For My Lady's Heart (11 page)

“They have not been paid, my lord,” Felton said, without embarrassment.

“And is that my fault?” Lancaster shouted, and then squeezed his eyes
shut, laying his head back. “I’ll run my own coffers dry in the defense of
your damned Gascon barons.”

“The prince your brother—”

“The prince my brother is sick unto death. He is to know nothing of this!
Do not disturb him.”

There was a little silence. Then the constable said tentatively, “I
believe—if my lord’s grace appeared with this knight”—he made a faint
gesture toward Ruck—“they would obey this man, my lord, if he ordered them
to submit to curfew.”

“By God,” Lancaster exclaimed, “he knocks me off my horse and holds his
sword to my neck, and now I’m to stand by him while he gives orders to the
men-at-arms? Why not appoint him lieutenant and be done with it?”

Ruck pressed his lips together, appalled. He had felt the threat hovering
over him; now it crystallized into real danger. He had never thought
Lancaster would imprison him for pride—but suddenly a new and horrifying
vista opened.

The duke seemed to catch his mute response, for he looked again at Ruck.
He stared for a long, speculative moment, an assessment that chilled Ruck to
the bone.

“What thinkest thee, Green Sire,” he said, in a serious voice. “Canst
thou control them?”

“My lord’s grace has the right of it,” Ruck said. “Me think it not
seemly.”

“But thou canst do it?”

“It be unmeet, my lord,” Ruck repeated, trying to prevent any note of
alarm from entering his voice. “It be not wise.”

“But if I cannot command them, nor their own constable here, and thou
only canst keep the city from strife and riot?”

Ruck shook his head. “I pray you, dread lord, ask it not of me.”

“I ask it of thee. I command thee to take charge of the garrison and the
men-at-arms and control them.”

Yesterday such a command would have been a wonder for Ruck, a victory.
Today it was the edge of a pit: the precipice of war between nobles and
common soldiers, rebellion with himself at the center.

“My lord,” he burst out, “reconsider! Your head pains you to folly.” He
sucked in his breath, as if he could take back the brazen words as soon as
they escaped.

Lancaster rubbed his face with his good hand and looked to Sir Robert.
“My head pains me in truth,” he said, with something of a smile. “What think
you of him?”

Knolleys shrugged. “He will be a loss to us.”

“A loss,” Lancaster repeated in a silken voice, looking at Ruck from
beneath lazy eyelids. “Well for thee, that thou didst not leap at the
command. Some here have counseled me that thou art a sly rebel, Green Sire.
That thou hast kept thy name secret for something less than honor, and
wormed thy way into a place and gained the love of my men only to inflame
disloyalty and rebellion with this spectacle today. That thou hast conspired
with the princess to weaken us, in preparation for a French attack tonight
or tomorrow.”

Ruck dropped to his knees. “Nay, my lord! By Almighty God!”

“Who stands behind the Princess Melanthe, traitor?” Knolleys demanded.

“I know not!” Ruck exclaimed. “I’m no traitor to you, my lord, I swear on
my father’s soul. Her man told me that she wished me to issue challenge in
her name.”

“Against thy liege?” Sir Robert demanded. “And thou took her up?”

“My beloved lord, I meant you no insult. I was to challenge all comers. I
am sworn to her. Years ago—and far from here. I knew not even her name until
yesterday. I never thought to see her again. She was . ..” He paused. “I
swore myself to her service. I know not why. It was long ago.” He shook his
head helplessly. “I cannot explain it, my lord.”

Lancaster lifted his brows. “Canst not explain it?” He burst out in
caustic laughter and held his head. “Has she bewitched us or besotted us?”

“Send for the inquisitor,” his brother said. “If she’s a sorceress, he
will discover it.”

“And whiles? There’s no time for the inquisitor.” Lancaster rested his
head against the throne. “Much as I should like to see her burn.” He drew a
deep breath and sighed. “But here—I find I cannot imprison or execute my
green companion-in-arms, in spite of my aching head and dislocate joint. I
have a fellow feeling for him, the love-struck ass. Moreover, it provokes
riot.”

“Nor let him walk free,” Knolleys said.

