For My Lady's Heart (38 page)

The disastrous news they had brought to Bowland of Princess Melanthe’s
disappearance had worked heavily on the peace of the castle’s constable, as
well Cara could imagine. Sir Thomas seemed an able and efficient man enough,
to see the sound state of the hold and garrison, but in this crisis his
management failed him. She was aware that Allegreto had played no small part
in the man’s consternation, encouraging him in terrifying notions of who
would be blamed if the news spread and the king heard. Allegreto ever had
the natural presence of his father if he pleased to use it, and he did now.
A bare sixteen years he might have, but Sir Thomas hung upon his advice as
if he were a hundred.

“Put down your work,” Allegreto said softly to her. “I have news.”

A bolt of fear made her fingers jump. She barely missed pricking her
finger. “Tell me!”

“A runner has arrived. The rest of our people will be here before night.”
He made a humorless chuckle. “And only a month since they left London!
Sodorini outdoes himself.”

She was glad she did not hold the needle, for in her shaking hand it
would surely have pierced her. Allegreto watched, a flame and a darkness.

“I have waited, Cara. Now you must decide.”

The castle suddenly seemed a huge weight around her, pressing down upon
her.

“Riata or Navona,” he said.

She wadded the vestments in her fists. “My sister. My sister.”

“We will ruse them. But I must know who it is.”

“I can’t tell you!”

“Little fool, do you think I can’t find out for myself? I’ll know by who
kills you.” He pushed off the chimney. “We came here together. I brought
you. Cara,
I
brought you!”

She fixed her eyes on his crimson figure. With a blinding vision, she
understood him, saw how it would appear in Riata eyes. The princess was
still alive, free of any nunnery, outside of all reach—and only Cara and
Allegreto, together, had returned with the word. Even a child must believe
that they had conspired to effect it.

“Only tell me,” he said. “I can safeguard you.”

She closed her eyes.

“I beseech you. I beg you.”

“Ficino,” she whispered.

With a soft rustle across the rushes, he came close to her. “You’re with
us now. With me. I’ll keep your sister if God wills.”

He stood before her, the devil’s perfection, invoking God. Abruptly he
went to one knee and gathered the vestments and her hands within his,
pressing his face into the cloth. As suddenly he let her go. He thrust
himself back, as if he had touched a flame, and went to the passage.

He stopped there. Without looking at her, he said, “You must send him
word to meet you in the cistern cellar, the one where the oils are stored.”

She stared at him, bereft of words at what he had just done.

“Cara!” he snapped over his shoulder. “Repeat me, that I know you won’t
blunder it!”

She started. “The cistern cellar, for the oils,” she said. Before she was
finished speaking, he had gone.

The alarm bells came deep in the night, dread tolling and shouts of fire.
All the ladies rushed about in the dark, trying to find their way among the
half-packed baggage and chests. Cara was the first down the stairs, knowing
her way, holding her candle aloft for the others to see.

The hall seethed with torch shadows and confusion. She tried to stop a
servant, but none would mind her, and the ladies were screaming and pressing
around, pushing for the door. She was carried with them out into the bailey,
where the low clouds reflected light onto a chain of men passing buckets.

No flames showed, only a black boil of smoke pouring from the base of the
farthest tower. Even as she watched from the hall steps, it began to
dissipate, and then vanished, carried away into the night. A hail began at
that end of the bailey, a cheer that rolled toward the hall. The bucket
chain began to break and scatter into knots of men, most of them pushing
toward the tower.

Cara drew a deep breath. It appeared to be quenched. She almost turned to
go in, but a figure caught her eye, a gleam of bright hair among the men. He
carried two buckets in one hand, striding out from the crowd. She watched
him turn and shout at a page, and trade the empty buckets for a torch.

The brand lit Guy’s face, showing him smoke-blackened and his shirt
stuffed hastily into his breeches. A sudden cough racked him; he bent over,
holding the torch awkwardly as he choked.

Cara forgot her undress and cold feet. She ran down the steps and grabbed
up a bucket that still had water in it, hauling it with her in spite of the
sloshing that wet her gown. She came to him as he straightened up, still
spluttering.

“Drink, sir.” She set the bucket on the ground and reached for his torch.

He looked down at her blankly. For an instant she feared that he had
already forgotten her, but then his gaze cleared and his open grin dawned.
“Grant merci,” he croaked, and squatted beside the bucket, scooping water
into his hands. He drank deeply, then splashed it on his face and stood,
wiping his arm across his eyes.

Cara smiled at the wild smear of blacking that he made. “Your bath is
wasted, sir, I fear.”

He rose, making a small bow. “Ah, but I did delight in it,” he said
hoarsely, “and that is not wasted, good lady.” He looked beyond her, lifting
his hand in salute to another smoke-blackened man passing.

