For My Lady's Heart (25 page)

Without lifting his face, the vewterer gave them a sidelong look. “Good
sir, I beg your pardon,” he said humbly. He sent a dour glance directly at
Melanthe. “Methinks ye were not at assembly this morn, good sir, to lend
your wisdom to the choosing of the quarry.”

There was a very faint note of accusation beneath his exaggerated
humility. She realized that he must believe Sir Ruck to be one of his lord’s
guests, who should have been present at the early morning meal, examining
the various droppings that had been brought back from the forest and adding
his opinion as to which forecast the likeliest game. No doubt the huntsman
felt that here was a man who would have put the weight of his argument
against the hart, and counted it in the way of a betrayal that Sir Ruck had
not been present to do so.

As to that hostile glance at
her
—she bit her lips against a
smile and laid her head against his back. “Why, did we lie abed too long, my
dear?” she murmured.

He turned his head quickly, flushing hot red from his throat to his
cheek. The huntsman tapped his coiled leashes against his leg and all but
rolled his eyes.

“I wist nought thy lord’s name, sir,” Ruck said brusquely. “We comen to
crave harbor of him, if he will it. Wouldst thou go on errand, good sir, to
seek our welcome?”

The vewterer lifted his head and looked at them straight for the first
time. She could see him taking in their baggage and Sir Ruck’s armor. His
eyes lingered on Gryngolet with puzzled wonder. “Yea, by Saint Peter, my
lord,” he mumbled, and stooped into another bow before he turned and went
ahead of them at a quick jog.

Sir Ruck followed, keeping the horse to a sedate walk. Another great
fanfare began. The woods echoed with a united long blare of many horns and
the baying and barking of hounds. It lasted as long as the air could hold in
a man’s chest, and then, all broke off together into friendly shouting and a
few yips. Winding through the underbrush by a path of snapped branches where
the hunters had passed, they came upon the boisterous gathering around the
unmade hart and a hastily built fire.

The hounds were in the midst of their
curee,
climbing over one
another in their eagerness to reach the mixture of bread and blood set aside
for them as reward. Horses and men stood about, the soberly dressed huntsmen
all business with the hounds and the deer, the few guests notable for their
laughter and amorous attention to the several ladies among the group. The
vewterer had sought out a neat, compact young man who stood by the fire and
the carcass, nibbling at the roasted delicacies reserved to him from the
fourchee
stick.

The laughter quieted, leaving only the yelps and growls of the hounds as
the destrier came to a halt.

The young man touched his beard, watching Sir Ruck and Melanthe as his
vewterer knelt before him. The words were too soft to hear, but the master’s
astonishment was hidden somewhat better than his servant’s. He thrust the
stick at an aide and strode forward to meet them.

“Henry of Torbec, sir, your own servant.” He swept a courtly bow. “I hold
sway in this land. You’re welcome to welde my house and my home as you
likes. All is your own and your lady’s, may God protect her.”

“The Lord on high reward you,” Sir Ruck said with great formality.
“Displease you ne’er would I, worthy lord, but I mote withhold my name and
my house until I am shown deserving. Some thereby call me for my color
green.”

A hum of interest animated the bystanders. The lord of Torbec smiled,
looking about at his guests. “Green! Is marvelous in truth, that such an
excellent green knight comes among us. You keep this fair lady from peril by
your quest?”

Sir Ruck was silent for a moment. Melanthe expected that he would
announce her with some brilliance, he was always so concerned for her high
estate. Instead he merely shrugged. “She is my leman,” he said.

The whole company broke into appreciative laughter. Henry of Torbec said,
“By God, here is a shrewd man, who ne denies to himself no comfort in his
undertaking!” He gave Melanthe a knowing survey, as if she were a horse or
hound. “Ye deck her right richly, knight.”

The way Hawk stood, Gryngolet was still hidden from him and the others
behind the bulk of Sir Ruck’s armor and mantle. Melanthe lowered the falcon
farther yet, resting her gauntlet upon her knee and drawing her elbow slowly
back into her cloak, so that the folds fell over the gyrfalcon’s white
plumage. Sir Ruck turned his head briefly and took a glancing, casual note
of her move. This sudden descent from princess to common wench warned her
full well that he was not at ease.

“From the warring in France, I brought her menskeful things and gifts,”
he said.

“You’ve been in France?” Henry asked swiftly.

