For My Lady's Heart (5 page)

It was his sweet smirk; charming and sly. She stared at him a moment.

He had succeeded at something. She looked again quickly for the assassin
wearing her own green-and-silver livery— there he was, the one Riata
watchdog she knew of certainly, still holding checked, still only observing
from a distance— Allegreto had not slain or expelled him. Which did not mean
that the youth had not bloodied his hands in some other way.

She was torn between anger and relief. She had her own agreement with the
Riata. In spite of the unceasing threat of the watchers they had placed on
her, she wanted no Riata lives spent, not now. But she could not disclose
that to a son of the house of Navona. And a murder in the midst of this
banquet, in her retinue ... it would be offensive; there would be trouble;
things were not done so here as they were in Italy, but she could not make
Allegreto understand.

She did not acknowledge him with more than a brief look, reserving her
pleasure. He made a face of mock disappointment, then lifted his chin in
silent mirth. A pair of servants bore huge platters past him. When they had
moved beyond, he was gone.

The trumpets sounded.

Melanthe looked up in startlement. They could not yet herald the last
course. Over the hum of gossip and feasting came the shouts of men outside
the hall. Her hand dropped instinctively to her dagger as the clatter of
iron hooves rang against the walls. People gasped; servers scattered out of
the great entry doors, spilling platters of sweets and more subtleties.
Melanthe reached for Gryngolet’s leash.

An apparition burst into the hall. A green-armored knight on a green
horse hurdled the stairs, galloping up the center aisle, the ring of hooves
suddenly muffled by the woven rushes so that the pair seemed to fly above
the earth as ladies screamed and dogs scrambled beneath the tables.

Nothing hampered his drive to the high dais. Not a single knight rose to
his lord’s defense. Melanthe found herself on her feet alone, gripping her
small dagger as Gryngolet roused her feathers and spread her wings in wild
alarm.

The horse reached the dais and whirled, half rearing, showing emerald
hooves and green legs, the twisting silver horn on its forehead slashing
upward. The destrier’s braided mane flew out like dyed silk as light sent
green reflections from the lustrous armor. Silver bells chimed and jangled
from the bridle and caparisons. At the peak of the knight’s closed helm
flourished a crest of verdant feathers, bound by silver at the base, set
with an emerald that sent one bright green flash into her eyes before he
brought the horse to a standstill.

The knight was on a level with her, the eye slits in his visor dark with
the daunting inhumanity that was the life and power of his kind. The
destrier’s heavy breath seemed to belong to both of them. He held the reins
with gloves of green worked in silver—on his shield the only emblem was a
hooded hawk, silver on green. Rich ermine lined his mantle, and all over the
horse’s caparisons embroidered dragonflies mingled with flowers and birds,
silver only: argent and green entire.

Melanthe’s hand relaxed slightly on the dagger as she realized that this
was not immediate attack. She felt the sudden exposure of standing alone,
but it was too late to sit down and hide her reaction. Everyone stared, and
after their first startlement, no one appeared dismayed. At the edge of her
vision, she could see the duke grinning.

“My lady,” Lancaster said into the utter stillness. “Your unicorn comes.”

“Mary,” Melanthe said. “So it does.”

“My liege lady.” The knight’s voice sounded hollow and harsh from within
the helmet. He made a bow in the saddle. The horse danced. “My dread lord.”

“Trusty and well-beloved knight.” The duke acknowledged him with a lazy
nod. “My lady, we call him the Green Sire who rides your unicorn. I fear he
will not grace us with his true name.”

“Liege lord of my life,” the knight said, “I have made a vow.”

“Yea, I remember. Not until thou art proved worthy, was it? At least
remove thy helm, sir. It alarms the ladies, as thou canst well see.” He made
a slight gesture toward Melanthe.

The green knight hesitated. Then he seized his helmet and pulled it off
his head. The feathers fluttered as he held it under his arm. Melanthe
glanced at the emerald that adorned the crest, and looked into his face.

