TWENTY-SEVEN

 

 

In candlelight Gian Navona lay on a straw-covered hurdle, only the stone floor beneath him. He was white, his skin and his clothes, already an effigy with painted black features and gilt embellishment. A priest knelt beside him; the others left a space about the corpse, standing back clustered in the corners and along the walls, except for Allegreto.

The youth stood beside his father’s body like a white greyhound guarding its master. Ruck had not sensed the depth of resemblance between them before. In his frozen pallor Allegreto was a mirror of his father: comelier, younger, perfected. He still wore the milky livery, showing damp yet, as if no one had thought to let him change. His pitch-black eyes turned to Melanthe, watching her as she left Ruck at the screens and crossed the floor.

She stood looking down on the dead man for a long time. The priest murmured his prayer softly. Ruck couldn’t see her face.

Navona’s men waited, a score of them ranged beyond Allegreto. Most of Melanthe’s retinue gathered nearer to Ruck, at the lower end of the hall. Set apart, an Englishman stood by a clerk with a writing roll and pen. Local people pressed forward through the open door into the passage, goggling and hushing one another, staring at Ruck harder than they stared at the corpse.

"Place a shroud on him," Melanthe said. She looked at her maids and spoke in Italian. One of them ducked a courtesy and went quickly out past Ruck.

"My lady," the Englishman said, stepping forward and speaking mannerly French. He sank to one knee and rose again. "With all reverence—John de Langley, our lord the king’s justice of the peace."

"What happened?" she asked, lifting her chin. "How did he die?"

"Madam, I am—"

"He fell from our boat into the river." Allegreto’s voice cut across the justice’s, sharp and cold. Then despair seemed to burst from him. "My lady, I tried to save him. I tried!"

"Madam, I am—"

"Will you believe such a thing?" One of Navona’s men stepped toward the justice. "No, the bastard speaks false—my lord never fell from that boat. They’ve murdered him, these three together!"

A murmur ran through the onlookers. "Madam," the justice said tightly, "I pursue an inquisition to determine this matter, whether it be an accident or a crime to be brought before the jury."

Melanthe said nothing. Langley inclined his head to her.

"I’ve found no witness but this youth, the name of, ah—"

"Allegreto," she said. "He is Dan Gian’s bastard son."

"Yes, my lady. And this is—?" He looked meaningfully toward Ruck.

"My wedded husband. Lord Ruadrik of Wolfscar."

The spectators didn’t even attempt to remain quiet. A clamor broke out among them. Ruck walked to Melanthe’s side.

"Yes, and so I have said," he declared, glaring about him to silence them. "I’ve defended my word before the king. The archbishop himself has heard my plea that my wife went in fear of her life from this man Navona, and could not say the truth." He faced the justice. "If this isn’t proof enough—that she speaks my name now, when he’s dead—then I’ll gladly prove it by my sword again, against any who deny it."

"Hear him!" The single cry came from the passage, and instantly all the English took it up. The hail even rose from outside, the sound of a substantial crowd. "Hear him, hear him!"

"Oyeh!" the clerk bawled. "Silence for my lord justice!"

They settled into muttered grudging. Langley made a courteous nod toward Ruck. "I hear your words, Lord Ruadrik. I was in attendance on your honorable combat. You’ll understand that I’m justice of the peace. A complaint and accusation is lodged here, which I must see into. If I adjudge there’s no evidence of a crime, then no arraignment be required."

"They’ve murdered my lord Gian, may God avenge it!" the Italian shouted. He pointed toward Ruck. "Look you, that this Ruadrik threatened my lord, and assaulted him, and desired to steal his promised wife! All know it! Where’s he been, this fine Lord Ruadrik, I ask you, that he was mourned for dead and now we find him here with her, almost in the very hour of the murder? They’ve conspired together, these vipers; Allegreto to have his own father’s place, and those two to congress together as they will!"

"Where is the proof of this, I ask you once again," the justice said evenly.

"Will you not look to find another witness? Will you take the word of this lying baseborn?"

"He’s spoken under oath," Langley said. "All this day I’ve conducted a search for other witnesses, and found none to deny his story."

"My lord would not fall from a boat!" the man said fiercely. "He was no such fool."

"In faith, any man might lose his balance, I think. And he wears weight enough in gold to drag him under."

"Pah!" The Italian made a motion as if to spit at Allegreto, though he didn’t do it. "You know nothing! Ask him what he gains, this bastard! A fortune for himself, instead of a lawful born brother to take his place!"

