TWENTY-TWO

 

 

He had no memory of coming down from the mountain. Hawk was galloping, pounding down the road before the castle. The May pole stood in the meadow. He sent Hawk flying off the track, drawing his sword, careering down the slope with his arm outstretched.

The sword hit, slashing through the ribbons, a violent impact in his hand. The stave vibrated wildly as he swept past. He reined Hawk on his haunches and spurred the destrier at the pole. He was yelling as he rode it down, swinging his sword overhead. The bright silks flew in the wind. The blow rang through him, opening a white gash in the wood.

He flung the weapon from him as he passed the lists, leaning down to catch the haft of the battle ax. He swung upright in the saddle and charged the May pole howling fury in his throat.

The blade flashed and bit deep in the wood. With a crack the pole bent drunkenly. He drove the horse around with his legs, hefting the length of the ax in both hands. He cut at the stave, spurring Hawk in ever smaller circles around the fractured pillar, swinging again and again as wood chips flew past his face, chopping until the log fell with a squealing groan.

He raised the ax over his head and brought it down, cleaving the stump down the center with a crack like a lightning bolt. He yanked the weapon free and dismounted amid trampled ribbons, assaulting the downed spar.

The wood splintered beneath the blade. He had no thoughts, no idea of time. He hewed until his hands went numb with the work, until he couldn’t pull the blade from its seat but stumbled forward over it when he tried.

He fell on his knees amid mutilated silk and sundered wood. With his dagger he stabbed at a scarred length of pole beside him, the only thing in reach. He could hear nothing but his own heaving breath and the sound of the point impaling wood. Sweat trickled down into his eye, sharp salt. He wiped it with the back of his leather sleeve. 

The cold wind bit his cheeks when he looked up. All of his people stood at the edge of the lists, a cluster of color and silence except for one little girl who was weeping. Their May stave and garlands lay maimed and dismembered about him.

He shook his head. He shifted the dagger and speared the mud beside his knee. Torn strips of blue and pink fluttered and curled around his gauntlet. He pulled free and gored again, his fist rising and falling weakly. He shook his head once more.

"My lord." It was Will Foolet’s voice, heavy with fear and question.

"I can’t speak of it." Ruck’s throat was hoarse. He shoved himself to his feet. "Ask Hew."

He took up the ax and walked toward the lists, wiping his muddy knife on his thigh. The tear-stained girl came up to meet him as he passed, reaching for the hem of his surcoat. "Won’t we have a May then, m’lord, if you please?" Her large eyes fixed him. "My lady’s grace said me that I might carry her flowers to the stave—" Her mother hurried up, trying to lift her away, but she clung stubbornly to him. "And I can’t now!" she cried.

"Beg grace, my lord!" her mother exclaimed, yanking the small fist free.

Ruck saw a lone figure walking toward them from far away down the track. Hew. Soon enough they would all know, and stare at him, and pity him for a wretched love-sot, more fool than they could invent in their best playing at fools.

"I’ll fell another." He turned from them, hefting the ax onto his shoulder. "I don’t desire company at it."

 

* * *

 

Desmond had told Melanthe nothing more, but that Allegreto’s father had come to Bowland. She hadn’t asked. He did not use his bandaged hand, and he moved like an old man, his young face unsmiling, his eyes bleak.

He brought her to her senses. She had looked on him, the boy who had left with a merry melody that knew nothing of pain, and she had known that she must go.

She could not let this come to Wolfscar. And it would come, if she stayed, if Gian was here. The world would come no matter the depth of the woven wood barrier. Gian would hunt her until he found her.

As dreams and vapor vanished, as a laughing youth came home a cripple, so would such things perish if she tried to hold on to what she could not possess. She had not forgotten who she was, but she had let herself forget what it demanded.

She had looked back once, halting the horse at a crossroad where a monk and a farmer worked to repair a harrow. Gryngolet sat on the saddlebow, asleep, her head tucked beneath one white wing. The wind blew warmer here, pushing fat low clouds and showers off the sea. The lowland was alive with the work of spring, with cleared fields and flowers, church bells and children chasing birds off the new seeds.

Behind her the mountains rose, catching the rain against their flanks—a dark watch, a malevolence that made the eye long to turn to the new foliage and fresh red soil. She stared at the boundary. High and impenetrable it seemed, and yet preciously frail, vanishing at a glance for anyone with the key.

