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Authors: Laura Kinsale

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“You come with what news?” she asked.

“I find no evidence of any epidemic here, Your Highness.”

She nodded. “Well enough. It is only gossip as usual, you see, Allegreto.”
She laid aside the book and gave a little stretch. “I fear you must leave me
now to rest. The sea journey still fatigues me.”

Ruck started to withdraw, but Allegreto hung on to his arm. “Nay, the
truth!” Allegreto demanded. “What dost thou know?”

Ruck frowned at him. “I’ve said truth. There’s no plague in the city.”

“Do not conceal it!” Allegreto flung himself onto the bed. “My lady—he
must speak.”

“Dost thou hide something, sir?” she asked sharply.

Ruck prevented himself from looking directly at her. Out of her presence
it was possible to feel disgust, but the sight of her overpowered his better
reason. A vision of her had haunted him for ten and three years: the reality
cut through illusions to the heart of impure hunger. Her new modesty only
made it the worse. He knew more of her, but not enough. He feared that
everything could not be enough.

“There is no plague,” he repeated. “It is but gossip.”

Princess Melanthe tilted her head. “But you believe it will come?”

“How can I know? There’s talk of the planets aligned for it.”

This news turned Allegreto white. “My lady!”

“There’s little enough to that,” Ruck said. “I vow the planets predict
plague once a month. The astrologers make their living on such gloom.”

“Nay!” Allegreto turned to Princess Melanthe. “My lady’s charts say the
same!”

“Thou must be careful, love,” she said. “Very careful. I’ve cast thy
stars again. They exert an ill chance now.”

“In Bordeaux they said it had returned in the south!” Allegreto
exclaimed.

“Not in Milan,” she said soothingly. “The talk there was that it raged
among the Danes.”

“Mayhap it is all talk,” Ruck said.

“Traders will bring it from the north! In death ships!” Allegreto hurled
himself off the bed. “Lady, let us fly!”

“Fly where?” she asked calmly.

“Away!” His voice had a frantic undertone. “Out of the city!”

“And suppose it follows us out of the city?” She smiled at him. “By hap
thou wilt be fortunate to meet the Heavenly Father while thou art still
young and innocent.”

The youth made a faint sound, falling to his knees before her. He buried
his face against her skirt. Ruck had begun to feel a certain compassion for
Allegreto. The indifferent way she mocked his mortal fears might have seemed
casual, but Ruck had caught the small cruel narrowing of her eyes as she
looked down at her youthful lover. At that instant it was as if she hated
him, but men her mouth softened, and she ruffled his hair.

“Fly, then, if it pleases thee,” she said. “Return home to Monteverde.”

He lifted his face quickly. “Your Highness—we go home?”

“Not I. But I will send thee to safety. Thy father will shield thee in
his country villa.”

Allegreto stared at her, his fingers gripped in the folds of her dress.
“Nay—lady ...”

She traced her fingers down his face. “Go home. I could not bear to see
thy sweet skin swell and blacken,” she murmured. “I could not bear to hear
thy groans.”

His breath came faster. His tongue ran around his lips. “We will go home
together, lady. My father will give refuge to us both.”

“I’ve had audience with the king. Wilt thou deny me my lands that he
commends to me?”

“But the plague—”

She gave a slight laugh. “There is some privilege in age, my lovely boy.
Does it not strike most terribly at the young and handsome such as thee?”

He shook his head, holding her embroidered hem pressed to his mouth. “I
cannot leave you, Your Highness.”

“The stars augur ill for thee. Wilt thou compel me to follow thy bier?”

He gave a dry sob. “You know I cannot leave you, lady. But let us fly
from this city, I beg you.”

She sat back, glancing a question at Ruck.

“As soon as Your Highness likes to venture forth,” he said bluntly. “But
the weather is untoward. We were fortunate in our water crossing. To the
north, they say the winter already holds hard. And it were wiser to take
time to assemble a large escort for my lady’s protection.”

Allegreto raised his face, wiping fiercely at the tears that tumbled down
his cheeks. “Please—lady—no delay!”

“How long to softer weather?” she asked Ruck.

“Three months, say.”

“Three months!” Allegreto cried. He reached for Princess Melanthe’s hand
and squeezed it between his. “I’ll be dead in three months! I feel it!”

