For My Lady's Heart (7 page)

She tilted her head, refusing to look into a mirror held up by one of the
ladies. The youth watched Ruck beneath his lashes.

“Let me take down your hair, lady,” he said, moving to do it. His fingers
worked amid the crown of braids, unpinning them, spreading them. He held a
curling lock up to his lips, laughing silently through it at Ruck. “Look
you, my love,” he said, speaking clear while pretending to whisper in her
ear. “The green man wants you.”

“So much the worse for him,” she said indifferently.

“Only look at him, lady!” The youth was grinning in delight at Ruck. “He
wishes that he might embrace you as I do. Just so—” He slipped his fingers
around her waist, never taking his black eyes from Ruck.

She brushed his hands away. “Come, leave thy mischief. Dost thou wish to
sharpen thy claws on him, Allegreto? Play, then—but recall that he is of use
to me.” She turned for one instant and met the youth’s eyes. “See that thou
dost not kill him, or I shall set Gryngolet upon thee.”

This threat had a salutary effect upon her young courtier. He glanced at
the falcon perched on a high stand at the foot of her bed. “Lady,” he said
submissively, drawing back from her.

“Do up my hair,” she bid him. “The crespin net, I think.”

In silence he took the comb and sparkling net from her lady-in-waiting
and began to comb out the length of her hair, coiling it deftly.

As he worked, Princess Melanthe lifted her hand, beckoning to Ruck. He
moved to the foot of the bed, lowering himself to one knee.

She laughed. “Truly, thou art the most
courteous
knight! Up with
thee. I prefer to see the faces of my servants better than the tops of their
heads.”

He stood up.

“I will lead thy destrier into the lists tomorrow,” she informed him.
“See that the heralds know it. And thou must wear my favor upon thy lance
for the entry—then I wish it brought to me for the nonce.”

He bowed.

“Thou speakest English,” she said suddenly.

“Yea, madam.”

“Excellent. I will from time to time speak to thee in English. I wish to
recall it from my childhood. A lesson for thee, Allegreto—always have a care
to understand a little of the language of thy servants and dependants, that
they may not take undue advantage of thee.”

Allegreto pinned her hair, placing the net over it with care. In a
subdued tone he said, “You are the source of all light and wisdom, Your
Highness.”

“Sweet boy, I would not let Gryngolet have thee for aught.”

The shadow left his face. He began to knead her shoulders. Ruck lowered
his eyes to the foot of the bed. He took a step back, withdrawing.

“Green Sire,” she said imperiously, rejecting the youth’s attention with
an impatient flick of her wrist. “Word has come to my ear that thou art
merciless in combat and tourney.”

Ruck stood silent. She looked at him full for the first time, scanned him
from foot to chest to shoulders in the manner a hosteler might assess a
horse. A very faint smile played at her lips as she looked into his eyes,
holding him with blue-purple dusk and mystery.

“Excellent,” she murmured. “Savagery amuses me. And what glorious feats
of arms shall I expect to see executed for my favor?”

That answer he’d considered long and well, knowing the number who were
sure to challenge him. “Ten courses with the lance,” he said evenly, “five
with the ax, and five courses with the sword will be my offer to any knight
who strikes my shield. What glory that it please God I may gain is my
lady’s.”

“Well for that.” Her smile took on a hint of humor. “My public esteem
always stands in some want of luster.”

The moment of self-mockery glittered in her eyes and vanished, lost in a
graceful lithe motion as she lay back upon the cushions, beckoning for the
wine cup held by one of her ladies. He wanted to look away, but it was
impossible: the irony and obscurity and dark radiance of her held him.

Lancaster commanded Ruck as his prince and liege, but if she thought of
that she gave no sign. She set Ruck square in the sorest dilemma a man could
be placed—vassal and servant to opposing masters—though not for war or any
great thing did she command him to declare a challenge for her on his own
prince, not that Ruck could tell.

Yet he would serve. She was his sworn lady. Beyond doubt or motive he
would obey her. It was not his place to ask for reasons, even if she did not
remember him.

And she did not. When she looked at him so negligently, he was
certain—almost certain—that she did not.

Two emeralds and thirteen years. But emeralds must be naught to such as
she, as he would have been naught so long ago, a ridiculous boy, no one and
nothing.

