitted wryly to herself that nothing stopped her at the moment from fading into the gloom, as free as she dreamed of being, except for the mystery of how to live as anything but what she was.

"My lady—" One of the guardsmen came striding from beneath the black bulk of the gatehouse over the bridge. "Your escort."

Even as he spoke, the arch brightened with the flare of many torches. At the head of a score of armed men her green knight rode toward her beneath the gate.

The torches behind him lit his mount’s breath and his own in transparent gusts of frost. He wore no armor now, only a light helmet over a bandage that shone white across his forehead. The bridge thudded with the sound of hooves and boots.

He never looked directly at her. With a perfunctory bow he made a motion to the men to surround her horse. Placing half of the company before them, and half behind, he wheeled his mount next to hers, swept his sword from its sheath, and shouted the order to march.

She rode beneath the archway beside him. Inside the city walls, the streets were full of men. They stared and shouted and ran beside the company. Melanthe kept her eyes straight ahead and up. Her palfrey felt very small next to the destrier, and the score of men a thin wall against violence. In some of the side streets other knights sat their mounts, swords unsheathed, staring malevolently as her escort passed. Limp bodies lay in doorways—drunk or dead, she could not tell. The high bulk of the keep itself was a welcome sight, until she saw the crowd milling and pressing below it. As her escort came into view a cheer went up, confounded with outrage and spiced by drink.

The Green Sire shouted an order. The men ahead halted. He lifted his sword over his head, and the men-at-arms spun their sharpened pikes, forcing the nearest of the crowd to give room. The pikes stopped with their points at chest-level, a bristle of protection.

The castle gates opened slowly amid noise and disordered motion. He yelled another order, and the men-at-arms began to move, stabbing into the crowd ahead of them. In the light of the torches her cavalcade pushed through the mob, encapsuled by pikesmen. The throng in the street could not seem to decide if they wished to cheer or resist, swarming back and forth in ill-tempered confusion, fighting one another, staggering back from the pikes, waving their own weapons in wild and abortive threats to their neighbors.

Her palfrey danced along beside the war-horse, taking hopping, frightened steps, half rearing as a man fell between the pikes and sprawled in front of her. Melanthe gave the horse a quick spur, and it sprang off its haunches, coming down on the other side of the prone figure. The palfrey kicked out as it landed, but Melanthe did not turn to see if the blow struck. Allegreto’s horse crowded behind her; the gate was overhead at last—and they were through, passing into the inner courtyard. The gates boomed closed behind them, shutting out a rising roar.

Her knight dismounted and came to her, offering his knee and arm. Melanthe took his hand for support. Hers was shaking past her ability to control it. As her feet touched the ground, she said, "Thou tarried long in coming. I’m nigh frozen through."

She did not wish him to think that she shivered from fear. Nor did she thank him. She felt too grateful; she felt as if she would have liked to stand very close to him, he seemed so sure and sound, like the enclosing walls of the keep, a circle of sanctuary in the disorder. For that she gave him a sweeping glance of disdain and started to turn away.

"My lady," he said, "his lordship the duke sends greeting and message, and desires to know that your hunting was well."

Melanthe looked back at him: "Well enough," she said. "Two ducks. I will dispatch them to the kitchens. There is a message?"

"Yea, my lady." He looked at her with an expression as opaque as a falcon’s steady cold stare. "I am to escort you hence without delay. We leave at dawn, upon the tide."

"Ah." She smiled at him, because he expected her to be shocked. "We are cast out? Crude—but what does an Englishman know of subtlety? Indeed, this is excellent news. Thou shalt make all preparations for our departure to England and attend my chamber at two hours before daybreak."

His face was grim. He bent his head in silent assent.

"The duke has denied you, then?" she asked lightly. Melanthe held out her hands in the flicker of torches. "Green Sire, swear troth to me now as liege, and I will love thee better."

His mouth grew harder, as if she offended him. "My lady, I was sworn to your service long since. Your man I am, now and forever." He held her eyes steadily. "As for love—I need no more of such love as my lady’s grace has shown me."

Melanthe raised her chin and shifted her look past him. Allegreto stood there, watching with a smirk.

She bestowed a brilliant smile upon her courtier and lowered her hands. "Allegreto. Come, my dear—" She shivered again, turning, pulling her cloak up to her chin. "I want my sheets well warmed tonight."

 

* * *

 

The boats rode the current and the outgoing tide downriver, their oars shipped and silent. As the banks of the Garonne slipped away, ever wider, a cold sun rose behind Ruck’s little fleet, sucking the wind up the estuary off the sea. It was not to his taste, but he’d reckoned it his duty to sail aboard Princess Melanthe’s vessel himself.