She looked down at him for a long moment. His eyes seemed to grow wider,
almost fearful, as he held her gaze.

“I am in no hurry to leave,” she said indifferently. “The journey will
discommode me.”

He suddenly snatched his hands away and flung himself from her. “You
taunt me!” he shouted. “We’ll not stay here, or I’ll write to my father!”

“Little use, if thou art to be dead in three months.” Princess Melanthe
picked up her book and turned a page idly. “With luck he might arrive to
pray over thy coffin.”

Allegreto seized the book. He ripped out half the vellum, scattering it
across the carpets as if the precious leaves were but wheaten chaff. When
Princess Melanthe made no reaction, his face seemed to transfigure, altering
from smooth beauty to a demon’s mask of rage. He leaned over her, grabbed
her cheeks between his palms and kissed her, crushing his mouth against
hers. Ruck saw her hands clench white on the arms of the chair as the youth
bore her head hard back against the carved rest.

Ruck grabbed Allegreto’s shoulder and hauled him off. With one shove he
sent the youth sprawling backward against the tapestried wall.

“Master thyself!” He held Allegreto by the throat, pressing him to the
wall. “Ere thou findest a grave sooner yet!”

Allegreto swallowed beneath his hand, breathing hard. He looked at Ruck
with black eyes that had gone empty, as if fear and fury had canceled each
other.

The sound of light clapping came from behind. “A most knightly
performance, Green Sire! The poor child only wants manners. Haps thou might
give him a lesson at thy leisure.”

“Tell my lady—” Allegreto said between panting breaths, “tell my lady’s
grace to think of how she will grieve should I die.”

Ruck let him go and stepped back. “This lies between thee and thy
mistress.” He cast her a hard glance, then bowed. “I await your decision
without, madam.”

She lifted her hand to bid him stay. “That will not be required. We shall
be civilized, shall we not, Allegreto? Begin the preparations to depart for
Bowland at once, sir.”

“Tomorrow! By secluded ways,” Allegreto said, quick and hoarse. “If it
please my lady’s grace.”

She made an impatient flick of her hand. “As thou wilt, then! We take
only what men-at-arms you have at present, sir. The rest of my court may
follow with my baggage. It will be safer to avoid peopled places, should
pestilence somehow run ahead of us.”

“Nay, only for his fancy?” Ruck asked in outrage. “Your highness, such a
small party—it be nought protection enough!”

“Allegreto wishes to avoid plague.”

“Plague is not the only danger to Your Highness,” he said harshly, “or
the likeliest, for that matter!”

Her lashes lifted. “And what is likelier, sir? Canst thou not master such
bandits as the countryside boasts?”

He scowled. “My lady—I think not of outlaws only.”

“Of what, then?” she demanded.

“Your Highness holds great wealth and property,” he said brusquely.

“Ah. It is my abduction you fear. Well thought, Green Sire, but I have no
apprehension of it. Our departure will be quick and quiet, and if we travel
by uncommon ways, so much the better to foil any such schemes.” She smiled.
“And of course, you may spread word that any man who forces me to wed him
will rue every day of his short life and die in lingering agony.”

Ruck gazed at her. She was so beautiful and so wicked, laughing at him
behind that comely innocent smile. It would work, he thought with resentful
wonder—between her reputation and her plan to slip away, she would be near
as safe from seizure and force as if she traveled with half a thousand men.

He bowed his head. “My lady,” he assented grudgingly, “as you say.”

Allegreto gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes. He stood against the
wall, fresh tears trickling down his cheeks. The pulse in his throat
hammered visibly.

Ruck’s own heart still thudded with reaction. He had seen little of
Princess Melanthe and her courtier so far on the journey—he hoped that he
would see little more, if this was to be the way of it. He disliked scenes
and ravings intensely.

Chapter Six

“Oen . . . tweye . . . thren . . .
hie!”
Ruck yelled, driving
Hawk forward, dragging at the lead horse’s bridle as the line went taut over
his saddlebow. The animals threw their heads, blowing great puffs of frost,
heaving and struggling as their hooves sank half to the knee in ice water
and mud.