Her message to Ruck had been a more powerful kind of barrier, designed to kill all trust and love. He would have followed her—she made a pit of broken faith between them to prevent him.

Desmond didn’t halt or look back at her. His fat sluggish rouncy, taken from Hew, carried him step by step. She had seen him wrap his good hand in the mane, his mouth drawn hard against every jolt. Sometimes, when his face grew too white, she had told him they would rest, and gave him time to recover himself.

She wondered how many fingers he had left beneath the bandage. But it was only his left hand, and he could still move his joints, if stiffly. He had not been racked for long.

So far from Gian, she’d let herself drown in foolish visions. She had done a thing unforgivable and irreparable, disdaining the danger. 

She had loved, and let it command her.

If she had not, Desmond would be whole. He would still be in Wolfscar, playing his mirthful flute. But she’d never thought Gian would come. She had thought Allegreto dead. She had thought she was free.

Free! Better she had obeyed Ligurio and gone into the nunnery. Better she had flung herself from the highest tower of Monteverde. Better that she had never, never known what she knew now—a man’s faint smile and the depth of his heart and his faithfulness. She did not deserve it, she had never deserved such, she had mistaken herself for someone else. Ligurio had trained her, Gian would have her; it was beyond defying.

Even God Himself had stayed his hand. She had not conceived; she had seen the signs denying it each month with regret—but she understood now what mercy had been given her, that she was barren.

Fantasies and a lover she left behind. Only one thing did she do for herself, brutally cruel as she could do it, so that she might have a hope of sleeping. She made him hate her, so that he would not follow.

 

* * *

 

The moment that they rode within sight of the massive gatehouse and red sandstone walls that guarded the abbey, Allegreto came striding out. He did not keep to a walk—he began to run, avoiding puddles and a flock of peahens, coming to a halt before her horse. "My father," he said.

His face held no expression, his voice no panic, and yet he radiated a fear so deep that he seemed to breathe it in and out of him.

"Is he here?" She nodded toward the abbey.

"In God’s name, no!" He seemed to get a little hold of himself and shook his head. He bowed to her. "No, lady. At Bowland. We came away in secret."

"Let us go in, then. Desmond must have rest and food."

Allegreto looked toward her drooping companion. He walked to the horse and took its reins, reaching back to grip Desmond’s good hand. "Well done," he said, "for bringing her lady’s grace. You see I didn’t follow."

Desmond gave a hollow croak of a laugh. "Not for lack of trying."

Allegreto turned and clucked the rouncy into a slow walk. He looked back at Desmond. "How were you injured, when they ask?"

"A mishap," Desmond said weakly. "A mill wheel."

Allegreto nodded. "Clever enough," he said to the boy.

Melanthe saw Desmond smile feebly. He looked at Allegreto with bleared and worshiping eyes.

"I’ve said a lady doing penance is expected," Allegreto informed them. "A great lady traveling poorly, to atone for her pride and vainglory. A falcon brought the message to her in a dream."

Melanthe sighed. "Ah, Allegreto—and I thought you dead." She pulled her hood about her face and lifted the bird who had delivered the unfortunate news of her pride and vainglory, pressing her horse toward the abbey gate.

 

* * *

 

She knelt beside Allegreto in the sanctuary, telling prayer beads with her fingers. While the monks sang compline in the candlelit church, he spoke softly to her, his voice a tight undertone to the motet and descant.

"I don’t know what you want, my lady. I don’t know what you intended by fleeing. I’ve thought on it these three months, and still I cannot fathom your desire."

"It’s not important," she said.

"Yes, my lady, it is important to me. I am yours. You won’t believe me. I cannot prove it. But if I must choose between you and my father, I’ve chosen."

She looked aside at him, keeping her head bowed. He was staring intensely at her, the smooth curve of his cheek lit by gold, his eyes outlined in shadow as if by a finely skillful hand. "You’ve chosen me?" she asked, with a soft incredulity.

"You don’t want my father. That’s all I can make of your move. Is that true?"

Such a blunt question. She forced her fingers to tell the beads, her mind to think. Was this Gian, trying to wrest words from her that he would use somehow? Allegreto was his father’s creature; he had ever been, born and bred to his devotion. As frightened of Gian as all the rest of them, loving his father as a wolf cub loved its parent, in cringing adoration.

