TWELVE

      

 

Melanthe sat with her mantle wrapped close about her, her back against the chapel wall, watching the frigid dusk come down. Her head felt dull with the unfamiliar aftermath of tears, her eyes heavy, but she was not melancholy.

Her knight lay across the door, his head on his arm, padded by his cloak. The steady sound of his breathing was the only noise but for the destrier cropping grass outside the open portal, and the occasional tinkle of Gryngolet’s bells. Each soft chime brought a sharper breath and a suspension from him, as if he listened for peril even in sleep—then a shift of his body, and a long deep exhalation like a sigh.

She was to wake him before full dark gathered, so that he might sit up again all through the night on watch. He’d gone to sleep with his back to her, but soon enough his movements had turned him so that she could just see his face in the last of the light. He looked exactly what he was: a weary man-at-arms, shabby and handsome, resigned to sleeping in armor on stone. The strong lines of his face were no softer in sleep: only his lips, slightly parted, and the smoothing of the stern lines about his eyes and brows made him seem younger, more like the youth who had stared at her so hotly those many seasons ago in the Pope’s palace.

He had amused her then, and flattered her—such a look, and from a boy who hadn’t even anything to gain by it. She had noticed him. And when she’d seen what mischief they were about, the bishops and priests, she had saved him, little though he appeared to know or thank her.

She had felt then a hundred years older than he, though she’d been only seventeen herself. She felt a thousand now— and yet new, in some strange way younger and more reckless than she had ever been. She felt, for the first time in her life, in love with a man.

Ligurio she had respected, loved in mind and in soul: teacher, father, companion, and lifeline. And before she had learned better, she had found friendship and a sparking attraction with the smiling Dane who had given her Gryngolet, but that memory was no peaceful one.

She gazed at the long shadowed teeth of the dragon stone, burying her cold nose in ermine. The Northman had taught her to hunt, disciplined her to the exacting task of training a wild passager trapped after its first moult, revealed to her the hours of freedom in a falcon’s courses. She hadn’t betrayed Ligurio with him, nor thought of it. It had been no more than a girl’s infatuation. It hadn’t had time to become more, before Melanthe had discovered the Northman slain in her own bed. The lady asleep with him put on a great shrieking show to find that the man beside her was murdered, just as if she hadn’t slipped in the knife herself. Melanthe had been fifteen, Prince Ligurio’s still-virgin bride, in wit as well as body. Her husband had had to explain it to her.

That was the first she had truly understood of Gian Navona’s cold lunatic passion for all that Monteverde owned. For her. Before it, she’d only known him as a courteous and clever man who sometime supped with her husband, and had once shown her a cunning hand trick of making a living flower appear in a bowl of glass.

In many ways, that was all she knew of Gian still. And yet he had made her what she was, as surely as Ligurio’s careful lessons. Prince Ligurio taught her how to swim; Gian Navona was the sea—tide and current and storm, treacherous depth and smiling surface, and creatures dwelling beneath that haunted dreams. She learned never to rest, never to float, never to cling to what appeared solid. She learned that he would not abide her to smile upon any man.

The dragon stared back at her from black eyeholes. The long line of its teeth could have been a deathly grin. She wondered if it had amused Gian, to dispatch his own mistress to end Melanthe’s innocence in seduction and blood. She wondered how far ahead he planned; if he had intended even then to sire a bastard on the woman and train him up to be another beautiful murdering viper, to castrate him and set him guard upon Melanthe, at her table and in her bed, tainting the very air she breathed with bloodshed. She wondered if he found it all some lurid jest, and sat alone in his palazzo and laughed.

Gryngolet, the Northman’s gift—the white gyrfalcon had hated Allegreto from the day he had come into Monteverde, a boy with the mind and countenance of the fallen archangel himself. Melanthe also had hated him. He had the look of his mother on him—murderess—Melanthe could see her magnificent frantic face even now, tearing her hair in her fraudulent horror.

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 besotted with him. The comeliest 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. In truth, 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 couldn’t suppose that God would elect to erase the names of Navona and Riata from the earth merely to save her trouble.

Indeed, 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 didn’t care a whiff for his birth. Perhaps 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.

No, 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’d 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 wasn’t accustomed to denying herself. If she had not taken lovers, it wasn’t for virtue or self-constraint, but because of the terrible weakness such a union must create.

It was strength that she needed, not weakness. She’d meant to use him, this chivalrous, nameless warrior. She’d 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 perhaps 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 perhaps 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 hadn’t woken him.

"Christ’s love!" He staggered to his feet. He’d slept the night through like a dead man.

A horn called again, 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. He stared unseeing out the door, listening for the direction that they took. 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 you and the falcon to horse, all speed, and chance we’ll meet them in the chase."