"I did not kill my father," Allegreto said in a fragile voice. "Morello, you know I love him."

"Such love!" Morello snapped. "When he lies dead at your feet!"

"I love him!" Allegreto cried, his anguish echoing back from the roof.

Melanthe’s hand tightened for an instant on Ruck’s arm. The whole hall was silent as the sound of the youth’s grief died away. Ruck watched, afraid that Allegreto would break in his misery, losing his wits and his tale. But he only closed his eyes, and then opened them, with a long and unblinking gaze at Morello.

The man looked away. He muttered something viciously in Italian.

"And still I hear no credible proofs, to say the boy speaks false," Langley said. The justice turned to his clerk, requiring Bible and Cross. "Lord Ruadrik, will you take oath to your innocence in the matter?"

"Verily," Ruck said. He placed his hand on the holy book and swore by his soul that he had not killed Gian Navona. He kissed the rood and crossed himself. As he stepped back, the spectators murmured approvingly.

"My lady?"

Melanthe made a courtesy as they brought the Bible to her. In a clear, quiet voice she swore the same.

The justice leaned over and spoke in his clerk’s ear. The man nodded, and nodded again. Ruck put his hand on Melanthe’s elbow, holding lightly. The onlookers were so still that they seemed to hold in their breath.

"I find no cause to convene a jury," the justice said.

A hail burst from the English, and a shout of anger from the Italians, quickly subdued when Langley gave them a furious scowl and his clerk demanded silence.

"In the case of murder, we are advised never to judge by likelihoods and presumptions, or no life would be secure. Therefore, without a witness who is willing to step forward and swear otherwise, the accusation of murder appears unfounded. I have no material reason to doubt the drowning of Gian Navona was accidental, may God pardon his soul."

He had to pause once again until order was restored, with two of the Italians bodily restraining Morello. The justice looked on him with raised brows.

"My lord Ruadrik has said that he will uphold his sworn word by his sword, as he has done before. Do we understand then that you wish to fight him?"

Morello jerked himself free of his companions, glowering. He cast a glance at Ruck and said nothing.

"If not," Langley said, "then I declare that the king’s peace be best served by the swift dispersal of those who have no business here—and by the absence of some two-score foreigners of Italy from my county on the morrow."

 

* * *

 

When the gray friars came with a coffin of lead, Melanthe turned away and went upstairs. She didn’t even keep a maid from among the Italians, but commanded them all to depart. Only the gyrfalcon and some chests had been brought back from the barks, and the bed, set up again in her chamber without its hangings. 

Ruck would have followed her, but he looked back and saw Allegreto standing alone, gazing at the friars as they began their work of washing the body and sewing it up in its shroud.

Ruck didn’t go to him, but stood by the screen until Allegreto saw him there. Ruck made a curl of his fingers to beckon. The youth seemed lost; he hesitated and then came quickly, like an uncertain dog that overcame its doubt, following Ruck into the shadowed passage. He put his hand on Allegreto’s shoulder. "You’re still wet. Do you have dry clothes?"

"On the boats." The boy looked up at him, his cloak of mastery vanished—strangely young, as if they’d all forgotten that he was hardly yet more man than child. "Should I change now?"

"Yes. I’ll have something brought up from the wharf for you."

Allegreto caught Ruck’s arm as he turned. "Cara?" he asked, the name a whisper.

Ruck paused. The youth looked off toward the pool of light falling into the passage from the hall, where the friars did their work with quiet words and soft splashing. In the set mouth and proud chin, Ruck saw that it was no fear for the girl’s telling tales that concerned him. "I took Donna Cara to her betrothed, as she asked me. They’ve left now with the horses."

The youth glanced at him coolly. "Where?" 

"My lady’s castle by the forest of Savernake, so they said me."

Allegreto’s eyes narrowed. He nodded. Then a shiver passed through him, and he leaned his shoulders back against the wall, crossing his arms. "God’s blood, I wish they’d be done with him, so that we might leave."

"You’ll return with the others?"

"Navona is mine, green man. So I will take it. And Monteverde and the Riata with it."

The names were no more than names to Ruck, castles or kin or cities, he knew not. But it might have been Gian Navona himself standing in the half-light. Ruck only said, "Beware your friend Morello, then."

"Morello!" Allegreto shrugged, with a faint sneer.