"You need not tell me," he said quickly. "I well know you cannot trust me. What can I do that you will trust me?"

"I cannot imagine," she said.

He was silent. The monks sang an alleluia and response, voices soaring up the dark roof. The straw beneath her knees made but a rough cushion; she was glad to stand when the rite allowed it.

"Lady," he said when they knelt again, "two years ago, my father wished me to journey with him to Milan. Do you remember?"

She made a slight nod, without taking her eyes from her fingers.

"We didn’t go to Milan. We spent the time in his palace, lady. He told me I must keep you from all harm. He taught me such further lessons as he thought I needed, and watched me spar and fight, and—tested me."

A tenor answered the treble song. Melanthe started the beads over again, her head bent.

"My lady, there was a man who had done my father a wrong. I know not what. He was loosed in the palace, and my father said I was to kill him, or he would kill me." Allegreto was unmoving next to her. "He was a master, this man. He was better than I. I was at the point of his dagger when my father delivered me." Amid the chants, Allegreto’s voice seemed to become distant. "I failed. My father told me that because I was his son, he saved me, but I had to remember not to fail again. And so I was bound in a room with the man I should have killed, and they took his member and parts."

Melanthe shook her head. She put her hand on his arm to stop him, to silence him.

But he kept speaking, trembling beneath her hand. "And while they did it, my father came to me and said to remember I was his bastard, and he could sire more sons, but was better for Navona that I could not. He laid the blade on me, so I should feel it and bleed, but then—because he loved me, he stayed it. He made me know that if I failed him again, that should be my reward. I should not be reprieved." He looked up at her, breathing sharply. "And I have not failed, until this time."

Melanthe’s hand loosened. She stared into his face.

"It’s been deception, my lady, that I was gelded. He let me go and bid me play it well, or it would be done to me in truth. It was so that you would bear me to sleep near you, that I might keep you from your enemies. He knew—" Allegreto’s mouth hardened. "He knew that he could trust me in all ways."

She closed her eyes and drew a shaky breath. "Christ’s blood. And I am to trust you?"

"My lady—" He put his hand over hers, gripping hard, desperate. "Lady, this time he’ll do it. He promised it."

She shook her head, as if she could deny all thoughts.

"I can’t go back without you, my lady!"

"Ah," she said, pulling her hand from under his, "is that all you’d have of me, for your vast loyalty?"

"Not all," he said in a painful voice.

She looked sideways from under her hood. His hands were clenched together on his thighs as he knelt.

"My lady." He bent his head down over his fists. "Donna Cara is there. If you tell my father of what she tried to do to you—"

His words broke off, requiring no completion. Melanthe gazed at his hands and thought, Cara? Cara the bitch of Monteverde, whom he had scorned so savagely and strained so hard to have sent away?

Away, away, out of Monteverde, Riata, Navona. Away, where she would have been safe.

In profile he looked older than she remembered, his mouth and jaw set, his beauty more solid. Growing. And a man, with passions in him that he had kept dark and silent.

"Oh, God pity you," she whispered. "Allegreto."

"She’s not for me. I know that. There is an Englishman." He took a long breath and spoke coldly. "I believe he will wed her. But if your lady’s grace accuses her to my father—" He shrugged, and his elegant murdering hands twisted together.

She might have thought he was lying. He was player enough, verily, for any part.

He squeezed his eyes closed, lifting his face to the high arches. "I am yours. I’ll act only for you. I’ll do whatever you ask to prove myself. Only—I cannot leave her there, and I cannot go back without you, my lady."

Three monks in procession came from the chancel down the nave toward them, singing, their faces underlit by the candles they carried. Melanthe watched them turn and leave the church by a side door,

"Listen to me, my lady. Your white falcon was there—when my father punished his enemy and forewarned me."

She looked toward him. "What?"

"My father fed it," he said. "He said that he had trained it to know me."

"That is impossible."

"The falcon hates me, my lady."

"Your father has never touched Gryngolet."

"He told me that if I betrayed him with you, that the falcon—" He looked at her imploringly. "My lady, he fed it."

He did not say more; he let her understand the monstrous thing he meant. Through her horror Melanthe bared her teeth. "If he had a gyrfalcon, it was not Gryngolet!"