“Nor let him free, for if he wills or no, the men gather to him, and with
the temper of the nobles, we’d have disorder enough to burn this city down.
I want no rivals to my command. I need my men to fight France, not one
another.”

Ruck knelt silently, awaiting his fate, watching his future dissolve
before his eyes.

Lancaster gazed at him with that sleepy speculation. “Tell me, Green
Sire, what is it thou hoped to gain of me, to join my court?”

“My liege ...” Ruck’s voice trailed off. He had not envisioned that his
moment with Lancaster would come this way.

“Position? Lands? A fine marriage? I hear that the ladies admire thee.”

“Nay.” Ruck lowered his face. “I ask naught of you now, my lord.”

“And I offer naught,” Lancaster said, “for I want no more of thee. I have
detained Princess Melanthe at the gate, so that thou wilt be seen alive and
well to escort her into the city. At dawn thou must be off, with thy
princess and all her train.” He smiled sourly. “And look thee to see me at
the quay, to bid you both a cordial farewell.”

It was for her protection, the message said. Melanthe pulled her cloak
close about her in the cold darkness outside the city gate. Her little
hunting entourage huddled before her. Behind lay the distant fires and tents
of the tourneyers who had no lodging within the walls. That the gate was
still open this late was strange. The guards were men in Lancaster’s and the
prince’s livery—not the usual gatekeepers. She could see torches and hear
drunken shouting from within.

If she had had another choice, she would have turned away. The
message—and signs of riot inside—were ominous. She did not think real
trouble had erupted yet, but it might flare at any moment. Her presence
alone might be enough to spark it. She much doubted that Lancaster’s message
to await an escort at the gate had been sent with loving concern for her
safety.

Gryngolet fluffed her feathers to keep out the cold, perching quietly
upon the saddlebow. The greyhound sat shivering. Melanthe had not dressed
for darkness. Even in gauntlets, her fingers were cold. She looked into the
blackness behind her, sparked by open fires, and admitted wryly to herself
that nothing stopped her at the moment from fading into the gloom, as free
as she dreamed of being, except for the mystery of how to live as anything
but what she was.

“My lady—” One of the guardsmen came striding from beneath the black bulk
of the gatehouse over the bridge. “Your escort.”

Even as he spoke, the arch brightened with the flare of many torches. At
the head of a score of armed men her green knight rode toward her beneath
the gate.

The torches behind him lit his mount’s breath and his own in transparent
gusts of frost. He wore no armor now, only a light helmet over a bandage
that shone white across his forehead. The bridge thudded with the sound of
hooves and boots.

He never looked directly at her. With a perfunctory bow he made a motion
to the men to surround her horse. Placing half of the company before them,
and half behind, he wheeled his mount next to hers, swept his sword from its
sheath, and shouted the order to march.

She rode beneath the archway beside him. Inside the city walls, the
streets were full of men. They stared and shouted and ran beside the
company. Melanthe kept her eyes straight ahead and up. Her palfrey felt very
small next to the destrier, and the score of men a thin wall against
violence. In some of the side streets other knights sat their mounts, swords
unsheathed, staring malevolently as her escort passed. Limp bodies lay in
doorways—drunk or dead, she could not tell. The high bulk of the keep itself
was a welcome sight, until she saw the crowd milling and pressing below it.
As her escort came into view a cheer went up, confounded with outrage and
spiced by drink.

The Green Sire shouted an order. The men ahead halted. He lifted his
sword over his head, and the men-at-arms spun their sharpened pikes, forcing
the nearest of the crowd to give room. The pikes stopped with their points
at chest-level, a bristle of protection.

The castle gates opened slowly amid noise and disordered motion. He
yelled another order, and the men-at-arms began to move, stabbing into the
crowd ahead of them. In the light of the torches her cavalcade pushed
through the mob, encapsuled by pikesmen. The throng in the street could not
seem to decide if they wished to cheer or resist, swarming back and forth in
ill-tempered confusion, fighting one another, staggering back from the
pikes, waving their own weapons in wild and abortive threats to their
neighbors.

Her palfrey danced along beside the war-horse, taking hopping, frightened
steps, half rearing as a man fell between the pikes and sprawled in front of
her. Melanthe gave the horse a quick spur, and it sprang off its haunches,
coming down on the other side of the prone figure. The palfrey kicked out as
it landed, but Melanthe did not turn to see if the blow struck. Allegreto’s
horse crowded behind her; the gate was overhead at last—and they were
through, passing into the inner courtyard. The gates boomed closed behind
them, shutting out a rising roar.