He wore the green jewel on his helmet. He carried her falcon on his
shield. Why had she asked for him, if she did not remember?

She bent her head to take a sip from the hammered goblet—and then paused
before she tasted it. She stared into the wine for a long moment, her lashes
black against skin of down and rose. When she looked up, it was toward the
little group of ladies-in-waiting beside her bed, an emotionless sweep that
remarked each one of them—and Ruck saw each of them in turn respond with the
stone-silent terror of cornered rabbits.

She lowered her eyes to the goblet again, without drinking. “Thou wilt be
valiant in my name on the morrow, Green Sire?” she murmured, glancing up at
him over the rim.

He gave a slight nod.

“See that it is so.” With a gesture she dismissed him. Ruck turned from
the sight of Allegreto trifling with a ring on her finger.

At the door he stopped, looking back. “Your Highness,” he said quietly.

She glanced up, lifting her brows.

He nodded toward Allegreto and spoke in English. “Ne such as that could
nought kill me.”

“What did he say?” the youth demanded instantly. “He was looking at me!”

Princess Melanthe turned. “Why, he said that in his devotion to me,
Allegreto, he could defeat any man. A most handy green knight, think thee
not?”

As the knight departed, Allegreto turned the amethyst over and over on
her finger. He leaned near her shoulder, laying his head next to hers.
Melanthe lifted the cup of wine to his mouth and said, “Share with me.”

He drew in a light breath—and she felt the barely perceptible withdrawal
in his muscles. “My lady,” he murmured, “I prefer the sweetness of your
lips.”

She tilted her head back, allowing him to trace his mouth down her
throat. With a languid move she held out the cup of wine and lay full back
on the pillows. Cara lifted it from her hand with a deep courtesy, smiling
that soft smile of hers, serene as a painting of the Virgin Mary. Though
Melanthe closed her eyes, she could hear the light rustling and whispers as
her gentlewomen retreated, well-trained to recognize her inclinations.

Allegreto put his mouth against her ear even before the ladies had quit
the solar. “Donna Cara,” he said. “I told you to be rid of her. Send her
away tonight.”

Melanthe lay with her eyes closed. She bore his hands on her, her senses
refined to catch the last instant that she must suffer his touch. The moment
she could be certain they were alone, she flung his arm away and sat up.

“And I told thee to kill no one. Tomorrow thy back will feel the worse
for it.”

He hiked himself up to sprawl against the heap of pillows, impudent.
“Nay, lady, you know none of your men will touch me. They love my father too
well.”

“Will please the duke to lend me his guardsmen for the task, I vow.” She
left the bed and stood by the chest, gazing down into the goblet of scented
wine. The candle beside it shuddered, reflecting a sinuous half-moon in the
dark liquid. “It is a warning.”

“It can be aught else, Your Highness.” He rolled to his side and lay
propped on his elbow, only daunted enough to give her a deferential address.
“Bitter almond.” He drank a deep breath. “From here I can descry it.”

She gave a humorless smile. “Thou art not so perceptive. I could not
detect it myself but from within the cup.”

“It must have been Donna Cara. She’s sold herself to Riata and betrayed
you. Mayhap no warning was meant, but a bungle. Stupid Monteverde bitch, she
would blunder such work. Send her away, I tell you.”

“Cara!” Melanthe laughed, scorning that. “Thy mind is occupied past
reason with the girl. By thy notion, one moment she is subtle as a viper and
the next so stupid as to poison me with bane in my wine, as if I could not
smell it there!”

“An idiot, she is. Give her to me, and I will teach her to be sorry for
her treachery, so that she will not forget the lesson. She’s not even worth
the killing.”

“Not worth killing? Why, Allegreto, thou must be feeling unwell.”

He grinned. “Nay, only languishing in tedium. I should like to torment a
Monteverde. It would make a change from these tiresome Riatas who die so
easily.”

“Thy malice masters thy wit. Recall that she is my cousin.”

He turned onto his back and crossed his leg, looking up at the canopy.
“My malice is bred in me. A Navona must hate anyone of Monteverde.” He
glanced toward her with a wry smile. “Excepting you, my lady, of course.”