His companion stopped, with a nod toward Cara. “They say there was a poor
devil in there, by Christ,” he said.

“ ‘Fore God.” Guy blew air through his teeth and made the cross. “He has
passed to his reward, may the good Lord save his soul. I know not what was
in that cellar, but did burn like the flames of Hell.”

“ ‘Tis where they keep the oils,” the other man said. “Good fortune that
the stock was low—here, ma’am!”

Cara had dropped the torch. She could not get her breath.

“My lady.” Guy’s face swam in front of her. “For love— John!”

She did not swoon. A horrible shaking fit possessed her. She felt she
must scream, but she could not scream. Her knees were sinking beneath her.
Before she reached the ground she felt herself lifted up.

“We shouldn’t have spoken of it in front of her.” She heard Guy’s voice,
but she couldn’t command words. He carried her into the hall, and next she
knew the ladies were crowded around him and hart’s horn and vinegar thrust
into her face as he set her down.

“No—” She pushed them feebly away. “I’m well. I only— lost my breath.”

Guy knelt beside her, looking up into her face with a frown of innocent
concern, black streaked all across his nose and temple. Cara clutched his
hand. She swallowed, trying to command herself. But when she lifted her
head, she lost all mastery.

Beyond him, past the ladies in nightgowns and the men in shirts, above
the curious faces and tumult, Allegreto stood on the dais, dressed in gold
and fire.

He was utterly still, watching her, the only silent figure in the
commotion.

She moaned, shaking her head. Guy pressed her hand and patted it. He
asked her something, but she did not hear. She pulled away and stumbled from
the bench. Guy called after her, but she couldn’t stop; she had to run,
turning and twisting blindly, like a doe trying to find some break in the
deerpark wall.

There were traps set all over Wolfscar. They were feminine traps, light
and easy to escape, but no man tried too hard. On the day after Easter, with
Lent past and Ruck’s grievous interdict lifted, the sport of Hock Monday
became an occasion for high glee.

Ruck found himself hocked at the door to the great hall, barred by a rope
from passing until he paid a groat to the mirthful women who stopped his
way. His was an easy escape—the other men were bound hand and foot, voicing
loud protest, struggling at their fetters, refusing to pay and altogether
making the most of their imprisonment while it lasted.

Having bought his freedom, he reached the gatehouse and crossed the
bridge safely. Crocus bloomed alongside the road, saffron yellow. Alone but
for the grazing animals, with the shouts and song left behind him, he walked
beside the furrowed and readied fields, his breath frosting in clear air.

He stooped and probed in the mud with a stick, pleased with the results
of the new draining ditches. The mill needed repair, but the mill always
needed repair. They had pressed the oxen to plow near four virgates of land,
even reclaiming some that had gone to brambles.

He sat on his heels, looking out over the valley and the high slopes.
Protection and boundary, the purple-green walls. So easy to forget the world
beyond them. He stared at the long morning shadow of the castle across the
fields, the dark ripples of turrets and chimneys on red soil.

For weeks they had lived as man and wife, lived as if nothing existed
beyond Wolfscar. Not once had she said that the time neared for leaving.

He flipped a clod of mud from the end of the stick. It fell with a plop.
He flipped another, watching it hit the ground, thinking of why she would
not want to go, why she would sojourn here so long without even desiring to
send word of herself to her home. There were dangers, yea; always peril— but
he had never thought she would stay so long.

He should speak, he knew, though it was easy to bide silent. Easy to stay
his tongue, hard to find the moment. He had never been so loath to think
beyond the frithwood.

A chimney shadow took on life as someone came up the road behind him. He
did not rise, but flipped mud from his stick, waiting for Will to discuss
the seed corn.

Instead a rope dropped over his shoulders. A tug pulled him off his feet.
With a startled flail and exclamation, he overturned onto his back in the
cold grass.

“I have thee!” Melanthe said.

She fell on her knees, pinning the rope down with her hands next to his
shoulders. He lay looking at her upside down.

“How much?” he asked.

“All thy land and chattels, knight, shouldst thou hope to rise again.”

“I paid the others but a groat.”

“Ha,” she said, “I make no such paltry bargains.”

He pulled her down and kissed her, holding her head between his hands.
“All is thine, brazen wench,” he said against her lips. “ ‘Ware thee what I
levy on the morrow, when will be the men’s turn.”

“Thou moste catch me first.”

He rolled over and sat up, casting the rope about her. “Haply I haf thee
already.”

She squealed and wriggled like a village girl. “Thou treacher! Never!”
Their frosted breaths mingled in the sun as he held the cord against her
struggles. She tried to push him away, laughing. “No trumping wretch shall
cheat me of my lands!”

He stilled, standing on his knees, looking into her eyes. “Melanthe,” he
said soberly, “ne do nought accuse me of it, e’en in jape.”

