For My Lady's Heart (49 page)

“Thou art certain he is dead?”

“Without nay, I am certain.” He held her face between his hands.
“Luflych, make thy soul easy.” He gathered her close to him. “He is gone
beyond where he can reach thee e’er-more.”

A quiver ran through her. He held her harder, pressing his lips to her
hair. The gentle kisses seemed to draw fear from her in a surge, breaching
walls and barriers, transforming it into endless tears that spilled from her
eyes and washed her cheeks and his black velvet.

“It cannot be.” Her voice was hollow, muffled against his shoulder. “It
cannot. Art thou sure? Didst thou kill him?”

“Husht, Melanthe,” he murmured. “Be still.” He rocked her softly. “I haf
said thee true.”

She wanted to push back and look at him, to make herself believe that he
was with her, but she did not want to leave his embrace. She closed her eyes
and felt him instead, his broad back beneath her palms, the height of his
shoulder and the breadth of his body. She pulled him into her as if she
could make the steady rise and fall of his breath supplant the jolting sobs
that shook her.

“Husht now.” He drew her down onto the window seat. His arms enfolded her
tight against him. He kissed the nape of her neck as she pushed her cheek to
his chest. “My liege lady—my heart. Husht. Thou art safe with me.”

The murmur of many lowered voices drifted to them in the stairwell. Ruck
felt Melanthe’s hand on his, colder than the stone walls. He stopped on the
stair, enclosing her fingers between his palms to warm them. In the dim
light he could barely see her face.

She rested against him for a brief moment, and then stepped down. At the
foot of the stairs she paused, looking into the manor hall.

Silence fell over the gathering. In candlelight Gian Navona lay on a
straw-covered hurdle, only the stone floor beneath him. He was white, his
skin and his clothes, already an effigy with painted black features and gilt
embellishment. A priest knelt beside him; the others left a space about the
corpse, standing back clustered in the corners and along the walls, except
for Allegreto.

The youth stood beside his father’s body like a white alaunt guarding its
master. Ruck had not sensed the depth of resemblance between them before. In
his frozen pallor Allegreto was a mirror of his father: comelier, younger,
perfected. He still wore the milky livery, showing damp yet, as if no one
had thought to let him change.

Beneath the rafters painted red and gold, against the dark slate floor,
Allegreto and Navona and the priest were like a scene from a miracle
play—only the look of Allegreto’s face was no playing. His pitch-black eyes
turned to Melanthe, watching her as she left Ruck at the screens and crossed
the floor.

She stood looking down on the dead man for a long time. The priest
murmured his prayer softly. Ruck could not see her face.

Navona’s men waited, a score of them ranged beyond Allegreto. Most of
Melanthe’s retinue gathered nearer to Ruck, at the lower end of the hall.
Set apart, an Englishman stood with another, unmistakably a clerk by his
writing roll and pen. Local people pressed forward through the open door
into the passage, goggling and hushing one another, staring at Ruck harder
than they stared at the corpse.

He jerked his head at them to leave. The ones in the front tried to
comply, but the others behind jostled them forward. Melanthe turned,
glancing toward the whispering spectators.

“Place a shroud on him,” she said. She looked at her maids and spoke in
Italian. One of them ducked a courtesy and went quickly out past Ruck.

“My lady,” the Englishman said, stepping forward and speaking mannerly
French. He sank to one knee and rose again. “With all reverence—John de
Langley, our lord the king’s justice of the peace.”

“What happened?” she asked, lifting her chin. “How did he die?”

“Madam, I am—”

“He fell from our boat into the river.” Allegreto’s voice cut across the
justice’s, sharp and cold. Then despair seemed to burst from him. “My lady,
I tried to save him. I tried!”

“Madam, I am—”

“Will you believe such a thing?” One of Navona’s men stepped toward the
justice. “Nay, the bastard speaks false— my lord never fell from that boat.
They have murdered him, these three together!”

A murmur ran through the onlookers.
“Madam,”
the justice said
tightly, “I pursue an inquisition to determine this matter, whether it be an
accident or a crime to be brought before the jury.”

Melanthe said nothing. Langley inclined his head to her.

“I have found no witness but this youth, the name of, all—”

“Allegreto,” she said. “He is Dan Gian’s bastard son.”

“Yea, my lady. And this is—?” He looked meaningfully toward Ruck.

“My wedded husband. Lord Ruadrik of Wolfscar.”

The spectators didn’t even attempt to remain quiet. A clamor broke out
among them. Ruck walked to Melanthe’s side.