Easy enough for the Princess Melanthe to choose to avoid lodging on the
way north. She and her attendants sat in the whirlicote, lumbering monster
that it was, without even lifting the leather cover to watch. Ruck let the
line go lax and backed Hawk again, turning in the saddle to look down the
line of five blowing horses to his men wrestling with the tree limbs braced
beneath the wheels.

The whirlicote’s proud paint and glitter was a sad sight now, covered in
dirt, drowned to the axles in the ruts. His sergeant-at-arms, standing to
the side and peering underneath, shook his head and straightened. He held up
his arm for another try. Ruck turned again.

“Oen—tweye—” As the whirlicote rocked thrice in time, the men chorused in
with Ruck’s shout, maintaining a miserably determined enthusiasm. “Hie-
uuup!
”

Hawk bowed his gray head and strained. The harnessed horse reared against
the yoke and came down with a splash of frigid water that sprayed over
Ruck’s leg. Shouts erupted behind him. The whirlicote pitched mightily and
went nowhere.

He twisted round and saw two of the men sitting on their backsides in ice
water. He cursed under his breath, throwing the rope off his saddlebow.
Turning Hawk, he rode through the mud to the front of the whirlicote and
reached over, pitching back the leather curtain.

A miserable-looking Allegreto huddled nearest the front, cloaked in furs.
Her single gentlewoman sat behind him, almost invisible in her wrappings.
Ruck leaned farther over. Princess Melanthe reclined on a lounge placed
midway back in the vehicle.

“Madam,” Ruck said, “methinks, were you to descend, your ease would be
well served.”

“I am full at ease, kind sir,” she replied tranquilly in English.

“Then I pray that you find this place pleasing, Your Highness,” he
retorted in the same language, “for ne’er shall we nought see another, stay
my lady’s grace and her company of twenty stone within.”

“Twenty stone!” she said, with a light surprise. “Weighen we so much?”

“More,” he said.

In the half-light of the whirlicote he could not tell, but he thought
that wicked-innocent smile hovered at her lips. “Allegreto will descend,”
she said in French. “He fancied the journey.”

“Yea, he will,” Ruck said. “I doubt me this whirlicote goes any farther,
laden or nay.”

“Thou must try harder, Englishman!” Allegreto shivered and pulled his
furs closer.

“Poor Allegreto,” Princess Melanthe said. “Art thou cold, my soft
southern pet?” She laughed, changing to English again. “Green Knight—do
drive out a decree, my litter to the forn.”

Allegreto lifted his head. “What did my lady say?” he asked urgently.

She only smiled tauntingly at him. Ruck turned his horse away, issuing
orders. As his men set to work on the harness, he rode Hawk to the back of
the whirlicote, judging how they might angle her litter so that she didn’t
have to step into the muddy water to make the change. Allegreto’s head
popped out from the back opening.

“What did my lady say?” he insisted.

“Canst thou ride a horse, whelp?” Ruck asked.

Allegreto groaned.

“Thou it was who wouldst have us come on roads out of the common way,”
Ruck reminded him.

“To avoid the pestilence!”

Ruck looked at the bleak and empty country around. The track ran along
the dark edge of a forest, with not a habitation to be seen. A hard, cold
wind blew off the somber line of mountains that marched away to the west,
burning his face. “I think us well secluded from infection,” he said
blandly.

Allegreto scrambled up and balanced on the wagon’s gate, the long toes of
his elegant slippers, one yellow and one blue, drooping forlornly over the
side.

“I have a fine rouncy for thee, whelp.” Ruck tilted his thumb toward a
mud-covered harness horse. The sergeant led it up. The animal squelched to a
halt and blew a spumy sigh, reaching out a hopeful muzzle toward Allegreto’s
blue toe.

The youth snatched it back. He looked up at the arriving litter and then
over his shoulder into the whirlicote. “My lady, my exquisite gentle lady, I
worship you. I live for you. You are more beautiful than the sun, more
lovely than—”

“No, thou may not ride in the litter,” she said tartly. “Gryngolet will
not abide thee at such close quarter.”

Allegreto turned back. Ruck held onto Hawk’s reins, half expecting
another fit of passion, but the youth appeared to resign himself to the
limited recourse, choosing to mount rather than risk the falcon’s temper—or
his lady’s. By the time her gentlewoman was transferred to a mule and the
litter moved into place, Allegreto was somewhere off amid the pack train,
sawing at his horse’s reins to turn it away from a donkey loaded with
fodder.

