For My Lady's Heart (8 page)

Beyond Allegreto’s dagger, the yet-unwritten quitclaim was all that
preserved her life. It perfected the Riata’s entitlement, giving them the
advantage over Navona. The Riata wanted their paper precedence, but Melanthe
was not fool enough to think they would not kill her and forego it if they
suspected her treachery.

The true house of Monteverde had already died with Ligurio. She had not
given him an heir, only a black-haired daughter, and even that poor hope was
lost, smothered in the nursery. He had done what he could to protect
Melanthe. He had taught her what she knew: subtlety and corruption, Greek
and Latin and astrology, charisma and cunning, strength—he had taught her
the lion and the fox; the chameleon of all colors.

All colors but white. Ligurio had trained her to trust no one and
nothing, to lie of everything to everyone. And so at the end she had lied to
him, too. He had died in the belief that she would take refuge in the veil,
retiring to the abbey he had founded in the hills of Tuscany, safe in a
comfortable retreat with Monteverde’s lands and fortune rendered up to the
mother church, invoking all the heavenly power and earthly greed of the men
of God. She knew the bitter gall it had been to him to see his house die,
but better passed to Heaven than into the hands of his enemies.

Her last gift to Ligurio had been her promise to do as he wished. Gift
and lie. She had loved him like a father, but he was gone. She betrayed both
Heaven and her husband. The church would not have Monteverde, or Melanthe—but
neither would Navona or Riata have them, either.

She could not live a nun. She could not spend her days praying for her
dead. They were too many—be likely she would not be able to remember all
their names, and would get into a great argument with God over the matter,
and expire of black melancholy.

Nay, if she must live inside walls for her protection, then let them be
walls of her own choosing, this one time.

The tournament procession poured out into the great level meadow where a
field of color lined the entry to the lists: vivid tents, some orange, some
blue and scarlet, some formed like small castles flying pennants from their
multitude of peaks. Each bore the owner’s arms upon a shield hung at the
entrance. In the wake of the heralds’ trumpets the parade moved past weapons
and armor, caparisoned horses, and squires bowing deep in honor of Prince
Edward and his brother.

Melanthe received her homage also, but the cheers dulled as she passed.
When she halted before a tent of green trimmed in silver, the voices nearby
suspended entirely, creating a void, a space of silence within the music and
the throng.

Her green knight stood beside his war-horse, outfitted in full armor,
sending silver sparks into the sunshine from the green metal. As she drew
up, he bowed on one knee, his bared head bent so that she saw only the
tousle of black hair, his mail habergeon and the tan leather-padded edge of
his gambeson against his neck. “My liege lady,” he said.

“Rise ye, beloved knight,” she murmured formally.

With an unmusical sound, the metallic note of armor, he came to his feet.
She extended her free hand. Without raising his eyes to hers, he moved near
and went down again on one leg to offer his knee as a pillion stone.
Melanthe stepped from the saddle to the ground, lightly touching his bare
hand for an instant before Cara hurried up to offer her support.

The knight rose. Melanthe soothed Gryngolet with one finger as he caught
his horse away from his hunchbacked servant. Cara melted back from close
range when the knight led the huge destrier toward them, its caparison of
emerald silk and dragonflies rippling at the hem as the war-horse moved.

Having prompted this little play herself, Melanthe saw with wry relief
that the twisted unicorn’s horn, a yard long, had been replaced by a less
threatening pointed cone upon the stallion’s faceplate. The destrier’s eyes
were hidden behind steel blinders. It blew softly and chewed at the bit as
the knight attached a silver cord to the bridle, presenting the lead to her
with another bow of courtesy.

She had not really expected to be left holding this enormous beast
herself, but the broken-backed squire moved away to help his master with
pulling the helm and aventail over the knight’s head, quickly smoothing any
crimp out of the mailed links that fell over his shoulders. Melanthe
realized with some surprise that he seemed to have no other servant. He
pushed up the visor with his fist, keeping a cautious eye on his horse as he
pulled on his gauntlets.