Her hands lightened on his shoulders. Then she gave him a push. “Whence
this gravity, monk-man? Thou wilt be sorry, to fatigue me with earnest
speech.”

“Nay, my lady, I have bided silent too long.” Ruck let the rope fall. He
stood up and walked a step away. “I let bliss conquer my wit. Ne can you
nought linger here lost for e’er-more.”

He looked back at her. She sat on her knees, holding the rope across her
lap, staring down at it. On her hair she wore the golden net. From her
shoulders a mink-lined cloak of amber flowed carelessly onto the muddy
grass. He did not recognize it; she must have found it among the fabrics and
chests that filled abandoned wardrobes all over the castle, more richness
than Ruck had ever been able to use. And yet a hundred times more wealth
belonged to her beyond the mountains.

“My lady—if it be our marriage that checks you from returning—I ask no
open espousal of you. For as long as you will, it shall be secret and
private betwixt us.”

“Is this repentance,” she asked lightly, “that thou wouldst conceal our
vows?”

“Nought repentance, ne’er mine, forsooth. But I think me the world will
looken harsh upon your folly, and therefore you tarry here for fear of
consequences. Ne did I wed thee to obtain thy fortune or place. I am willing
to biden, without I am acknowned to the world as thy husband, till some meet
time as you choose. Be it long, e’en.”

“Such heavy thoughts!” She reached over and plucked a tiny snowblossom
from the grass. “Thou dost weary me.”

“We moten set our faces to this, and take you to your rightful place.”

“The plague,” she said. “We dare not venture out.”

He shook his head. “I will go alone. After Hocktide, to ascertain what is
in the world. A day or twain, peraventure, to discover if plague still
imperils.”

She curled the rope about her hand, crushing the flower in it. “Thy talk
annoys me,” she said. She cast the blossom away and rose. “Come, I would
have luf-laughing, and not leaving.”

With her hands about his arms, she pulled him to a fierce kiss, drowning
why and wherefore and reason. She could make him forget time and sense. She
could make him forget his own name.

On the Wednesday after Hocktide, Ruck came upon Desmond far up the
mountainside, plucking doleful tunes on a gittern and staring at the blank
wall of mist that shrouded the hills. Although in his gloom the boy appeared
not to notice Ruck, he was situated where he could be sighted easily from
the trail, a brooding figure in yellow and green like a forlorn elf-prince
of the wood. Since it was well known that Ruck intended to make scout-watch
outside the valley today, he viewed this melancholy vision with a dry smile,
understanding it to be a request for audience. Ruck had a fair guess as to
what matter troubled Desmond. Maidens.

He tied the bay mare and hiked up the rocks, coming to where the youth
sat cross-legged on a ledge. Desmond made a creditable start of surprise,
striking an off-note.

Ruck leaned against the ledge. “Lost lamb?”

Desmond jumped down from his perch. “Nay, my lord!” He opened his mouth,
as if to go on, and then remembered himself. He went to his knee. “My lord,
I have been at work on the green wood.”

Maintaining the frith as an impenetrable tangle required constant labor,
uncounted twigs staked down or coupled to their neighbors, logs felled and
sharp-needled leaves and thorns encouraged. It gave an excuse to be outside
the valley and past the tarn, as Desmond was. Ruck made no comment on the
boy’s lack of industry at this worthy labor, but loosened his wallet.

“Rise” he said. “Stay with me whilst I break fast.
I
be
gone for scouting outermere today.”

“Is it so, my lord?” Desmond said, just as if this were fresh news. He
climbed back onto the ledge and sat with his legs dangling while Ruck shared
out oatcakes and small ale. They ate and drank in silence. The mist drifted
past, dewing the rocks with black tear streaks.

“My lord,” Desmond said suddenly, “yesterday, and the day afore—Hock
Monday, you know—”

He broke off. Ruck took a swig of ale, not looking at the boy as he
struggled with his words.

“My lord, watz no woman to binden me up on Monday. And yesterday, when
were the men’s turn—and I be six and ten this year, so I am to join in—I ne
could nought—you nill haf counted, but I can tellen for you, my lord, that
all the women are taken, and Jack Haliday so jealous of his wife that he
shouted at me ere I put a rope about her, my lord, which I ne would nought
ha‘ ventured but she’s my sister’s friend, and twenty and one, with three
bairns!” His voice rose, throbbing with his sense of the injustice of this
event. “My lord, I—”

He seemed to get tangled in the tail of his sentence again. Ruck finished
his oatcake, brushing the crumbs from his palms. He leaned his elbows back
on the ledge, waiting.

“There are no maids, my lord!”

The despairing exclamation rang back off the rocks. Desmond flung a
stone. He hurled another pebble after the first.

Ruck watched them take the leaf tips off a holly branch. Desmond had
impressive aim.

“They’re all too young, or too old,” the boy muttered.

“Didst thou bring a mount?” Ruck asked.