Princess Melanthe appeared at the lowered gate of the whirlicote, wrapped
in a mantle of ermine and royal blue. Ruck dismounted. In spite of their
efforts, there was still a gap the width of a rod across the icy lake
between the whirlicote and the litter. He saw nothing else for it—he pulled
off his muddy gloves and moved to step into the water and assist her.

“Pray do not,” she said, leaning her hand across to catch the top of the
litter. She flashed him a smile and with a swift move stepped across the
gap.

The litter tilted precariously, and she gave a small squeak, holding to
the roof. Ruck dove forward with a splash, catching her. Her body startled
him: a brief weight, a soft lithe shape within the voluminous mantle. He
hardly realized he was standing to his knees in freezing water. Almost as
soon as he touched her, she left his hold, ducking into the litter and
lapsing back into the cushions.

Somehow he had her hands in his. They felt so hot that they stung his
flesh. He thought:
witch,
to burn so—and then she held his fingers
for a moment and murmured in English, “Thy hands are so cold!”

“My feet are colder, madam,” he said. He hiked himself out of the ditch
and walked away with his legs dripping.

When the litter was marshaled into place and horses harnessed to it, one
before and one behind, she summoned him again to her. Even bundled in her
furs and hood as she was, Ruck found it hard to behold her face. As he stood
by the litter, he let the curtain sag so that all he saw were the damask
cushions and her cloak.

“What be your counsel?” she asked quietly in English.

He did not know why she asked his counsel, as she had never yet taken it,
not even in so modest a matter as the choice of road.

They had avoided Coventry, they had avoided Stafford, now they swung wide
of Chester. In the past ten days she had sometimes wished to go north and
sometimes west, as erratic as a belfry bat. They had come so far out of the
way to her lands in the north that he had begun to doubt if she had the
vaguest notion of where they lay. That, or she had gone witless in her head.

“I caution my lady’s grace, let us hie to the nearest manor and crave
harbor.” He had said it before. It was what they ought to have done all
along, if not for her indulgence of Allegreto’s overblown terrors. “Yewlow
lies east by sunset, do we tarry nought.”

“And what ahead?”

“An arm of the sea. Dee quicksands and the Wyrale,” he said. “It is
wilderness.”

“Thou knowest the country?”

“Well, Your Highness.”

“Dragon hunting?” she asked mildly.

He did not give her the dignity of an answer to that, although it was
true.

Her voice from behind the curtain held a hint of amusement. “So we needen
fear no attack by a fiery worm, if we advance.”

“Outlaws only, my lady,” he said dryly.

She said nothing for a moment. Then he heard her sigh. “Allegreto will be
tedious. Can outlaws be worse?”

Ruck glanced at Allegreto pounding vehemently at the poor cart-horse’s
ribs. “Methinks my lady’s grace hatz nought much experience of outlaws.”

She gave a low, wry laugh. “And thou but little of Allegreto. But thy
fingers are blue with cold, sir. I may be pleased to see thee in bed at
Yewlow tonight,” she murmured. Where he held the curtain, she caressed the
back of his hand.

He jerked away. He remembered what he escorted, that she was hot with an
unholy flame and he himself all too quick to set alight. “I feel nought the
cold, my lady,” he said stiffly, keeping his eyes down.

“Then we pressen ahead, and tarry not, Green Sire.”

He heard no regret in her voice, only command, leaving Yewlow and its bed
a yawning crevasse of iniquity, a promise of unknown possibilities—or haps
just a pallet by the armory fire with his men. Haps she did not know that
such as he could hardly expect to be offered a bed of his own, outside of a
promiscuous lady’s. Haps she had meant nothing by her words, and her touch
had been a mischance.

He didn’t look on her again. But he felt the deep timbre of desire in his
flesh, fire beneath his skin. As he walked away, he thought mad thoughts:
that she prolonged the journey on his account, to seduce him or to torture
him.