"The rest of them will follow you if you’re swift to move," Ruck said. "Choose a captain tonight and divide their stations where they can’t whisper among themselves."

The dark eyes flicked to him. Allegreto wet his lips and nodded.

"Make them carry pikes," Ruck murmured. "It’ll slow them from freeing their sword hands."

Allegreto raised his brows. His mouth curled in a slight smile. "I didn’t know you were so sly, green man."

"I think me you’re too sly. It will take more than guile and poison to rule, my fine pup. Before they can love you, they must know you beyond a shadow and a comely face."

The priest’s bell began to toll. Something happened to the mocking curve of Allegreto’s lips. He stared at the dim-lit door to the hall, his mouth trembling.

Ruck turned, watching as the gray friars carried the coffin from the hall, eight of them, bent down by the weight of it. Allegreto took a step back into the stairwell, looking down on his father’s bier.

The priest walked behind, swinging his censer. Allegreto came down as if to follow, then held back with his hand on the corner of the stair. He stood looking out the door at the end of the passage. Cool air flowed in, ruffling his dark hair.

He slanted a glance over his shoulder to Ruck, as if he had some question that had not been answered. But he did not speak.

"Beware Morello," Ruck said, "and put on dry clothes."

"Morello will be dead before we reach Calais." Allegreto let go of the wall and strode toward the door.

"Dry clothes," Ruck said after him.

The youth paused, turning. "Are you my mother, green man?"

"Life hangs on the small things, whelp. Why die of a fever ague and make it easy for Morello?"

Allegreto stood in the doorway, the breeze blowing in past him. He gave a brief nod, then turned into the darkness, following his father.

 

* * *

 

No tears greeted Ruck when he went to Melanthe’s chamber. She stood waiting in her linen smock, her hair loose, a phantom in the light of a single candle, as dry-eyed as the white falcon that stood motionless on its block.

"Don’t tarry away from me," she said angrily. "Where have you been?"

"Below, my lady. They’ve carried the coffin out."

"Without doubt, that couldn’t come too soon." She held herself straight and distant, without advancing to him. Ruck closed the door and stood with his back to it. She was ever difficult in such a mood; he recognized it, but didn’t know the remedy.

"Say me what happened in truth," she demanded. "Who killed him?"

"No man. Donna Cara was with him on the wharf at your brewery place. She bolted away, and he caught her sleeve. The cloth parted. She heard the splash." Ruck gave a slight shrug. "And we returned to find him drowned."

Melanthe stared at him. Then she laughed and closed her eyes. "It is too witless."

"Too witless it was that you chained me to a wall, my lady," he said tautly, "but God or the Fiend has him now, and it’s too late for my vengeance."

She lifted her lashes. "Would you have tortured him, green sire?" she asked in a scoffing tone. "Torn him limb by limb in pieces? Only for me?"

"Melanthe," he said, "don’t be this way tonight."

"What way?’’ she demanded, turning from him. She went to the bed and flung back the sheets, sitting down on the edge of it, her bare feet on the board.

"His."

She pressed her toes downward, her feet curving until they showed white. Her eyes seemed too large and dark to be human. She was like an elven, elegant and sheer, as if light would pass through her.

"How would you have me, then?" she asked. "Disporting? Meek? A worthy goodwife, or a whore? I can be any—or all, if you like."

"Readily I’d have you in a sweeter temper, my lady."

She threw herself backward onto the bed, lying among the sheets. "That’s all? How simple." She made a web of her hands and flung them wide. "There. I am sweet. I am honey. Come and taste me."

Ruck unbuttoned his surcoat and dropped it with his belt and sword over a chest. At the harsh clatter of the gold links, she sat up again.

"Faithly, a man of swift reply," she said mockingly.

Ruck continued to divest himself. When he was naked he went to the bed and took her down with him on it. He couldn’t speak to her, or he would shout. He opened his mouth over hers, kissing deep. She arched her body up beneath him, her hands greedily about his loins to pull him into her.

Delicious lust possessed him, compounding with his anger. He used her without indulgence, taking no time but for himself. Still she inhaled and dug her nails into him and spread her legs to twine them about his. She pulled frantically at him, her hands gripped in his hair so hard that it hurt.

The pain brought him back from blind hunger, caught him sharply from his own passion. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face a mask of ferocity, as if she fought with him instead of straining to him.