"Meet them?" She stood as if bewildered. "But pestilence—"

"Sick men do not hunt. The falcon, lady. Hood her, so that we may go in haste." He tossed the hawking-bag to her. "A lord it will be, perhaps even the king’s men, to hunt here with hounds. Welcome we’ll plead, on your behalf. Quickly now, my lady, before we lose the horns."

Already they grew fainter, the song of the hounds 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 couldn’t have balanced Gryngolet on her fist and held to his waist on the pillion. They came upon a straggler first, a sullen huntsman 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 huntsman hadn’t even turned to look at them when the destrier broke out from the heavy underbrush behind him, but only moved aside from the path, making way.

"Hail, 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 it’s not time!"

The huntsman 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, sir, nor be induced from it, though we had the tracks and bed of a singular boar."

"I see," 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 huntsman gave them a sidelong look. "Good sir, I beg your pardon," he said humbly. He sent a dour glance directly at Melanthe. "Methinks you 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 don’t know your lord’s name, sir," Ruck said brusquely. "We come to crave harbor of him, if he will it. Would you go on errand, good sir, to seek our welcome?"

The huntsman 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. "Aye, 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. 

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 guests notable for their laughter and amorous attention to the several ladies among the group. The huntsman had sought out a neat, compact young man who stood by the fire and the carcass, nibbling at the roasted delicacies were reserved to him on a special 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 huntsman 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 use my house and my home as you like. 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 never would I, worthy lord, but I must withhold my name and my house until I’m 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! It’s marvelous in truth, that such an excellent green knight comes among us. Do 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’s my whore," he said.

The whole company broke into appreciative laughter. Henry of Torbec said, "By God, here’s a shrewd man, who denies himself no comfort in his undertaking!" He gave Melanthe a knowing survey, as if she were a horse or hound. "You dress 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 whore warned her full well that he was not at ease.

"From the warring in France, I brought her elegant things and gifts," he said.

"You’ve been in France?" Henry asked swiftly. 

"At Poitiers."

"Poitiers!" Henry gave a short laugh. "So long ago?"

"Yes," Sir Ruck said without elaboration.

"You know not my brother Geoffrey, then."

"A large country, France," Sir Ruck said. "I’ve not the honor to meet with all good men who serve the high king there."

"And journey you how since Poitiers, green knight?"

"Everywhere," he said. "Lately on my left hand I beheld Liverpool, but entered not, for I feared sickness there. The priory is forsaken. Had you news of it?"

Henry scowled. "No—forsaken?" He looked to his aides. "Has Downy come back from Liverpool yet?"

Heads shook. Henry gave an oath, as if he’d already known the answer. He stepped back from the horse.

"You did not enter the town, sir?" he demanded.

"As I’m a knight and Christian, I say you I did not. The pestilence doesn’t touch me, but I feared for my damsel. She’d have been pleased for me take her within the gate, for she delights to display her rich clothes to plain country maids." He shrugged again. "Women have them no wit, before God. Far wide did we turn away from Liverpool."

Henry appeared to think that a convincing tale. "Well done, sir. I thank you to bring this warning." His scowl had faded and he seemed to become quite cheerful. "Hie, men, ready 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 didn’t answer, but only reached back and gave her a light bob upon the cheek. "Possess yourself in patience, wench," he said aloud in English. "You’ll have a wash and a bed soon enough."

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.

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 their lovers’ breasts than in 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 yourself in meekness according to your place, wench." His voice carried in reproving English. "We’re not now alone in the woods, for you to play off your noble airs."

She saw Henry lift his hand. "Hold the yoke fast upon her neck, green knight!" he called back in warm humor. "Indeed, it’s wise to keep 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 you name me wench again, sir," she said affectionately aloud, "I’ll see you 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 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.

Sir Ruck seemed to have a particular interest the scaffold that supported men at work on the masonry. They appeared to be about repairs. It was not a highly fortified place. He turned away.

Amid the general turmoil of arrival, Henry assigned a servant to them. As the man came forward, kneeling and eyeing Hawk warily, Sir Ruck unpinned his mantle, letting it fall back.

"This needs mending, wench," he said over his shoulder to Melanthe. "Let me see it not till your work is done."

Melanthe gathered the mantle, using it to muffle Gryngolet, holding falcon and cloak in a bundle against her breast. The gyrfalcon’s talons gripped hard on her glove, and the bells gave a muffled plink, but Gryngolet made no other protest.

Sir Ruck dismounted, swinging his leg high over the saddlebow and dropping to the ground beside her, lifting his arm before the servant could step forward to offer aid. "Come, wench."

Melanthe held her armful of falcon and wool close to her breast as he pulled her down. "I’m counting every one, you should know," she said, smiling up at him as her feet touched the ground.