The uneasy moment passed without incident. He caught up the looping
reins, holding them together at the stallion’s shoulder as he stood by the
stirrup. His plated gauntlets were so thick that his fingers seemed set in
their half curl, clumsy and skillful at once.

For the first time he looked directly at Melanthe. He said nothing, but
there was a level strength in him, something quiet and open, without
evasion. He seemed to wait, without expectation, with immeasurable steady
patience in his green eyes. As impenetrable and beckoning as the silent
shadows of a forest, and yet flickering with hints of secret animation: with
its own mysterious life and will.

Unexpectedly Melanthe found she had no ready word, no deceptive smile to
return. She felt—as if she had been falling ... and under his calm regard
found herself caught up from the endless drop and placed on solid ground.

The horse threw its head, ringing bells. She shifted her look, the first
to break away, and nodded to the knight.

He turned to mount. His squire took hold of the reins below the bit,
steadying the destrier. From the block her champion swung up into the
tourney saddle, adjusting his body against the high curve of the cantle. The
little squire brought the lance. With a move that held the grace of
countless repetitions, the hunchback swung the heavy spear aloft in an arc.
The weapon slapped into the knight’s waiting hand, slipped down against his
open palm, and couched in the rest. At the spearpoint the bells of
Gryngolet’s jesses rang their hunter’s music.

He took up his shield with the image of the hooded falcon upon it and
looked down upon Melanthe. Sunlight caught the large emerald at the base of
his green plumes.

“Say me thy right name,” she said in English, in a low voice.

She heard herself ask it, heard the intensity of her own voice—standing
amid the crowd of onlookers, not even knowing herself why she should care to
know.

His armor masked him now; all she saw was his shadowed face within the
helm and visor. She thought he would not answer—he had sworn to be nameless,
and yet there was no smell of subterfuge about him: an impossible contrast,
new to her and unsettling in its strangeness. She felt a bizarre rush of
shyness to have pressed him, and turned her face downward.

“Ruck,” he said.

She looked up, uncertain of the English word.

“As the black ravens call,” he murmured in his own language. His mouth
lifted with a half-smile. “Ruck, my lady. Be nought such a fair name, as
yours, but runisch.”

There was no presumption, no bold arts of love or offers of certain
delight. Only that half-smile, rare and sweet, and vanished in a moment—but
Melanthe saw then in him what Allegreto had claimed to see: a man’s hunger
beneath the reserve.

He sat mounted with his shield and lance, a warrior geared for combat. An
uncouth runisch name he might bear, but his armored figure aroused a thought
in her that was stunning in its novelty.

She was no longer married. She might take a friend—a lover—if she
pleased.

In the same moment that she thought it, she knew the impossibility.
Nothing had changed. Gian Navona had grown smoothly savage over the years of
waiting for his prize. He tolerated no gallant by her—any man who could not
be discouraged in his attentions would meet his fate by some insidious
means, so subtle that only gossip and evil tales followed Melanthe. So
subtle that she had learned to befriend no one and smiled upon no man, cold
as winter now in her heart.

She turned that icy disfavor upon the knight, so that any who watched
could see her do it. “I care naught for thy runisch font-name,” she said, as
if he’d been too dull to understand her. “What is thy court, knight?”

He showed no reaction but a turn of his thick gauntlet, gathering the
reins. “My court is yours, my lady,” he said in French. “And his who rules
the palatine of Lancaster.”

“If thou love me as thy liege,” she said, “for today thy court is mine
alone.” She stared at him, to be certain that he took her meaning, a long
moment with everything she knew of command in her eyes.

“Yea, then,” he said slowly. “Yours only, my lady.”

They called him by this north-name of
bersaka
with good reason.
Melanthe was accustomed to games of combat, the innumerable hastiludes and
tournaments and spectacles she had attended, celebrating every occasion from
weddings to foreign embassies.
A plaisance
—pleasantries, as
Lancaster had promised. But with his blunted tournament weapons, her Green
Knight fought as if he meant to kill.