He slowed, gentling his moves, but she would not have it. She made a bitter cry, forcing their union as hard as her strength could force it. Even though he stilled, she clung to him and strove to reach her pleasure.

Ruck let her use him, his own wrath sliding away. He brushed his lips over her hair as she shuddered and seized in his arms, her skin dewed with moisture.

She fell back, panting, her fingers digging into his shoulders. The blunt pain eased as she slowly released him. Her palms explored, sweeping up and down his arms, touching his hair and his face.

She never opened her eyes as her labored breathing slackened. She skimmed her hands down his body, then spread her arms out wide on the bedsheets. All her limbs softened.

He bent his forehead to the base of her throat, resting there, drunk on the scent and mystery of her. He felt her twitch, drowsing. As he lay atop her, in her, still full and hard, the last of waking tension drifted from her limbs. Her breath became a steady feather at his ear.

He began to move again, finding his own pleasure deep in her body. But though he came to the height of his lust and discharge with a heavy tremor and a sound of ecstasy, she didn’t wake. His lost and bespelled princess, beyond his reach even as he possessed her.

 

* * *

 

In the early morning, in a manor house empty of all but a few servants, he left her sleeping hard and deep. He bathed and shaved in the kitchen and walked outside.

Fog lay on the river surface, shading to mist and clear air. He stood looking down through it toward the shore, where trampled grass and the black clods of burned-out torches were all that remained of the departed barks.

He hadn’t expected this morning, this moment. He had never since the day she left Wolfscar believed in his heart that he would have her to wife again. Even before, it had never seemed perfectly real, but a thing of fantasy with no tie to the earth. They hadn’t spoken of the future, because they’d both known that in truth there was to be none.

But abruptly, he was in it—future and present, anchored by his own battle to prove their vows and her public words of acceptance in the hall.

Amid birdsong and wet flowers, he walked aimlessly toward the empty stables. He heard someone behind him and turned, half expecting Melanthe, but it was not.

It was Desmond. He wore his court clothes, her fine scarlet livery, limp with the mist.

"My lord," he said, and went to his knee. "My lord!" His face crumpled into tears. "Will you let me go home?" 

Ruck reached for him, and the boy came into his embrace, holding on as if to life.

"My lord," Desmond sobbed against his cote, "never did I break my word! I didn’t I say anything of Wolfscar, nor that you wed my lady, even when they racked me! But Allegreto told me not to go to you at Windsor, that I must not, for my life and yours. And I saw you die, my lord—I—"

He lost his voice in weeping. Ruck crossed his arms over Desmond’s neck, rocking him fiercely.

"My lord, can I go home? Oh, my lord, I made blunder and wrongs and failed you, but I beg you."

"Desmond." Ruck put his face down in the boy’s shoulder. "I’ll take you home if I bear you on my back in penance. God forgive me, that I sent you out alone."

 

* * *

 

Carrying wine and waster bread from the pantry, Ruck mounted the stairs to her chamber. A thin mist of daylight fell from the open door above, painting a faint golden stripe in a curve down the stone wall.

He’d expected to find her still asleep, but instead she was up, kneeling in her linen beside an open chest. Her head was bent over something in her hand.

He saw that it was a mirror, fine and rare, made of glass instead of polished steel. She held her loose hair on her shoulder, looking at the ivory carving on the back. As he came into the room, she held up the glass, reflecting his image onto him.

"What do you see, monk-man?"

"Myself, my lady. Will you breakfast?"

She rose as Ruck laid the napkin over a chest and set the food and tankards on it. He shut the door.

"Here." She held out the mirror to him, turning casually toward the window seat, as if he were one of her maids meant to place the thing away.

He stood holding the glass. She did it by design, he knew, to bedevil him, and it succeeded. He felt the difference in their stations sharply; he thought that if he let it pass now, her small disdain, he would have to live like a servant evermore.

"My lady wife," he said, pouring wine and handing it to her along with the mirror, "I don’t require this glass for looking."

"Have you no vanity?" She laid it facedown in her lap. "But I forget—your choice of sin is lust."

He poured for himself. "If I must choose," he said, "yes."

"But truly, you’re a handsome man. You might be vain with some justice. Look." She held up the glass again.

"Is something amiss with my face, lady, that you bid me stare in this mirror so much?"

She gazed at him, still holding it. Then she smiled slightly, bringing the glass up so that her face was half-hidden behind it, like a shamefast girl. "No. Nothing amiss, best-loved."