"I will carry her." Allegreto gazed at Melanthe with a straight and terrified intensity. "To prove my fidelity—that I do not lie to you."

She suddenly realized that the church was silent, the prayers completed, the sanctuary dimmer. What candlelight was left hardened the sweet curves and comeliness of his face, erased the last hint of childhood, revealed the untenable compass of his fear.

He should have tried to appeal to Melanthe’s welfare if he wished to entrap her. Her desires, her ambitions. But he had admitted that he did not know them.

He asked her what he could do, as clumsy and open as Cara in her folly.

It did not seem a great thing, this offer to carry a falcon, for a manslayer, a lovely boy with the soul of a demon. If he was lying, and she trusted him—then she walked open-eyed and helpless into Gian’s clasp.

Three things Allegreto dreaded. Plague and his father, and Gryngolet. He knelt in the church and offered to defy two of them. For lying.

Or for love.

"You need not carry her," Melanthe said. "I trust you." 

His lips parted; that was the only sign he gave of elation or relief.

"If you’re mine," she said, "then attend close to me now. Your father did not have Gryngolet, nor ever has. I flew her at Saronno, all that week that I supposed you in Milan. She wasn’t in Monteverde for him to use in such vice. It was another bird obtained to daunt you, we must assume—and contemptible abuse of a noble beast."

His jaw twitched. She deliberately disdained his father’s horror as a mere offense against a falcon’s dignity, to shrink it to a thing that he could manage.

"Gryngolet has hated you because I haven’t been over fond of you, I think." She shrugged. "Or perhaps she dislikes your perfume. Change it."

He closed his dark eyes. He drew a deep breath into his chest, the sound of it uneven.

Melanthe stood up, the beads sliding through her fingers. She turned and left the church, pausing after she had made her obeisance. "Allegreto," she said quietly as he rose beside her from his knee, "if we fear him to a frenzy, we are done."

He nodded. "Yes, my lady. I know it well, my lady."

 

* * *

 

She had not seen Bowland for eighteen years. Against spring thunderclouds, the towers did not seem as monstrous huge as she remembered, and yet they were formidable, the length of the wall running a half-mile along the cliff edge to the old donjon at the summit. Its massive height stared with slitted eyes to the north, defying Scots and rebels as it had for a hundred years and more.

Strength and shield—her haven—and Gian held it of her. She had not sent word. She arrived at the head of a guard provided by the abbot when she’d revealed herself to him. Their approach had been sighted five miles back, of that she could be sure, for Bowland overlooked all the country around, with signal towers to extend the view. He would know by now a party came.

And he had surmised who it was. A half-mile from the gatehouse, a pair of riders sped out to them, bringing breathless welcome, and a few moments later an escort of twenty lances showing signs of hasty organization trotted to meet them, wheeling to form proud flanks.

A few drops of rain spattered her shoulders, but she did not raise her hood. She rode over the bridge and into the immense shadow of the barbican with her face lifted and her head bare but for a golden net.

Woodsmoke and cheering shouts greeted her as her rouncy jogged into the open yard. The lower bailey swarmed with people and animals, as if every member of the hold had dropped his task to come. They wished to see her, she knew, their mistress returned.

Among the English she recognized no one, but that was beyond reason to expect. All her old servants, her parents’ men, they would all be changed beyond knowing. But a babble of Italian and French equaled or outpaced the native tongue, and she saw some of Gian’s knaves whom she knew better than she cared to, and her own familiar retinue awaiting—and yes...Cara, smiling, with a trapped rabbit’s fright in her eyes.

Melanthe ignored her. As she dismounted, Gian came striding from the donjon.

He was grinning, his arms open. His houppelande of crimson flared behind him, guards of gold embroidery skimming the ground, and his spiked shoes impaling the air elegantly with each step.

He went low to his knee, lifting the hem of her gown. "God be thanked for His might. God be thanked." He made the cross and touched his lips to the cloth.

"Your Grace," she said. "Give you greeting."

He sought her hands as he rose, kissing her eagerly on cheeks and mouth. "Princess, you don’t know what I’ve endured."

He tasted of perfumed oil, his beard dressed neat, blackened by dyes of cypre and indigo. She offered her hand.

"I was the one lost in desert," she said lightly. "Ask what I’ve endured. I’ve not heard a word but in English these three months."