“At Poitiers.”

“Poitiers!” Henry gave a short laugh. “So long ago?”

“Yea,” Sir Ruck said without elaboration.

“Ye know not my brother Geoffrey, then.”

“A large country, France,” Sir Ruck said. “Ne haf I nought the honor to
meeten with all good men who serve the high king there.”

“And wendeth ye how since Poitiers, green knight?”

“Over allwhere,” he said. “Lately on my left half I held Lyerpool, but
entered nought, for I feared sickness there. The priory is forsaken. Had ye
news of it?”

Henry scowled. “Nay—forsaken?” He looked to his aides. “Is Downy ne come
of Lyerpool not yet?”

Heads shook. Henry gave an oath, as if he had already known the answer.
He stepped back from the horse.

“Ye ne did not enter the town, sir?” he demanded.

“As I am a knight and Christian, I say you I did nought. The pestilence
ne touches me, but I feared for my damisel. She would fain have me take her
within the gate, for she delights to display her rich weed to plain country
maids.” He shrugged again. “Women haf them no wit, depardeu. Fair wide did
we disturn around Lyerpool.”

Henry appeared to think that a convincing tale. “Well done, sir. I thank
you to bringen this warning.” His scowl had faded and he seemed to become
quite cheerful. “Hie, men, fette the venison and let us turn to home. Green
knight, you honor me, to join my guests.”

As the hunters fell to work, Melanthe felt Sir Ruck reach under his arm
and take hold of the edge of her cloak. He pulled it forward, tucking a fold
into his sword belt, so that Gryngolet was enclosed fully. Melanthe leaned
on his back, as if he were caressing her, and said softly in French,
“Jeopardy?”

He did not answer, but only reached back and gave her a light bob upon
the cheek. “Possess thyself in patience, wench,” he said aloud in English.
“Thou’lt haf a wash and a bed soon enow.”

Melanthe bore it, but she wound her finger in one of the black curls at
the nape of his neck and gave it a cautionary tug.

Except to bend his head and pull free, he ignored her while the huntsmen
coupled their hounds and the guests mounted. The other women rode pillion,
pitched up into place giggling and ardent, with open kisses for their
swains. Henry took up a plump blonde maid, no lady, grinning as he rode
past. Sir Ruck let Hawk fall in with the other horses. They strung out in a
file between the trees.

It was country manners, but no more licentious than many a hunt Melanthe
had attended where the hunters had been more interested in their lovers’
breasts than in the breaking of the kill, openly fondling one another during
the hounds’
curee.
As they rode, Sir Ruck turned his head, reaching
for her. Melanthe obligingly leaned nearer, and he put his mouth against the
corner of hers, holding his glove over her ear as if to steady her. A day’s
bristle of beard grazed her skin.

“Sir Geoffrey of Torbec is with Lancaster,” he said in French, moving his
lips on hers.

Melanthe hugged herself close, leaning her chin on his shoulder. She
kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear, “His brother?”

He caught her hand and brought it up to his lips. “Geoffrey has no
brother,” he murmured into her palm.

“Fie, sir!” She snatched her fingers away.

“So acquit thyseluen in meekness according to thy place, wench.” His
voice carried in reproving English. “We are nought now alone in the woods,
for thee to play off thy noble airs.”

She saw Henry lift his hand. “Hold the yoke fast upon her neck, green
knight!” he called back in warm humor. “Iwysse, it were wise to keepen such
proud women low in their conceit.”

Masculine whistles and agreement ran up and down the line. Melanthe slid
her fingers into Sir Ruck’s hair. “If thou namest me wench again, sir,” she
said affectionately aloud, “I will see thee racked and flayed.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, lifting an eyebrow. “God shield me,
wench.”

That raised a general laugh. Henry gave his own lady a pinch and slapped
his horse’s rump, sending it into a trot as they turned onto a better path.

Torbec Manor had new earthworks and a gatehouse with a door of fresh
planks bossed in dark gray iron still shiny from the hammer. Inside,
buildings of plaster and lath extended from the old stone hall, ranging
about the dirt yard.

Henry had another fanfare blown as they entered the gate, all horns in
unison, though there appeared to be no lady of the house waiting to greet
the returning hunt. The hounds, freed from their couplings, streamed past
the horses toward a kennel-yard fenced against the wall. At the gate, one
gallant played with a big lop-eared lymer from his horse, offering the
scenting hound a wadded lady’s scarf, and then hiding it about his person—a
poor game, Melanthe thought, for a hunting dog that ought to concentrate on
the smell of its quarry alone.