“Yea, and so I have said,” he declared, glaring about him to silence
them. “I have defended my word before the king. The archbishop himself has
heard my plea that my wife went in fear of her life from this man Navona,
and could not say the truth.” He faced the justice. “If this is not proof
enough—that she speaks my name now, when he is dead—then will I gladly prove
it by my sword again, against any who deny it.”

“Hear him!” The single cry came from the passage, and instantly all the
English took it up. The hail even rose from outside, the sound of a
substantial crowd. “Hear him, hear him!”

“
Oyeh
!” the clerk bawled. “Silence for my lord justice!”

They settled into muttered grudging. Langley made a courteous nod toward
Ruck. “I hear your words, Lord Ruadrik. I was in attendance on your
honorable combat. You will understand that I am justice of the peace. A
complaint and accusation is lodged here, which I must see into. If I adjudge
there is not evidence of a crime, then no arraignment be required.”

“They have murdered my lord Gian, may God avenge it!” the Italian
shouted. He pointed toward Ruck. “Look you, that this Ruadrik threatened my
lord, and assaulted him, and desired to steal his promised wife! All know
it! Where has he been, this fine Lord Ruadrik, I ask you, that he was
mourned for dead and now we find him here with her, almost in the very hour
of the murder? They’ve conspired together, these vipers; Allegreto to have
his own father’s place, and those two to congress together as they will!”

“Where is the proof of this, I ask you once again,” the justice said
evenly.

“Will you not look to find another witness? Will you take the word of
this lying baseborn?”

“He has spoken under oath,” Langley said. “All this day I have conducted
a search for other witnesses, and found none to deny his story.”

“My lord would not fall from a boat!” the man said fiercely. “He was no
such fool.”

“Verily, any man might lose his balance, I think. And he wears weight
enough in gold to drag him under.”

“Pah!” The Italian made a motion as if to spit at Allegreto, though he
did not do it. “You know nothing! Ask him what he gains, this bastard! A
fortune for himself, instead of a lawful born brother to take his place!”

“I did not kill my father,” Allegreto said in a fragile voice. “Morello,
you know I love him.”

“Such love!” Morello snapped. “When he lies dead at thy feet!”

“
I love him
!” Allegreto cried, his anguish echoing back from the
roof.

Melanthe’s hand tightened for an instant on Ruck’s arm. The whole hall
was silent as the sound of the youth’s grief died away. Ruck watched, afraid
that Allegreto would break in his misery, losing his wits and his tale. But
he only closed his eyes, and then opened them, with a long and unblinking
gaze at Morello.

The man looked away. He muttered something viciously in Italian.

“And still I hear no credible proofs, to say the boy speaks false,”
Langley said. The justice turned to his clerk, requiring Bible and Cross.
“Lord Ruadrik, will you take oath to your innocence in the matter?”

“Verily,” Ruck said. He placed his hand on the holy book and swore by his
soul that he had not killed Gian Navona. He kissed the rood and crossed
himself. As he stepped back, the spectators murmured approvingly.

“My lady?”

Melanthe made a courtesy as they brought the Bible to her. In a clear,
quiet voice she swore the same.

The justice leaned over and spoke in his clerk’s ear. The man nodded, and
nodded again. Ruck put his hand on Melanthe’s elbow, holding lightly. The
onlookers were so still that they seemed to hold in their breath.

“I find no cause to convene a jury,” the justice said.

A hail burst from the English, and a shout of anger from the Italians,
quickly subdued when Langley gave them a furious scowl and his clerk
demanded silence.

“In the case of murder, we are advised never to judge by likelihoods and
presumptions, or no life would be secure. Therefore, without a witness who
is willing to step forward and swear otherwise, the accusation of murder
appears unfounded. I have no material reason to doubt the drowning of Gian
Navona was accidental, may God pardon his soul.”

He had to pause once again until order was restored, with two of the
Italians bodily restraining Morello. The justice looked on him with raised
brows.

“My lord Ruadrik has said that he will uphold his sworn word by his
sword, as he has done before. Do we understand then that you wish to fight
him?”

Morello jerked himself free of his companions, glowering. He cast a
glance at Ruck and said nothing.

“If not,” Langley said, “then I declare that the king’s peace be best
served by the swift dispersal of those who have no business here—and by the
absence of some two-score foreigners of Italy from my county on the morrow.”

All the villagers had wanted to touch Ruck. In spite of the justice’s
command, they managed to crowd near him, until Langley shouted that they
profaned the corpse with their disrespect and used his staff smartly against
a few rumps.