The mirrored surface gleamed and flashed at him, her eyes above it unreadable. But she pierced him through when she smiled.

"I saw Desmond below," he said.

The mirth vanished from her. She lowered the mirror and stretched out her bare feet on the window seat.

"I’m taking him to Wolfscar as soon as I can," Ruck said.

"No, you don’t leave me. I’ll send a courier to deliver him, if he must go."

"I’ll take him, my lady." Ruck drained his wine.

"No."

"Do you poison me and chain me to prevent it?"

She sat up. "Does that anger you? By God’s rood, you’d be dead if I hadn’t!"

"God’s mercy that I’m alive, for it’s none of your doing, Melanthe! What demon was in your head, that you didn’t say me true of that hell-hound Navona, so that I could serve you?"

She turned her head, looking out the window with a lift of her shoulder. "I could not."

"I well know that truth is like bitter wine on your lips, but your falsehood is beyond forgiveness for this."

"I could not!"

"Melanthe! You took me for your husband, and yet could not tell me?"

"He would slay you."

Ruck made a furious turn. "And so that he might not, you left me, and went to him to be his wife?" 

"He would slay you." 

"His wife!"

She gathered her knees up against her. "Foolish simpleton! You know nothing of it. He would slay you."

"Yes, and so I’d choose to be slain than to see you in his bed, but I think me that I’d not die so tame!"

"I did not bed him, nor would have. I was for a nunnery instead, so you may be easy on that point."

Ruck shook his head in disbelief. "Your brain is full of butterflies! A nunnery, by God, when you had only to say me of your need. It’s my place to protect and defend you, Melanthe; it’s my honor."

She sprang to her bare feet. "Yes, your honor! And where is honor when the poison finds your lips? I’ve told you why I did it. I’d do it once again, and lie and cheat and steal the same, so be it, to save you."

Carefully he set his clay tankard on a chest. "Then I have no place with you, by your own word." He lifted his sword belt, girding it. "I take Desmond to Wolfscar, and thence to my duty to Lancaster."

"Lancaster! You’re not his, but mine. He will not abide you."

"For the ill way things go in Aquitaine, he must need seasoned men. A lord will forgive much to a captain of experience."

"No!" she said sharply. "You shall not go away from me!"

"In this, my lady, you don’t command me."

"You’re my husband. I will have you at my side."

He buckled the belt. "Lady, it’s a lapdog you’d have at your side. I’ll buy one for you at the marketplace."

"Ruck!" Her frantic voice made him pause at the door. She stood with the mirror clutched to her breast.

He waited. For an instant she seemed to cast for words, her lips parted, her eyes darting over the room, but then on an indrawn breath she pressed her lips together and stared at him royally.

"No, you do not go away to France, sir. I so command!’

"My lady, I’ve been your liege man. Now you’ve made me your husband, and named me so to the world. It is I, lady, could command you if I willed, and no man would say me nay."

Her brows lifted. "Shall it be war between us then, monk-man, for who commands? Beware you my force in that battle."

He put his hand on the door, to yank it open, and then dropped the hasp. He turned on her. "I don’t doubt that I should beware! Well do I know the depth of your guile—I had plenty of time to ponder in your prison!" He shook his head with a harsh laugh. "I’m no match for you, faithly. You could skulk and slink to Lancaster, and poison me in his ear, so that I might not go to France. You could take Wolfscar from me if it pleased you, so that I have nothing of my own. I don’t doubt you could command me, and hem me, and keep me by your side. You value your falcon better, for you set her free and trust her to return to you, though it be every time a peril. You might mew her in the dark for evermore, to keep her. But I see your face when she flies, and your joy and wonder when she comes." He shook his head again. "No, lady, there’s no war between us. What use a war with a dead man? For I can’t live mewed up at your pleasure, nor ever love you again as I do now, in free heart and devotion."

She pressed her palms over the mirror, holding it to her mouth. Then she turned to the window. "Gryngolet comes to the meat upon the lure—not for love."

Her shoulders and arms were pulled tightly inward as she held the mirror against her. Her smoke-black hair cascaded down her back. The colored window light turned bright white at her smock, drawing a fine outline of her body within.

"Happens I am a man, and not a falcon," he said gruffly.

She sighed. She sat down on the window seat, frowning down at the carved mirror back.

"Will you not look into your own glass," he said softly, "and see what I would return to?"

Her body stiffened. She squeezed her eyes shut, averting her face a little. "What if I’m not there?"