Her knight dismounted and came to her, offering his knee and arm.
Melanthe took his hand for support. Hers was shaking past her ability to
control it. As her feet touched the ground, she said, “Thou tarried long in
coming. I’m nigh frozen through.”

She did not wish him to think that she shivered from fear. Nor did she
thank him. She felt too grateful; she felt as if she would have liked to
stand very close to him, he seemed so sure and sound, like the enclosing
walls of the keep, a circle of sanctuary in the disorder. For that she gave
him a sweeping glance of disdain and started to turn away.

“My lady,” he said, “his lordship the duke sends greeting and message,
and desires to know that your hunting was well.”

Melanthe looked back at him. “Well enough,” she said. “Two ducks. I will
dispatch them to the kitchens. There is a message?”

“Yea, my lady.” He looked at her with an expression as opaque as a
falcon’s steady cold stare. “I am to escort you hence without delay. We
leave at dawn, upon the tide.”

“Ah.” She smiled at him, because he expected her to be shocked. “We are
cast out? Crude—but what does an Englishman know df subtlety? Indeed, this
is excellent news. Thou shalt make all preparations for our departure to
England and attend my chamber at two hours before daybreak.”

His face was grim. He bent his head in silent assent.

“The duke has denied you, then?” she asked lightly. Melanthe held out her
hands in the flicker of torches. “Green Sire, swear troth to me now as
liege, and I will love thee better.”

His mouth grew harder, as if she offended him. “My lady, I was sworn to
your service long since. Your man I am, now and forever.” He held her eyes
steadily. “As for love—I need no more of such love as my lady’s grace has
shown me.”

Melanthe raised her chin and shifted her look past him. Allegreto stood
there, watching with a smirk.

She bestowed a brilliant smile upon her courtier and lowered her hands.
“Allegreto. Come, my dear—” She shivered again, turning, pulling her cloak
up to her chin. “I want my sheets well warmed tonight.”

The boats rode the current and the outgoing tide downriver, their oars
shipped and silent. As the banks of the Garonne slipped away, ever wider, a
cold sun rose behind Ruck’s little fleet, sucking the wind up the estuary
off the sea. It was not to his taste, but he’d reckoned it his duty to sail
aboard Princess Melanthe’s vessel himself.

He had worked with her steward all night to organize their departure.
When he had seen the painted whirlicote Princess Melanthe was to inhabit on
the land journey, he’d found that he had to use the duke’s patent to
commandeer an extra ship only to convey the leather-covered, four-wheeled
house and the five horses necessary to draw it.

Ruck had full believed that he would spend hours waiting on his liege
lady’s convenience, as she did not seem the sort to bestir herself to undue
exertion, but Princess Melanthe’s attendants outshone even the men-at-arms
in their packing and loading efficiency. There was no scurrying back to
fetch a lost comb or another pillow. Not one lady slipped away to linger in
farewell with some brokenhearted lover. Ruck suspected that they feared
their mistress too well to delay her.

The duke had come to see them off as he’d promised, making a great false
show of giving the kiss of peace and offering cordial farewells. Ruck had
found himself the object of more courtesy from his liege in the cold dawn of
his departure than he had received in the whole sum of his years in service
to Lancaster. The audience was small, only a few beggars and merchants, and
a soldier or two woken from sleeping on the docks, but by noontide the story
would have spread throughout the city to gentles and commoners alike: the
Green Sire had left Aquitaine in Princess Melanthe’s service, alive and
without duress. No threat to Lancaster’s command, no martyr to his pride—no
spark
to set
rebellion alight.

The Green Sire was nothing to Lancaster, or to anyone else now.

Ruck drew in a slow breath and let it go. He had lost his prince and
liege. He had loved a lady who did not exist—but she had seemed so real, he
had spent so long devoted to her, that he felt as if death had claimed a
piece of his heart.

He sat on deck atop the single high cabin in the stern, very aware of the
princess below him. He wondered if she suffered from the seasickness, and
had not sufficient imagination to picture such a thing.