He had worked with her steward all night to organize their departure. When he had seen the painted whirlicote Princess Melanthe was to inhabit on the land journey, he’d found that he had to use the duke’s patent to commandeer an extra ship only to convey the leather-covered, four-wheeled house and the five horses necessary to draw it.

Ruck had full believed that he would spend hours waiting on his liege lady’s convenience, as she did not seem the sort to bestir herself to undue exertion, but Princess Melanthe’s attendants outshone even the men-at-arms in their packing and loading efficiency. There was no scurrying back to fetch a lost comb or another pillow. Not one lady slipped away to linger in farewell with some brokenhearted lover. Ruck suspected that they feared their mistress too well to delay her.

The duke had come to see them off as he’d promised, making a great false show of giving the kiss of peace and offering cordial farewells. Ruck had found himself the object of more courtesy from his liege in the cold dawn of his departure than he had received in the whole sum of his years in service to Lancaster. The audience was small, only a few beggars and merchants, and a soldier or two woken from sleeping on the docks, but by noontide the story would have spread throughout the city to gentles and commoners alike: the Green Sire had left Aquitaine in Princess Melanthe’s service, alive and without duress. No threat to Lancaster’s command, no martyr to his pride—no spark to set rebellion alight.

The Green Sire was nothing to Lancaster, or to anyone else now.

Ruck drew in a slow breath and let it go. He had lost his prince and liege. He had loved a lady who did not exist—but she had seemed so real, he had spent so long devoted to her, that he felt as if death had claimed a piece of his heart.

He sat on deck atop the single high cabin in the stern, very aware of the princess below him. He wondered if she suffered from the seasickness, and had not sufficient imagination to picture such a thing.

Pierre huddled in the tip of the stern, snoring gently. The wind blew in Ruck’s face. His men lined the deck, sitting in the protection of the gunwales. He reached over and plucked his flute from Pierre’s capacious apron. The squire opened one eye, and then snugged into his cloak again.

In the early light Ruck began to play a sweet, mournful song of the Crusades, of a lover left behind to grief and worry. It seemed to him fit for the gray rise of dawn, slow and yearning, with the sway of the water and the glint of dull light on the helmets and crossbows. Fit for his mood: leaving nowhere, going nowhere.

Below him the curtain over the cabin door flicked. Ruck’s note faltered for a bare instant, and then he lowered his eyes and went on playing. It was only her lapdog Allegreto, who climbed the short stairs with a crimson cloak wrapped tight around him. To Ruck’s concealed surprise, the youth sat down on the deck at his feet, facing away from him into the wind.

"That is a love song, is it not?" the young courtier asked.

Ruck ignored him, enclosing himself in the melody.

Allegreto sat quietly for a few moments, and then sighed. He looked around at Ruck. "Hast thou ever been in love, Englishman?"

He asked it wearily, as if he were a century old. Ruck made no answer beyond his tune.

Allegreto smiled—an expression that was undeniably charming in spite of his blackened eye. He pushed the windblown dark hair from his forehead. "Of course. Thou hast as many years as my lady, and she knows more of love than Venus herself." He leaned back against the gunwale. "Thou knowest she has magic to keep herself always the same. Perhaps she’s a thousand years old. Upon hap, if thou wouldst see her in a mirror, she would be no more than a skull, with black holes for eyes and nose."

Ruck lifted his brows skeptically, without losing the cadence of his notes.

Allegreto laughed. "Ah, thou art too astute for me. Thou dost not believe it." With an abrupt intensity he leaned nearer. "Thou wouldst not take her from me?"

Ruck’s music wavered for a beat.

Allegreto closed his eyes tightly. "Thou hast—such as I cannot give her," he said in a lowered voice. "I am not so young as I appear."

It took Ruck’s mind a long moment to construct that into meaning. He lowered the flute.

Allegreto pulled the red cloak up to his mouth and turned his head away. Ruck stared at the smooth wind-pinkened cheek.

"When I was ten and five," Allegreto said, muffled, as if in answer to a question. "She preferred me thus." He pulled the cloak closer and then glared over his shoulder. "But still I love her!" he exclaimed fiercely. "I can still love!"

Ruck gazed at him. He could think of nothing more to do than nod in the face of such awful devotion. Allegreto held his eyes for a long moment, and then put his head down in his arms. Amid his shock Ruck felt ashamed of himself. Whatever sacrifices he’d made in the name of his false lady, they had been honorable, and his own choice. He was a whole man. He wet his lips and picked up the flute again, taking refuge in the music.

He had played only a few notes when two sharp thumps came from the deck beneath their feet. Allegreto looked up.

"Oh." He turned to Ruck and smiled sweetly. "I forgot. I was to order thee to cease that dirge and play something more amusing."