"Torture indeed!" He took her arm and led her up the stairs into the donjon. "You’ll tell me all, when your ladies have done with you. Come—oh, come, my sweet." His fingers tightened on her suddenly. He halted, gathering her hands in his and kissing them.

"Gian," she said softly.

He straightened. "Christ, I’m undone, to treat you so." He released her. "Go to your women. Call me when you will."

With a swift turn he walked away from her. At the screen he passed Allegreto, who bowed down with his forehead to the very floor tile. Gian did not glance at him. He crossed the hall and disappeared into a stair.

 

* * *

 

It was not until she was in her bath, with the silk sheets hung about and Cara setting a tray of malvoisie wine on the trestle, that the full scope of Melanthe’s defeat came upon her. She had held herself insensible to what she did; refused to think backward instead of forward, to move in weakness rather than strength.

But she had lost, and lost beyond all her worst imagining.

Gian held her. And Bowland that was to have been her security, her refuge where every servant was safe and known and no alien countenance could be concealed. She had thrown away the quitclaim to draw him off, she had rid herself of Allegreto and Cara only to have them back, she had played bishop and queen and king—and lost. Bowland. Her safety, her freedom. And more—but she could not think of him; she would break if she thought of him, and Gian would see.

Cara washed her hair. Melanthe could feel the maid’s unsteady fingers—she wanted to scream at the girl to summon her nerve, for one weak link was enough to kill them all. Instead she took the washcloth and wiped soap across her mouth, preferring the flavor of it to Gian’s taste.

"I hear that you’re repentant," she said coldly. "What proof can you give me of it?"

"Oh, my lady!" Cara whispered. She bent her head, her wet hands clenched together. "I’ll do anything!"

Melanthe gazed at her. "Hardly reassuring. What of your sister?"

The girl shook her head. "My lady, what am I to do? I’d give my life for her if it would make her safe, but it would not. Allegreto has said—that he has tricked the Riata for a little time—I don’t know how, but I was to account to them by Ficino, and within the day of when he came here, before he tried to seek me out, he...he must have caught a candle in his clothes, my lady, and...there was a fire. It was a terrible accident, my lady. All said so."

Melanthe hid the jolt of discovery about Ficino in a brief laugh. "You’ve found yourself a useful friend in Allegreto, it would seem."

The maid kept her eyes lowered. She did not answer.

"You’ll go between us. He must stay near his father and away from me," Melanthe said. "He’s told me I may trust you, which is why I do, and the only reason, since you give me none other. But remember that Gian is here, and at your least indiscretion I’ll give you to him, and even Allegreto could not save you then."

"Yes, my lady. I could not forget it, my lady."

 

* * *

 

She received Gian in the chamber that had belonged to her father, with its paintings of jousts and melees all along the plastered walls, a newer wainscoting below them that she didn’t remember and a line of diverse shields hung above. Again it seemed not so vast as it ought, the colors duller, the curtained bed smaller and the red and blue ceiling beams not so high as she recalled. But her father’s chair still stood near the chimney, with a cushion in it that was shabby and almost worn through, an imperfect embroidery of the Bowland arms that Melanthe recognized at once.

Every year since her marriage she had made him a new cushion, and sent it. This one had been the first. Some others lay about the chamber, early efforts, when she had been so sick for home that she had spent hours at the task. In latter years she’d chosen elaborate designs and caused the best craftsmen in the city to execute them in expensive materials, but she saw none of those richer pillows in the room.

She was glad. The thin cushion worn through in her father’s chair was better comfort and courage. She did not rise from it as Gian entered, but only indicated a lesser chair drawn up near.

He bowed to her. Melanthe went through the ritual of ordering spices and drink. While a servant waited at the door for any further charge, they exchanged greetings of exquisite courtesy. Gian sat down.

"My lady’s father left his holding in good order, may God absolve him," he said in French. "I’ve seen nothing but signs of the most excellent management here since he passed to his reward."

Gian was a master. Word of that compliment would soon spread throughout the bailey.

Melanthe smiled. "I think you’re a little surprised, sir. Perhaps you thought we lived as savages here in the north."

"My dear, none such as you could have sprung from savages, or from any but the most noble blood."