Melanthe had led him last into the lists, holding back until two lines
had formed: opposing ranks of destriers and knights, their banners waving
gently over the fantastical crests of staghorns and griffons and outlandish
beasts, as if each man vied to display a deeper nightmare than the next atop
his helm. Down the open space between she led her Green Sire, halting at the
center to the sound of scattered cool applause. The moment she had released
his horse, a pair of pages in Lancaster’s livery hurried up to her, catching
her by the hand and escorting her to a place upon the
escafaut
below Prince Edward on his red-draped couch and dais. She curtsied deeply to
the prince and princess, then took her seat next to the duke’s empty chair.

There was to be no old-fashioned melee. At the stout gate into the
tilting ground, a monument of red stone held the insignia of the defenders.
As each knight had ridden past in the procession, he had struck the shield
of his choice to issue his challenge—and the green shield emblazoned with a
silver falcon bore so many sword and lance wounds of challenge that the wood
showed through the paint. Not every knight had touched it; many had raised
their weapons and brought them down as if they would hit the falcon, then at
the last instant held back, bowing deliberately toward Lancaster, and struck
some other arms.

But even so, there were no less than a score of rivals beyond the duke
himself who had signaled a wish to fight for Melanthe’s favor. The trumpets
sounded, clearing the lists of all but Lancaster’s swarm of attendants and
her champion with his single man. As the Green Sire reined his destrier into
position, the jeers began. They would not sneer openly at Melanthe, but her
champion was fair game, it seemed.

The entire crowd burst into frenzied acclaim for Lancaster as the duke
rode forward into place, surrounded by his squires and grooms. The Green
Sire made no sign of noticing either applause or taunts; he rested his lance
on the ground and slipped Gryngolet’s jesses from the tip. The marshal of
the lists accepted responsibility for Melanthe’s prize, riding back to the
escafaut.
As he handed her the jesses, both combatants lifted their
lances in salute.

Melanthe bowed to her champion, ignoring Lancaster.

The trumpets clarioned. The lances swung downward. Both horses roused;
the Green Knight’s half reared and came down squarely as Lancaster’s was
already trotting forward. The green destrier sprang off its haunches into a
gallop. Lancaster’s bay mount hit its stride, rolling the sound of
hoof-beats over the stands and the crowd.

An instant before impact, the Green Knight threw his shield away. The
crowd roared, obscuring the sound as the lances hit. Lancaster’s bounced
upward, flying free and solid into the air along with the shattered
splinters of his opponent’s weapon. The Green Sire pulled up at the far end
of the list, carrying half of a demolished tournament spear in one hand.

Tossing away his shield was the entire extent of his consideration for
his prince. In five more courses he broke five lances on the duke, and took
off Lancaster’s helm on the sixth—whereupon the marshal threw down his white
arrow to end the match. To Melanthe’s displeasure, Lancaster accepted this
without demur, not even demanding to go on to the foot combat.

Amid a murmur that spoke faintly of disfavor from the crowd, the duke
saluted Melanthe and his brother and left the lists with his retinue.

She had not counted upon such a paltry showing. Not even the partisan
onlookers could accuse her of withholding her favor from him without reason.
But when he joined her upon the
escafaut,
he seemed
unembarrassed—gay, rather, speaking favorably of his opponent’s skill to his
brother Edward for a moment before he sat down beside Melanthe. The
musicians behind them struck up warbling tunes.

“A fair fight, my lady,” he said, “though your champion makes no fine
distinction between battlefield and tourney. I only hope that he slays none
of our guests.”

She felt an irritated urge to rise to this bait. “He faced you without
shield,” she said shortly.

“Yea—so they told me, but indeed I did not know it until he took off my
helm, or I should have done the same.” He raised his hand for refreshment
and took the cup his squire offered, drinking deeply. “Or mayhap not. Mary,
I have no desire to be run through in a joust and buried in unconsecrated
ground.”