The Wyrale lay before them, a wild place, afforested and forsaken—better
to avoid it and backtrack to Chester, but if that was not to be, then in two
days’ travel they could be across. He had a dozen men, well-armed and
passably horsed; without the whirlicote they could make far better speed. He
turned to the sergeant-at-arms, charging him to have the vehicle unloaded
while the rest of the party moved on.

Then he mounted Hawk and rode back into the train. Catching the reins of
Allegreto’s packhorse, Ruck yanked the animal around, shouting orders to the
company to fall into line. With Allegreto clinging and bouncing and
complaining on his rotund mount, Ruck pressed both horses into a
mud-splattering canter and took the lead.

They camped on the banks of the great tidal mouth of the river. Eerie
vapor lay so heavy in the dawn that his men were sound without sight—he
heard their quiet murmurs, voicing fears that they would not have spoken
knowing he was near. Through the mask of the sergeant’s discipline, Ruck had
not fully realized how ready they were to abandon the Princess Melanthe
without regret. This wild country made their minds easy prey to dark rumors
about the lady and all the fears of feeling themselves far too small a
defensive party. The mountains of Wales were invisible, but the weight of
them loomed heavily, rebel-haunted as they were even in these latter days of
peace. He would not have put it past his men to bolt, but Ruck held the
simple mastery of having yet paid only a token of their promised wages.

He’d dealt with such before, and set to work dealing with these, rallying
them out of their doubt with an order to break fast with white bread instead
of rye. He followed that with a gathering at a little distance from Princess
Melanthe’s tent, appealing in a quiet voice first to their vanity—ten of
them were worth twenty of any others he’d encountered; and then to their
greed—an heiress of Princess Melanthe’s stature would be generous indeed
with her escort, and there were few to share the sum. He refrained from
naming a figure, merely conveying the modest opinion that it would be more
money than any of them had ever seen in their lives.

They grew better hearty at that, and he set them to polishing the mud off
their weapons in preparation to awe the countryside. Though the mist showed
no sign of lifting, Ruck sent Pierre off laden with an offering of a fur to
the hermit of Holy Head who acted guide across the sands for those too poor—
or mad—to use the king’s ferry nigh to Chester.

The mist hid the water, but the nearness of the sea brought a drizzling
chill, a cold that cut deeper than true frost, seeping through Ruck’s
mantle, dampening his skin. He’d already walked down to the strand, judging
the tide. They must be ready to move as soon as the hermit arrived, but
there had yet been no sigh of stirring from his liege lady—who was no early
riser, he had found.

He saw the gentlewoman leave Princess Melanthe’s tent, but the maid
disappeared into the vapor before he caught her eye. Ruck wavered, standing
before the emerald fabric. The maid had left the flap caught back, showing
scarlet lining, the only blossom of color in the gray atmosphere.

He coughed to reveal himself, and chinked his mailed hands together, and
rattled his foot against a pile of shells, with no response. He moved back a
little, turning half away, and stole a surreptitious look inside to see if
she were yet awake.

She was not. Amid a pile of featherbeds and furs she slept, with the
whelp’s arms tight around her. Allegreto rested his cheek against her netted
hair, his lips curved in a sleeper’s smile.

Ruck turned full away. He stood staring into the blank mist toward the
sea. He felt obscurely angry, and lonely. It was not a new feeling; he’d
felt it half his life, since he’d left his home and found no place for
himself in the world, but not for a long time had it been so keen and
envious.

He was disgusted. He would have run himself on an enemy’s lance before he
would live as Allegreto lived. But it was not the warmth, not the soft place
in a silken tent, not even physical possession of her that he most craved.
Nothing of the truth of Princess Melanthe. What he wanted was that false and
beguiling picture: a slow familiar awakening, sleeping close, trusting; easy
smiles and union.

He wanted his wife.

For ten and three years he had believed God had taken Isabelle for good
and sufficient reasons. Sometimes he caught himself wishing that she’d been
taken in truth, that she was dead instead of in a nunnery, so that he could
marry again and cease wandering in this limbo where his body tortured him
and his heart hungered even after such as Princess Melanthe. He couldn’t
tell that he was becoming better for it; he was becoming worse—he felt
himself sinking toward a kiss instead of a shared apple, toward that subtle
offer of a bed in Yewlow.

BOOK: For My Lady's Heart
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