"I told you that my English estate was well worth my journey. This hold is but a fraction; I have numerous manors to the west and south, and five good castles, garrisoned all. I’ve made homage for them to the king, but there’s much work yet to be done—I must meet my vassals and tour my holdings. I’ll be truthful with you, my lord, and hope that you didn’t come sallying north in the expectation that I would return immediately."

He was silent, looking at her in an unfathomable way. She tilted her head and put a question in her glance. She’d worn a high-necked gown and dressed her hair in a wimple of purple silk, so that the pulse in her throat would not show.

"I’d have thought you well occupied at home," she added, defying caution to make a swift attack.

He grinned, lifting his eyebrows. "And well you should, my lady. After such a kindness as you did me with your quitclaim."

He appeared quite at ease, even amused. But of course that could hide anything. She shrugged. "A mischief, I’ll admit—but not too great, I hope. I regret I hadn’t time to warn you, but I was pressed upon too closely, and then of course—this fearful adventure I’ve experienced—"

She left it there, without supplying details that might entangle her.

"We must thank God that you’re safe," he said. "These other matters are trifling. The Duke of Lancaster has graced us with a company of men and lawyers in Monteverde, to press the claim you gave his father. My son tells me you’ve met the duke?"

There was the heart. His real concern, in a casual question tagged to the end of his words. Armies might move and lawyers argue over the paper claim she had given away, but the real threat she still carried in herself and her marriage. Lancaster was ambitious and powerful, with the throne of England behind him; if already he sent a force to assert her quitclaim, how much more aggressive might he be with the princess of Monteverde as his wife?

"Indeed yes," she said, "I stopped at Bordeaux until the new year. A gracious and hospitable man, truly. His brother the prince is sore ill, I fear, and so the duke takes all the burden of Aquitaine upon his own shoulders. I’m surprised he had the resource to pursue any business in Monteverde."

The refreshment arrived, saving her from saying more. When the drink was poured, Gian dismissed both servants with a flick of his hand. It was the first usurpation of authority he had taken—not having been so tactless as to lodge himself in the lord’s chambers or issue orders to her attendants. Melanthe made no remark on it, but she did look deliberately at his hand and up at his face.

He smiled. "Forgive me. I’m an impudent fellow—but how shall I not be anxious to have you to myself?" The door hasp clanked shut like the bolt on a prison. For a long moment he sat with his wine cup in his hands, gazing at her. "My life has been a joyless desert without you."

"Come, Gian—we’re alone. You needn’t exert yourself to love-talk now."

He rubbed his thumb over the rim, looking down at it. "It’s no exertion," he said softly.

She realized that he wished to play at love-amour. She thought of his perfumed kiss, and a terrible loathing of the course she must take came over her. He was no Ligurio, to leave her in peace in her bedchamber, but the man who had made sure by murder that she took no lovers. He had waited for her—without a legitimate heir, for his own enigmatic reasons, for a logic she had never plumbed, nor ever would.

"It would be exertion for me," she said. "I’m too weary now to trade compliments."

His eyes lifted. He smiled and drank. "Then I’ll waste none upon you, without my fair share in return. Tell me of your dread adventure, if you cannot praise my manly beauty."

"No, I shouldn’t like to disappoint you, if it’s compliments you desire," she said. "Shall I say that your own son could not flatter that elegant garment better?"

He didn’t move, but the pleasure seemed to flow through him, from a slight twitch of his spiked slipper to a deeper expansion of his chest when he inhaled. "Don’t say it, my dear lady, if it would tire you too much."

"I am weary in truth, Gian." She nibbled idly at a cake. "I really don’t wish to hold a long conversation."

He rose abruptly, walking to her father’s little chapel where light from a narrow window of stained glass dyed the altar and rood. He was handsome enough, in his own way—older than Melanthe by near a score of years and yet lithe as a youth—an Allegreto with the sureness of age and power on him. Gluttonous indulgence was not his vice; he lived austere as a monk but for the fashions in clothing that he liked to set. For their interview he’d abandoned the staid floor-length robes in favor of the single color of Navona: white hose and a short white houppelande. It showed the lean legs of an ascetic—and his masculinity—very well.

"Concede me just a little description of your ordeal, my love." He smiled. "Your escort comes from an abbey, they tell me. Have you been safe all along in a religious house, then, while our Allegreto tore his hair?"

