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, loveliest of all, who made the blood and boredom and solitary days worth bearing? He hadn’t asked that she be with him. He’d 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. 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’d 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.

He ached with grief and anger. It appalled him to realize what he’d done, how the years had gone by, how he’d 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. 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 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. "You’re summoned, my lord," one of them said. His tone was curt, but not hostile.

Ruck nodded. Outside, 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—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. He grabbed Ruck’s elbow to direct him into an alley. As they emerged on the other end, a hoarse voice yelled, "Hark you!" 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. "You won’t take him!"

The guards’ hands went instantly to their weapons, but Ruck shoved the soldier back. "I’m no liege of yours!" he snapped. "Watch your tongue, fool. You’re stupid with ale."

"He won’t have you, my lord," a man shouted from the back, "or throw you in prison for his pride!"

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

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

"Have you 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’m 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. He 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. At the duke’s side stood his brother the Earl of Cambridge. Ruck recognized the councilors—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 councilors 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’s made fools of us both, hasn’t she? Hell-born bitch."

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

"Ah, but my sentiment won’t 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 you don’t forget it. What’s your 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 haven’t 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’s 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’d felt the threat hovering over him; now it crystallized into real danger. He’d 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 do you think, Green Sire," he said, in a serious voice. "Can you control them?"

"Your grace has the right of it," Ruck said. "It’s not seemly."

"But you can do it?"

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

"But if I can’t command them, or their own constable here, and you’re the only one who can keep the city from strife and riot?"

Ruck shook his head. "I pray you, dread lord, don’t ask that of me."

"I ask it of you. I command you 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 do you think of him?"

Knolleys shrugged. "He’ll be a loss to us."

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

Ruck dropped to his knees. "No, my lord! By Almighty God!"

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

"I don’t know!" 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 your liege?" Sir Robert demanded. "And you took her up?"

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

Lancaster lifted his brows. "Can’t 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’ll discover it."

"And meanwhile? There’s no time for the inquisitor." Lancaster rested his head against the throne. "Much as I’d like to see her burn." He drew a deep breath and sighed. "But here—I find I can’t execute my green companion-in-arms, in spite of my aching head and dislocated 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 it or not, 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 you hoped to gain of me, that you joined my court?"

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

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

"No." Ruck lowered his face. "I ask nothing of you now, my lord."

"And I offer nothing," Lancaster said, "for I want no more of you. I’ve detained Princess Melanthe at the gate, so that you’ll be seen alive and well to escort her into the city. At dawn you must be off, with your princess and all her train." He smiled sourly. "And look 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. She could see torches and hear drunken shouting from within.

If she’d had another choice, she would have turned away. The message—and signs of riot inside—were ominous. She didn’t think real trouble had erupted yet, but it might flare at any moment. Her presence alone might be enough to spark it. She 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 on the saddlebow. The greyhound sat shivering. Melanthe looked into the blackness behind her, 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. 

The castle gates opened slowly amid noise and disordered motion. He yelled an 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. Her palfrey danced along beside the war-horse, taking hopping, frightened steps, half-rearing. Melanthe gave the horse a quick spur, and it sprang off its haunches. 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, "You were long in coming. I’m nearly frozen through."

She didn’t 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 looked at her with an expression as opaque as a falcon’s steady cold stare. "I’m to escort you from here without delay. We leave at dawn, upon the tide."

"Ah." She smiled at him, because he expected her to be shocked. "We’re cast out? Crude—but what does an Englishman know of subtlety? Indeed, this is excellent news. You’ll 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 to me now as your liege, and I will love you 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."