He laughed, but there was a glitter of deeper emotion in him. Melanthe
watched him as he drained the wine, tossed the cup down, and turned back to
the lists with relish. This was some artificial show—she felt it, studying
his unabashed countenance. It was not over yet, not at all. Lancaster had no
intention of concluding with such a poor display.

She turned a look of better humor upon him. “I will not believe you stand
in such peril, sir. Come, you will fight again, will you not?”

The flicker of hesitation told her all that she need know. “Why—nay,
madam. I will take my ease at your side, if you will be kind. Here, now
comes your champion into the lists again.”

A challenger, emblazoned in gold and black and crested by the gilt head
of a leopard, was being led into position by two squires, while Melanthe’s
knight circled his courser and backed it into place. He had resumed his
fighting shield. The lances dipped; a gold-and-black squire shouted and
stabbed a stick into the rump of the other horse. The animal jumped forward
under the goad, galloping wildly, half shying as her champion’s stallion
bore down upon it.

The green lance caught its target full in the chest. With a jerk he
sailed from the saddle as the horse went down. They somersaulted in opposite
directions, the destrier hauling itself upright in a flail of hooves and
caparisons to trot intemperately about the list, evading attempts to capture
it.

“Poorly mounted,” Lancaster murmured dryly.

The gold challenger struggled to his feet, pulling off his helmet and
demanding his ax. The Green Sire dismounted, changing to a bascinet helm and
sending the visor down with a clamp as the hunchback led his mount away. The
challenger came at him, swinging a long-handled ax. It whirred past his
shoulder as he stepped aside; he lifted his weapon and took a single cut
behind his opponent’s knees. The other man fell— and one more murderous
strike, blade-on to his helmet, slicing an edge through the metal, was
enough to make him shout pax. He was bleeding at the temple when his squire
pulled off his helmet.

They did not proceed to the sword combat.

While the musicians played harmonious melodies and Mclanthe sat calmly
beside Lancaster, her champion smashed the pretensions of three more
challengers. Two lances were shattered on him, but no contender fought as
far as the swords, and one left the first course of axes with a broken hand.

Outside the lists, where common men-at-arms mingled with the squires and
pages, there was a small but growing band of onlookers who met the Green
Sire’s victories with a ragged volley of cheers. Melanthe made no sign
herself, but a feeling of pleasant awe began to steal over her, watching him
fight.
Berserker,
indeed. It only remained to see that Lancaster be
fired to face her champion again.

Melanthe already suspected the duke’s intention. To allow a goodly number
of challengers, wearing his rival down and painting him invincible at the
same time... then perhaps a private visitation by some secret “friend,”
warning him of his prince’s displeasure and designed to shake his nerve...
and somehow Lancaster, fresh from hours of relaxation in the stands, would
find a reason to meet the Green Sire at the end of the day.

She could appreciate Lancaster’s design. It required a fine judgment—Melanthe
smiled inwardly as he lifted a finger to communicate with the marshal of the
lists, who instantly caused the heralding of a new set of combatants,
allowing the Green Sire his first rest. It would not do to have him appear
too easy—and just as vital to properly exhaust him before the
coup de
grace.

Melanthe prepared to ensure that the duke misjudged his moment.

She toyed with the jeweled jesses, turning a disinterested look on the
new jousters. “Tell me of my champion,” she said. “He is nameless in truth?”

“Nameless, yea, my lady. A nobody. He gives homage and claims our
service, but brings no men of his own beyond that malformed squire.”

“No lands, then? But such rich gear, and a great war-horse. He has won
many prizes in tournament, I expect?”

The duke laughed. “Few enough, for I’ve better use for him in real
fighting, but it is true that when he enters the lists, he prevails. I have
sometimes sent him on a dragon hunt, for sport, but he brings me no prize
yet.”

“And still he has not proved himself worthy of his name?”

Lancaster turned his palm up casually. “The fortunes of war and dragons,
my lady. All must await their great chance at honor, if it ever comes.” He
shrugged. “Haps he has no name. God only must know where he thieved his
gear. It’s my thought that he’s naught but a freeman.”