"Why, yes—has he not recounted to you?"

"He seems to have become shy." Gian leaned against the carved arcade of the oratory. "Gone to earth somewhere, like your English foxes."

She didn’t know whether to bless Allegreto for his forethought, or fear that Gian had indeed questioned him and now wished to compare their stories. "He has a great fear of your displeasure," she said, a description so patently inferior to the actuality that she found herself returning Gian’s smile with a wry curl of her own mouth.

"Still, a son shouldn’t hide from his father’s just wrath. Or the world would become a wicked place indeed, don’t you think?"

She gave him a surprised look. "Wrath? But what has he done?"

"Failed me, my dearest lady. Failed me entirely, when he allowed this calamity to befall you. And acted beyond himself in another small matter, not worth mentioning. If you should come across his burrow, you wouldn’t be amiss to tell my little fox that delaying the chase only puts the hunter out of temper."

"If you mean that he failed in my protection—surely you didn’t expect him to take on a pack of murdering bandits?"

"Ah, we come now to the bandits." He examined a painted and gilded angel’s face carved at the base of the arch. "Was it a large body of outlaws?"

She shrugged. "I think it must have been. I was woken out of a sound sleep to flee."

"You’re very easy about it, my lady! Weren’t you dismayed?"

She made a sound of impatience. "Indeed no, I was so delighted that I stayed to offer them wine and cakes! Truly, I’m not eager to relive the experience only for your entertainment."

He bowed. "I must ask your pardon. But these outlaws should be brought to justice."

"That has been taken care of, you may believe."

He raised his brows. Melanthe looked back at him coolly, daring him to put her to an inquisition, or hint that she did not rule here in her own lands.

"Alas, I arrive too late to rescue you, and now I can’t even take your revenge. A paltry fellow!" He drained his wine. "Hardly the equal of this mysterious green captain of yours, I fear."

She leaned back in her chair and gave him a dry smile. "Truly, not half as holy."

"Holy? I was told he’s a knight of some strength and repute."

"Certainly he is. I retain only the best for my protection."

"But where is he now, this paragon?"

Melanthe turned her palms up. "I don’t know. I believe a great hand comes down from heaven and lifts him up to sit among the clouds. Perhaps he prays and parleys with angels, which is as well, for his conversation is too pure to be borne on earth, I assure you."

"Even when he shares a bed with you, as I’m told?"

"A bed!" She stared, and then laughed. "Ah, yes—a bed. At that delightful manor house, you mean. But how came you to hear of that farce? Most notably holy when he shared a bed with me." She grimaced. "My ears rang with his prayers."

He observed her a moment and then chuckled. "My poor sweet, you’ve had a hard time of it, haven’t you?"

"Worse than you know! I fell from the rump of his repellent horse and broke my collar-bone. Three months I’ve sojourned in the most contemptible little priory, among nuns! The prioress could barely speak French and did nothing but pray for me. She and my knight got along excellently."

He laughed aloud. "But I must meet him, this knight. And the prioress, too. Such intercessions might save me a little time in Purgatory."

"Gian, don’t flatter yourself. Prayers are wasted on you, as they are on me. I told her so, but she was relentless. God is weary of hearing my name, I quite assure you."

He strolled back to her chair, standing near. "Surely, though, some gift or reward should be—"

She turned an angry eye on him. "Do not forget that I’m mistress here. I do not require your advice or assistance in it."

"Of course not, sweet. But I think—hearing of your trials and adventures—that I don’t like you riding about the country on the rump of some nameless knight’s horse. Or falling off of it. Or sharing a chamber with him, however holy he might be. You’ve had your way, and paid respects to Ligurio and your king, and seen to your estates." His hand skimmed her cheek. "I think, my dear love, that it is time and past for our betrothal."

She stared at the colored window in the oratory. "Yes, Gian." She kept her breathing slow and even. "It is time."

His finger pulled back the silken scarf, tracing her jaw and the telling pulse at her throat.

"If he touched you in desire, fair child," he murmured, "he is dead."

Melanthe rose, moving away from him. She locked her hands and stretched her arms out before her. "If the man ever felt desire, I warrant it would kill him. Now indulge me, Gian, I want to rest. My shoulder pains me." She smiled at him. "And do leave poor Allegreto alone if you love me, my lord. I want to dance with him at our wedding."