But he kept his eyes well cast down, focused on some spot below the table
at Lancaster’s feet, showing mostly a head of black hair cut short and
unruly. He was clean-shaven, with a strong jaw and strong features, sun- and
battle-hardened in a way that was different from the men she was accustomed
to— in the way of campaign and
chevauchee,
open-air knight errantry
instead of close-handed
duellum
with wits and dagger. Melanthe had
an abiding respect for any type of violence; this type had the benefit of a
certain novelty. One could appreciate the theory of chivalrous knighthood
... one could smile at the idea of a man who would not give his name until
he was proven worthy.

Since she felt the urge to smile, she followed the primary rule of her
existence and did not do it. Had she followed that principle a moment ago,
stifling instinct, she would not now be standing in this foolish and
conspicuous way, showing herself the only one who had been so affected by
the sensational entrance.

“You desire a unicorn, and I give it you,” Lancaster said in high good
humor. “The beast is yours to command, Princess.”

The knight lifted his head slightly. His face was immobile. A faint
tickle of significance stirred in Melanthe’s mind, a fleeting thought she
could not catch. He was indeed a fine man, tall on his horse, strong of
limb, his face that combination of beauty and roughness that provoked the
ladies to sighs and the more elegant courtiers to spiteful remarks about
vulgarity. The range of expression in the company behind him was of vast
interest to Melanthe—and not least intriguing the green knight’s own taut
countenance. He had a look of extremity on him, some emotion far more
intense than mere playacting at marvels before a lady.

“What will you, my lady?” Lancaster asked. “Shall you send them to hunt
dragons?”

The knight glanced at Melanthe for an instant, then away, as if the
contact startled. His destrier shifted restlessly beneath him, its enameled
hooves thumping on the braided rush. The bells jangled. With an abrupt move
he yanked one glove from his hand and threw it down before the company. “A
challenge!” he shouted. He turned about in the saddle, scanning the hall,
rising in his stirrups. “For the honor of my lady, tomorrow I take all who
come!”

Lancaster went stiff beside her. He stood up. “Nay, sir,” he snapped.
“Such is not thy place, to defend Her Highness!”

The knight ignored his liege. “Is this the court of the Black Prince and
Lancaster?” he shouted furiously. “Who will fight me for the honor of my
lady?”

His voice echoed in the stunned silence of the hall. They stared at him
as if he had lost his senses. But comprehension burst upon Melanthe.
This
was the source of Allegreto’s mirthful satisfaction—he had created
a chance for her.

“Cease thy nonsense!” Lancaster growled in a low voice. “It does thee no
credit, sir!”

The green knight had dropped his veneer of submissive respect. His gaze
hit Melanthe and skewed away again. He dismounted and went down on his knee
before her in a chinking clash of mail. “My lady!” Over the edge of the
table she could see that he held his bare hand against his heart, the plumed
helmet thrust under his arm. “I crave of you, do me this ease—give me
something of your gift, that I might carry the precious prize tomorrow and
defend against all comers.”

“Thou shalt not do so!” the duke declared, his voice rising. “I carry Her
Highness’ favor, impudent rogue!”

Melanthe seized her moment. She slanted him a cool look. “Think you so,
my lord?” she asked softly.

Lancaster glanced at her, his face growing red. “I—” His jaw went taut.
“I am at your service, if you will honor me,” he said stiffly.

Melanthe smiled at him. She caught Gryngolet’s jesses and pulled the soft
white calf’s leather loose from about the falcon’s legs, slipping her dagger
inside to cut the belled bewits and the jesses free. Gryngolet’s varvels
swung suspended from the ends—two silver rings jeweled with emeralds and
diamonds and engraved with Melanthe’s name. She slipped the bells from Milan
onto the jesses, tying them so that they made a falcon’s music—one note
striking high and one low— in the rich harmony that belonged to nothing else
in heaven or earth.

Lancaster was watching her. She looked at him for a long, significant
moment, then turned back to the knight who still knelt below her.

“Green Sire,” she declared, “the most precious prize I possess on earth,
I give thee for a keepsake, to defend me for my honor on the morrow.”

She tossed the jesses with their gems and bells onto the rush before him.

“I challenge for it!” Lancaster exclaimed instantly.

“And I, on my lord’s behalf!” A man stood up beyond him on the dais.

“And I!” They were seconded by two more, and then four, i knights
standing in the hall to shout their dares until the hammer-beams rang.