“A freeman!” Melanthe turned in amazement.

“Else why hide his lineage? That falcon device is recorded on no roll of
rightful arms, so say the heralds. But the Green Sire has a talent to lead
common soldiers. What men he commands, they come to love him, and the French
dread his name. No great chivalry in that, but it is a useful art.” He
leaned back in his chair and smiled. “So we tolerate his odds and his
unlawful device and green horse, Princess—and if he likes to call you his
liege lady for a fantasy, then we will enjoy the game.”

Melanthe swung the jesses lightly between her fingers, drawing them over
the back of his hand. “A poor game to the present, my lord! Know you of no
man strong enough to win my favor from this odd knight?”

Lancaster caught up the jesses and kissed them. The bells rang brightly.
“I shall find one, Princess,” he murmured. “Fear not for that.”

Furious shouts drowned the music as a fistfight broke out between a foot
soldier and a youth from the retinue of a defeated challenger. Lancaster
watched until some of the guards had separated them, and then turned again
to Melanthe. “Will you take wine, my lady? The dust rises.”

At his words, Cara stood up from her stool behind, placing a tray between
their chairs to offer the ewer and goblets. As the duke reached to pour,
Melanthe sat back in her seat with a pert moue of impatience.

“Nay, sir, I shall not.” She waved Cara away. “This sport is too tame. I
vow by Saint John, my lord—nothing, food nor drink, shall pass my lips until
a new champion wins my admiration.”

He lifted his brows, his hand poised with the ewer. “So eager, my lady?
The day is long, and the earth dry.”

“So it is,” she agreed. She trifled with the jesses, allowing the bells
to tinkle. “But I am dauntless. Indeed, I challenge you to join me, and
dedicate your comfort to this quest. Surely it is little enough to
venture”—she glanced at him beneath her lashes—“as you do not bestir
yourself to fight for my prize again.”

Lancaster’s mouth showed a very faint tautening. She saw the struggle in
him, pride against guile, but he smiled at last and nodded toward her. “As
you will, my lady.” He set down the ewer. “By Saint John, I vow it. No food
or drink shall I take until you are satisfied with a new champion.”

As the noon passed, Melanthe sat upon the
escafaut,
fanning
herself conspicuously with a green plume. The day was clement enough that
winter clothing weighed heavily; the duke in his blue-and-crimson houpelande
was a little flushed at the neck, his crown resting on hair that curled
damply, darkened against his temple. The Black Prince, fretful and
complaining of his swollen joints, had retired with his wife, carried in his
litter from the stands to the shade of a magnificent tent set a little back
from the noise and dirt.

As each new course of jousting sent dust into the air, Melanthe covered
her mouth with a scarf and coughed lightly to convey her discomfort. She
looked with a great show of longing at a tray of lozenges and cream tarts
that passed en route to some other guests. The duke made no such indication
of interest, but she was pleased to note that he swallowed once after the
wine had traversed their view.

The Green Sire was handily trouncing all comers. Melanthe sighed,
watching a knight outfitted in a boar’s head helm pick himself up from a
fall, the boar’s tusks smashed and drooping askew. “I weary of these
trials,” she said. “Has he some magic, or be your men all weak as willow
wands?”

“No magic, my lady, but goodly strength and skill,” Lancaster said. “He,
too, is mine,” he added in a cool reminder.

Melanthe returned a taunting smile to that and casually jingled her
bells. The noise of the onlookers grew, a confusion of cheers and scorn,
passions flourishing as support for the Green Sire seemed to increase,
scattered widely now among the mixed crowd below. Around the stout fence
that enclosed the lists, youths and attendants thronged beside men-at-arms,
all pressing as close as they could while the next combatant and his retinue
surged through the gate.

The Green Sire pulled off his great helm, bending awkwardly to wipe his
eyes and forehead with the tail of his tunic. A man-at-arms shouted, ducking
through the fence to hand him a clean cloth. His intrusion past the lawful
barrier sparked a great roar.