"How could you not be there?"

"Perhaps I am a witch, with no reflection."

"Times there be that I think you a witch in truth, my lady."

"Why?" She gave him a quick glance. Her eyes had an uneasy vividness, that imperfect blue smudged to violet.

"Because I love you when I would rather strangle you."

"But—perhaps I am a witch. Perhaps I’m no one. Maybe the Devil came and took me while I slept. I dreamed it once, that he took me, and left nothing but a thing fashioned of lies, to seem like me." She gripped the mirror. In a small voice she said, "Ruck. Will you look into it, and see if I am there?"

He went to her and knelt beside her, taking the glass from her nerveless fingers. It was a perfect mirror, the size of his spread hand, flashing light from the transparent surface. On the back an ivory lady gave her heart to a vain-looking knight. Ruck saw his own face as he turned the glass, a brief glimpse of jaw and nose and the golden buttons down his surcoat.

"Wait!" She stopped him as he rotated the mirror. "Wait—I’m not ready." She pressed her eyes shut. Her face was taut, her hair in wild curls about her pallid cheeks. She held his hands still for a long moment. "All right," she said weakly, loosing him. "Now. Look. What do you see?"

He didn’t even glance at the mirror.

"Sharp wit," he said. "Valor past any man I know. Foolish japery and tricks worse than a child. Delicious lust, hair like midwinter night. A proud and haughty chin, a mouth for noble-talking—that does kiss sufficiently, in faith, and slays me with a smile. Guile and dreaming. A princess. A wench. An uncouth rough girl. My wife. I see you, Melanthe. I don’t need a glass."

"Look in the mirror!"

"Luflych." He wrapped his hand about her tight fist. "I see the same there."      

She gave a rasping breath of relief, without opening her eyes. "You’re certain? My face is there? You don’t say me false?"

"I fear for my life do I ever say you false, my lady."

"Oh, I am lost! I need you to tell me the truth. I need you to tell me what I should be. All is changed, and I know not what I am."

"Then will we keep watch and see. And if you be someone new each morn, Melanthe—God knows you’re still my sovereign lady. I won’t be at your side in every moment, but in spirit always, and return to you with my whole heart, to see what bemazement you’ll work upon me next."

Her hand turned upright beneath his, clinging. "I pray you. I don’t command you, but I pray you—do not go to France and leave me. Not—so soon. I wouldn’t make you my lap-dog, but—" She moistened her lips. "Truly, I know nothing of sheep. And I have thousands, so says my seneschal. Perhaps I’ll require your good advice."

"I’m a master of sheep, my lady. Even to shearing them, if I must. I know some of oats and other corns, and how to instruct the bailiffs. The garrisons and men-at-arms I can command to good effect, and overlook castles and crenellations for what repairs and enlargements may be required."

Her hand eased, but still she kept her eyes closed. "All this? You’re supreme in merits."

"I’ve thought me a little over what my service could be."

"And what is left to me, but breeding?"

"Of course. I think of it each time we keep company, that we may not sin."

"Monk-man!"

"There be chambers at Wolfscar in need of dusting. I know well how my lady wench likes to sweep a hearth."

"Wench?" she uttered dangerously.

He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. "If Your Highness finds time heavy between your lazy sleeps—I be not much hand at Latin, my lady, nor lawyers and court dealings such as a great estate must always have."

She opened her eyes, looking out the window. "All these plans and devises! Methinks you’re a great trumpery, who never meant for a moment to go back to chevauchee in France!"

"If you have truer need of my service," he said with dignity, "then I won’t, unless our king commands me."

She put her hand on his, preventing the mirror from moving. Her face diverted, she looked warily from the corner of her eyes. With a cautious move she shifted the mirror in his hand, turning it slightly toward her.

"Look into it, my lady," he said. "I haven’t lied to you."

She turned it all the way, staring down into the glass. Her brows rose in outrage. "Why—I am not comely! I am not!" She slapped the mirror facedown. "I knew it was all dishonest falsehood, these songs and praises to my beauty. Indeed, when is a rich woman plain?"

Ruck smiled at her. "Are you not beautiful? It’s my fortune to be blind, then."

"Pah!" She reached out, catching him off balance with a hard shove at his shoulder. He fell back off his heels, sitting down with a grunt on the bare stone. "Any woman would look beautiful to you, monk-man, after ten and three years of chastity!"