Navona lay enshrouded in scarlet cloth and silence now, awaiting a lead
coffin to take him back for burial to his own country. The priest and
Allegreto kept vigil, Navona’s men banished to uneasy, torchlit waiting by
the river with Melanthe’s retinue. She did not even keep a maid from among
the Italians, but commanded them all to depart. Only the gyrfalcon and some
chests had been brought back from the barks, and the bed, set up again in
her chamber without its hangings. The boats were to leave as soon as the
coffin could be placed aboard.

Ruck watched her face as she moved about giving direction and order to
her distracted retinue. She was so much more slender than he remembered,
brittle pale beneath her jeweled net, her rings and the golden buttons lined
down her sleeves the only flash of life about her.

When the gray friars came with a coffin of lead, she turned away and went
upstairs. Ruck would have followed her, but he looked back and saw Allegreto
standing alone, gazing at the friars as they began their work of washing the
body and sewing it up in its shroud.

Ruck did not go to him, but stood by the screen until Allegreto saw him
there. Ruck made a curl of his fingers to beckon. The youth seemed lost; he
hesitated and then came quickly, like an uncertain dog that overcame its
doubt, following Ruck into the shadowed passage. He put his hand on
Allegreto’s shoulder. “Thou art still wet. Hast thou dry clothes?”

“On the boats.” The boy looked up at him, his cloak of mastery
vanished—strangely young, as if they had all forgotten that he was hardly
yet more man than child. “Should I change now?”

“Yea. I’ll have something brought up from the wharf for thee.”

Allegreto caught Ruck’s arm as he turned. “Cara?” he asked, the name a
whisper.

Ruck paused. The youth looked off toward the pool of light falling into
the passage from the hall, where the friars did their work with quiet words
and soft plashings. In the set mouth and proud chin, Ruck saw that it was no
fear for the girl’s telling tales that concerned him. “I took Donna Cara to
her betrothed, as she asked me. They have left now with the horses.”

The youth glanced at him coolly. “Where?”

“My lady’s castle by the forest of Savernake, so they said me.”

Allegreto’s eyes narrowed. He nodded. Then a shiver passed through him,
and he leaned his shoulders back against the wall, crossing his arms.
“Depardeu, I wish they would be done with him, so that we might leave.”

“Thou wilt return with the others?”

“Navona is mine, green man. So I will take it. And Monteverde and the
Riata with it.”

The names were no more than names to Ruck, castles or kin or cities, he
knew not. But it might have been Gian Navona himself standing in the
half-light. Ruck only said, “ ‘Ware your friend Morello, then.”

“Morello!” Allegreto shrugged, with a faint sneer.

“The rest of them will follow thee if thou art swift to move,” Ruck said.
“Choose a captain tonight and divide their stations where they cannot
whisper among themselves.”

The dark eyes flicked to him. Allegreto wet his lips and nodded.

“Make them carry pikes,” Ruck murmured. “It will slow them from freeing
their sword hands.”

Allegreto raised his brows. His mouth curled in a slight smile. “I did
not know you were so sly, green man.”

“I think me thou art too sly. It will take more than guile and poison to
rule, my fine pup. Before they can love thee, they must know thee beyond a
shadow and a comely face.”

The priest’s bell began to toll. Something happened to the mocking curve
of Allegreto’s lips. He stared at the dim-lit door to the hall, his mouth
trembling.

Ruck turned, watching as the gray friars carried the coffin from the
hall, eight of them, bent down by the weight of it. Allegreto took a step
back into the stairwell, looking down on his father’s bier.

The priest walked behind, swinging his censer. Allegreto came down as if
to follow, then held back with his hand on the corner of the stair. He stood
looking out the door at the end of the passage. Cool air flowed in, ruffling
his dark hair.

He slanted a glance over his shoulder to Ruck, as if he had some question
that had not been answered. But he did not speak.

“ ‘Ware Morello,” Ruck said, “and put on dry clothes.”

“Morello will be dead before we reach Calais.” Allegreto let go of the
wall and strode toward the door.

“Dry clothes,” Ruck said after him.

The youth paused, turning. “Are you my mother, green man?”

“Life hangs on the small things, whelp. Why die of a fever ague and make
it easy for Morello?”

Allegreto stood in the doorway, the breeze blowing in past him. He gave a
brief nod, then turned into the darkness, following his father.

No tears greeted Ruck when he went to Melanthe’s chamber. She stood
waiting in her linen smock, her hair loose, a phantom in the light of a
single candle, dry-eyed as the white falcon that stood motionless on its
block.

“Ne do not tarry away from me,” she said angrily. “Where hast thou been?”

“Below, my lady. They have carried the coffin out.”