Sir Ruck seemed to have a particular interest in this kennel, or the
scaffold beyond it that supported men at work on the masonry. They appeared
to be about repairs. It was not a highly fortified place. He turned away.

Amid the general turmoil of arrival, Henry assigned a servant to them. As
the man came forward, kneeling and eyeing Hawk warily, Sir Ruck unpinned his
mantle, letting it fall back.

“This needs mending, wench,” he said over his shoulder to Melanthe. “Let
me see it nought till thy work is done.”

Melanthe gathered the mantle, using it to muffle Gryngolet, holding
falcon and cloak in a bundle against her breast. The gyrfalcon’s talons
gripped hard on her glove, and the bells gave a muffled plink, but Gryngolet
made no other protest.

Sir Ruck dismounted, swinging his leg high over the saddlebow and
dropping to the ground beside her, lifting his arm before the servant could
step forward to offer aid. “Come, wench.”

Melanthe held her armful of falcon and wool close to her breast as he
pulled her down. “I am counting every one, thou shouldst knowen,” she said,
smiling up at him as her feet touched the ground.

He tapped her cheek with mailed knuckles. “Counting what, wench?”

“Six,” she said sweetly, turning to follow the rest into the hall.

He put his hand on her shoulder. “Do nought stray off from me, wench.”

“Oh, think thee that I jape?” She stopped. “Seven.”

In his eyes was that subtle hint of a smile she was coming to recognize.
“Keep thee close. In faith, thou art the comlokkest wench in this company. I
be jealous over thee.”

“Ah,” she said mildly, “four limbs broken, two eyes put out, and thy nose
cut off. But eight—wee loo, I shall have to put my mind to eight and show a
little invention.”

He went down on his knee and hung his head. “Truly, I am villainous,” he
said in extravagant humility. “I beg my lady’s grace. Ye are a true
gentlewoman, and no common wench.”

One of the other females clapped. “Now shall we have some noble talking!
Certain it is that your lady is the more gracious, sir, and deserves dainty
words.”

Amid feminine acclaim, the men groaned. “I warned you,” Henry complained
from the hall door. “Now will they all wax wondrous proud, these women, and
want us to lie abed and write them poetry!”

Sir Ruck stood up and gave Melanthe a light push. “Nay, nought poetry,”
he said.

Henry laughed and shrugged. “Haps not. Bid you enter, my lady, and I pray
my hall be not too common for your comfort!”

Ruck did not think they had a chance of concealing the gyrfalcon for
long. He had a tale prepared for the moment of discovery, but saw no reason
to tell it sooner than he must. They would not linger in this place. Ruck
disliked the look of it. Henry was preparing for defense—piercing arrowslits
in his wall and strengthening his gatehouse and outer works— by hap it was
only with the outlaws of the Wyrale in mind, but Sir Geoffrey of Torbec had
no brother that Ruck knew.

Still, the servants did not appear misused. The only evidence of distaste
for Henry that Ruck had seen was the huntsman’s contempt for taking hart out
of season. Hospitable the man might be, and affable, but it told something
of his nature that he would choose to hunt a hart in fermysoun over a boar
fitting to the season.

His guests appeared to be no more than a pack of gaily dressed young
ruffians, idle sons of squires and country knights. If the nearness of
pestilence concerned them, they answered it with mirth and jest, as some
were always wont to do. Still, Ruck looked them over to see if he might make
use of a pair or three as an escort. They might be bored and willing, he
thought, if he made it worm their while.

As they entered the hall, Henry gave orders that as an honored guest,
Ruck be conducted to a private chamber. The princess walked ahead of him
past servants setting up the trestle tables in the hall, her muddied ermine
sweeping the woven rushes, the gold fret in her hair catching what light
there was falling down from the smoke hole in the roof. She did not make a
half-convincing wench. It was impossible to pass her off as lowborn; clearly
she had sense enough not even to attempt it. But she might be as haughty as
she pleased; Ruck had no fear that she would be unmasked. It was all too
fantastical. What should these men think, that the heiress of the Earl of
Bowland would ride out of the woods mounted astride behind a wandering
knight? If he had proclaimed her by name, he could not imagine that they
would have believed him.