“Enough!” Lancaster lifted his arm. “It shall be arranged who will
fight.” He glared down at the green knight. “Rise, then, insolent fellow.”

The knight came to his feet, his eyes downcast again. She noticed that
he’d had the presence of mind to retrieve his gauntlet along with the jesses
while he knelt—not entirely a lack-wit. God only knew how Allegreto had
threatened or enticed him to do this thing. The knight stood waiting with a
stony stare at his lord’s feet, the light on his virid armor sculpting broad
curves at his shoulders, chasing silver arcs across his arm-plates.
Lancaster could barely keep the fury from his face.

“A most marvelous unicorn,” she said with amusement. “My lord’s grace is
kind, to put him at my service.”

Lancaster seemed to find some control of his emotion. He bowed to her,
producing a smile that did not quite cover the grim set of his jaw. “I would
have counted it worth my life to serve you myself, my lady. But now I count
it an honor to win your better regard by trial tomorrow, against this man I
had thought under true oath to me.”

The green knight looked up, his expression a fascinating play of yearning
and pride, of checked temper. “My beloved lord, I wish with my whole heart
to please you, but my lady commands me.”

“Thou takest too much credit upon thyself, knave!”

The knight glanced to Melanthe; his eyes as green as his armor, human now
instead of hidden by steel and darkness. In his intense gaze there was an
open dismay of his own defiance before his prince—he looked to her hoping
for reprieve, asking her for release from what he had done.

She held him, denying it. Her answer was unrelenting silence.

The knight bowed his head. She could see the taut muscle in his bared
neck. “Does my lord bid me serve his pleasure before my lady’s?” he asked in
a low voice.

It was a futile attempt, hardly more than a strained whisper. Without an
appeal from Melanthe herself, Lancaster would not withdraw—could not, not
now, when he had agreed to fight.

“I do not well know where thou comest by this notion that Her Highness
stoops to command such as thee!” Lancaster snapped.

“From me, mayhap,” Melanthe murmured.

The duke gave her a sullen small bow. “Then your wish is mine,” he said
curtly. “And my command, of course. This man shall ride for you on the
morrow, my lady, against myself and all who challenge for your favor.”

The green knight lifted chagrined eyes to Melanthe. Holding Gryngolet on
her wrist, ignoring Lancaster, she gave her new champion a small smile and
dropped a mocking bow of courtesy. “I look forward to such spectacle. Go now
and refresh thyself, Green Sire. Attend me in chamber when dinner is done.”

“May God reward you, lady,” he murmured mechanically, and stood. With an
easy move that belied the weight of his armor, he remounted, reining the
horse around and spurring it to a gallop. He parted the men-at-arms at the
door, vanishing out of the hall with an echo of hooves and bells.

Of course she didn’t remember him.

Ruck tore the loaf of white bread and shed more crumbs onto his bare
chest, causing mute Pierre to gesture and dust him urgently, but there was
no time to sit down for a meal as his broken-backed squire wished. His
lady—his liege lady, the cherished queen of his heart—commanded him
immediately after the dinner; and by the time he’d stabled Hawk, secured his
mount’s armor and his own, harried Pierre, and sufficiently bullied and
bribed the fourth chamberlain for a bath in the midst of a banquet, he could
hear the higher note of the trumpets that signified the lord’s retirement
from the hall.

A light-headed sickness hung in his throat. The dry bread seemed to choke
him. It was almost too fantastical to believe that it was her; that she was
here. He had never expected it. He hardly knew how to fathom the fact, or
what he had just done for her.

Christ—Lancaster’s face—but Ruck could not bear to think of it.

“Hie!” He knocked Pierre’s hand aside as the squire tried to wipe the
shaving soap from him. The barber had been impossible to obtain at such a
time. “My hose.” He grabbed the towel, cleaned his jaw himself, and finished
off the bread before Pierre had the green hose ready for him.

He didn’t think she remembered him. He couldn’t settle it in his mind. By
her young courtier in the yellow-and-blue motley, she had sent him a command
to challenge for her. She had looked upon him in the hall with that cool
authority ... as if she knew his vow to her service—as if she expected it.
He had a wild thought that she had known all there was to know of him since
that day he had first seen her, that his every move for ten and three years
had somehow been open to her. Those eyes of hers, ‘fore God!