He tapped her cheek with mailed knuckles. "Counting what, wench?"

"Six," she said sweetly, turning to follow the rest into the hall.

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Do not stray off from me, wench."

"Oh, think you that I jest?" She stopped. "Seven."

In his eyes was that subtle hint of a smile she was coming to recognize. "Keep you close. In faith, you’re the comeliest wench in this company. I be jealous over you."

"Ah," she said mildly, "four limbs broken, two eyes put out, and your nose cut off. But eight—wee loo, I’ll have to put my mind to eight and show a little invention."

He went down on his knee and hung his head. "Truly, I’m villainous," he said in extravagant humility. "I beg my lady’s grace. You’re a true gentlewoman, and no common wench."

One of the other females clapped. "Now we’ll we have some noble talking! Certain it is that your lady is the more gracious, sir, and deserves dainty words."

Amid feminine acclaim, the men groaned. "I warned you," Henry complained from the hall door. "Now they’ll all wax wondrous proud, these women, and want us to lie abed and write them poetry!"

Sir Ruck stood up and gave Melanthe a light push. "Nay, not poetry," he said.

Henry laughed and shrugged. "Perhaps not. Bid you enter, my lady, and I pray my hall be not too common for your comfort!"

 

* * *

 

Ruck did not think they had a chance of concealing the gyrfalcon for long, He had a tale prepared for the moment of discovery, but saw no reason to tell it sooner than he must. They wouldn’t linger in this place. Ruck disliked the look of it. Henry was preparing for defense—piercing arrowslits in his wall and strengthening his gatehouse and outer works—perhaps it was only with the outlaws of the Wyrale in mind, but Sir Geoffrey of Torbec had no brother that Ruck knew.

Still, the servants didn’t appear misused. The only evidence of distaste for Henry that Ruck had seen was the huntsman’s contempt for taking hart out of season. Hospitable the man might be, and affable, but it told something of his nature that he would choose to hunt a hart in forbidden time over a boar fitting to the season.

His guests appeared to be no more than a pack of gaily dressed young ruffians, idle sons of squires and country knights. If the nearness of pestilence concerned them, they answered it with mirth and jest, as some were always wont to do. Still, Ruck looked them over to see if he might make use of a pair or three as an escort. They might be bored and willing, he thought, if he made it worth their while.

As they entered the hall, the princess walked ahead of him past servants setting up the trestle tables, her muddied ermine sweeping the woven rushes, the gold fret in her hair catching what light there was falling down from the smoke hole in the roof. She didn’t make a half-convincing wench. It was impossible to pass her off as lowborn; clearly she had sense enough not even to attempt it. 

But she might be as haughty as she pleased. Ruck had no fear that she would be unmasked. It was all too fantastical. What should these men think, that the heiress of the Earl of Bowland would ride out of the woods mounted astride behind a wandering knight? If he’d proclaimed her by name, he could not imagine that they would have believed him.

Ruck was surprised to find himself and his mistress favored with a solar room, where the winter sun fell through a barred window onto the bedcurtains and a pair of stools. There was even a chair. The servant knelt before it.

Ruck strode forward and sat down. While the princess stood holding her burden, he thrust out his feet and let the attendant pull off his steel sabatons, then waved the man away. "My woman will despoil me of my harness."

The servant bowed. "Will you have a bath of water, sir?"

"Certainly he will!" the princess ordered, gesturing briskly, "Need you ask such a witless question? Neither hot nor cold, but temperate, with balms as my lord likes. A fire must be laid here in the chimney and the bath placed before it. Bring him spices, do you have them, with good wine."

"Yes, my lady." The servant seemed to hunch before such sharp and easy command.

She followed him as he retreated toward the door. "And rich robes, to the honor of this house. And cushions for his comfort. And—indeed, inquire of your master, fool—if he’s sojourned in the halls of great men, he’ll know everything required. See that you don’t return before all is suitably in order for a guest of my lord’s estate!"

"Yes, my lady. Straight away, my lady." The door closed behind him as he bowed out hastily, muttering compliance. Princess Melanthe secured the hasp with her free hand.

"That should keep him some little while," she said, throwing the cloak off her falcon. "If they can find you a rag worthy of the wearing in this place, I’ll be seized with surprise."

The bird roused and stretched her wings. Ruck stood. Princess Melanthe caused the hooded falcon to step backward onto the arm of the chair and then gave him a dry look of question.

"We stay only the night, my lady," he said in answer. He pulled off his gauntlets and opened the buttons on his armor-coat, shrugging it from his shoulders. "If the bird be remarked—I discovered and trapped her in the forest, and return her now to the master who was named on her varvels. I don’t show her much abroad, for her value is too great to risk."

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."