Melanthe gazed again into the poisoned wine. She moved her head to bid
him rise. “Take it to the garderobe. The cup will sink. I want no use of it
again.”

“Yea, my lady.” With youthful agility he rolled to his feet and made a
flourishing bow. “A Riata to Hell and a few fish to Heaven—I call that a
fine day’s work for one garderobe.”

Amid the call of heralds’ trumpets echoing high in the clear cold air,
the Black Prince in his litter took the head of the procession, too ill to
ride—barely able to attend at all, Melanthe had heard. She held her place
among the ladies, carrying Gryngolet in emerald hood and a new set of bells
and jesses, watching the chaos in the courtyard become order as the parade
formed.

The duke had overcome his scowls: he held back, greeting Melanthe with
every evidence of high good humor as he drew rein beside her palfrey. “Good
morn, my lady.” He glittered in azure and scarlet, his shield emblazoned by
the lions of England quartered with the fleur-de-lis of France. At his side
a Moorish soldier with a white turban wrapped about his head walked a real
lion on a leash of silk. “The day promises fine for our entertainments. A
place of comfort is prepared for you upon the
escafaut,
if you will
honor us.”

“God grant you mercy for your kindness,” she said. “I shall come there
when I will.”

“I pray it be soon, for my pleasure in your company.”

“When I will,” she repeated mildly.

He bared his teeth in a grin. “I look forward with delight to that
moment, madam. And to these contests.”

Melanthe contained her palfrey’s restless attempt to touch noses to his
bay war-horse. “You’re armed to take a part in the combat, my lord.” She
nodded in approval. “Never yet have I seen a prince of the blood enter the
lists. I commend your valor.”

“I shall break a lance or two, God willing. My lady’s grace will recall
that there is a challenge in her honor.”

Melanthe smiled serenely. “I recall it.”

“Your champion is well-renowned for his skill.” He shook his head,
careless. “I shall attempt him, but I hold small hope of winning any prize
in a joust with the celebrated Green Sire.”

His casual tone was meant to give her surprise, she saw, for he looked at
her with a glance that did not quite match his jocular indifference.

“But my lord is his liege, are you not?” she said. “I am amazed that you
undertake to meet him at all.”

“A short match only.
A plaisance,
for your amusement. With
blunted weapons, he need not fear to fight his master.” He turned his horse,
saluting her. “I shall open the jousts and return to your side as soon as I
may, my dear Princess!” With a swirl of bright color, he circled and rode
rapidly forward, his men and squires and even the lion running behind him to
keep up.

At the proper sedate pace, led by a young page, Melanthe’s horse moved
out at the head of the ladies, passing through the shadow of the gatehouse
and the city streets. Townsfolk and spectators lined all the distance,
shouting and running along beside the procession. Melanthe eyed them, wary
of the high windows with their waving banners, the milling crowds— wary most
of all of Cara and her other gentlewomen just behind her.

She could not trust Allegreto’s malicious counsel, but neither could she
wholly trust Cara, as comely and credulous as her gentlewoman’s dark eyes
and soft, simple features might be. Any member of her retinue could succumb
at any time to treachery or cajolery—the Riata were masters of both.

The assassin’s body had been pulled from the river this morning and
hauled away to be buried nameless in a paupers’ graveyard. Allegreto spent
the day in the public stocks for his trouble, dragged bodily out of her
bedchamber by Lancaster’s men, a small instructive exercise that Melanthe
had arranged for him.

The murder had brought no more than a brief respite anyway—a moment’s
reprieve and then the poisoned wine, to remind her. She was still watched by
some creature of the Riata, and with a sharper threat, for now she did not
know who it was.

All she knew certainly was that they would see her dead before they saw
her married again, carrying her rights with her to a man who would assert
her claim to Monteverde. Such a one as Lancaster, ambitious and powerful—or,
worse for the Riata by a thousand times—Gian Navona.

It was the imminent threat of Gian that Melanthe had used to bargain with
them. She would not marry him, she swore; she would go home to England and
enter a nunnery if they would allow her to leave unmolested. Once there, she
would resign all right in Monteverde to the Riata—giving over her widow’s
perilous claim and a further birthright descended four generations through
her Monteverde mother—too strong to defeat in a man’s hand, too weak to
prevail in a woman’s.