Desmond glanced at him warily.

“I am in hopes that thou didst. I be loath for the mare to carry us
double down and back.”

The boy stared at him, then leapt off the ledge with a whoop. “Ye will
taken me?” He threw himself down at Ruck’s feet. “Grant merci, my lord!
Grant merci! I brought Little Abbot to ride, and plenty of food, for
chance!”

Desmond was by no means the first youth to venture out of Wolfscar with
maidens on his mind. He followed Ruck’s mare on the little white-footed ass,
kicking to keep up, and carried on a flow of fine talk and song about love
all the way down through the frithwood. Ruck listened, half inclined to his
old jealousy of the minstrel wit to hear it. Full grown, he had never been
so confident and easy as this unfledged orator was at sixteen. The first
time Ruck had come down from the mountains himself, he had been too
shamefast to make a bow to a female, far less sing of love.

But Desmond lost a little of his boldness after they had dropped below
the mists and come into where the dark woods thinned. The air held a heavy
scent of smoke, the mark of the charcoal-burners who worked the abbey’s iron
ore, and a sign, Ruck hoped, that no pestilence interrupted ordinary labor.

They skirted high above the abbey works, descending by steeper slopes to
the land beyond what the abbey claimed, passing by stages out of the forest.
At first the clearings were small and overgrown, no more than a little
pasture for the horses loosed to breed, then better kept, with a meager
space for winter oats hacked out of the trees by some poor cotter, gradually
increasing in size and density, until suddenly the woods were coppice
instead of trees, and the lowland fields lay ahead of them. Desmond had long
since ceased his humming and appeared willing enough to wait at the last
white water ford.

Ruck was already certain that plague had spared the country before he
spent a shilling to find out the news from a shepherd. What might have come
to pass in the larger world, the man knew not, but a band of pilgrims had
descended upon the abbey for Easter, and they seemed healthy enough to
complain of bedbugs and the sour ale as they went through. There had been
one raid by Scots reivers, but the worst trouble was between the abbey and
some knight who sent his men in livery to seize supplies on purpose to gall
and vex the abbot. The shepherd was like to think these hot-spurred nobles
were a worse plague than Scots or pestilence, either.

Ruck looked past the shepherd’s flock, where the hills opened to farm and
pasture. There was no plague, and no reason to delay longer. If not for
Desmond’s hopes, he would have turned back here, for he knew what he had
come to discover.

But the youth was waiting, having lost interest in love and conceived a
lust for travel. He kicked Little Abbot along eagerly. The wider horizon had
worked strongly on his mind, and he was full of questions about far places
and cities Ruck had seen.

“I shall go to London,” Desmond announced.

“Mary, ‘tis a sore journey only for a maid,” Ruck said.

“How far?”

“Weeks, an thou walks—which thou wilt, as Little Abbot does nought
accompany thee.”

“Ne would my lord haf me go,” Desmond surmised gloomily. “Ne’er will I go
nowhere.”

Ruck smiled. “Ne’er. I forbid it.”

The youth sighed. He squinted longingly at the distance and sighed again.

“Ne’er, that is, but for the journey I command thee,” Ruck said idly,
“with the man I send to my lady’s castle, to fetch back her guard.”

A grin broke over Desmond’s face. “My lord! I may go?”

“Yea.”

“When, my lord?” he demanded. “How far be it? And who wends with me?”

A pair of cows lifted their heads as the mare passed. Their bells clanked
roundly. Ruck watched them, weighing the matter in his mind.

“Soon enow when we return,” he said finally. “I charge Bassinger to go.”

“Uncle Bass?” Desmond cried. “But he’ll ne’er stir himseluen!”

“Will he or nill he,” Ruck said. “None other but myseluen knows the road
as he.”

“Were a hundred years ago, my lord!” Desmond kicked the ass up even with
him. “His knee will pain him. His back will ache upon the horse. Nill nought
he riden from the gatehouse as far as the sheepfold now, my lord! Send Tom
with me, my lord.”

“Thomas plants. And Jack, and all able bodies. Someone be caused to taken
up thy slack, and that be full enow.”

Desmond scowled. “Will Foolet.”

“Will is afraid and afeared to go out of the valley, as thou knows well.
Take thy satisfaction that I allow thee leave, ‘ere I regret it.”

“Yea, my lord.” The youth swiftly ceased his complaint. “So will I, my
lord.”

Little Abbot announced their arrival by planting his hooves and braying
lustily in spite of all a red-faced Desmond could do to whip him along. But
the animal’s voice was hardly noticeable amid the disorder and stir on the
green. Horses tied too close nipped at one another or nosed hopefully in
laden carts. Servants hustled packs and boxes. A pair of nuns stood together
guarding their bags with the ferocity of wimpled mastiffs, while a stream of
people passed in and out under the long pole and brush that marked the
tavern.