She was here. And in faith, it felt more like a blow to his belly than a boon.
His breath frosted in the cold as he bit into an apple. Holding the fruit between his teeth, he pulled the green hose over his linen. A few gentlemen began to wander out of the great hall to relieve themselves, passing the open door of the buttery where the servants had grudgingly hauled the bathtub for Ruck.
"La la! Seest thou, Christine," said a feminine voice. "He is not green all over!"
Ruck looked up from belting his hose to find a pair of ladies leaning in the door. He didn't know either of them. He dropped the apple from his mouth and caught it in one hand. As he bowed, he grabbed his mantle from Pierre's hands and tossed it around his bare shoulders. "A common man only, madam."
The dark-haired one giggled. The other, the one who'd spoken, was blonde and comely and she knew it; she moved upon him with a flow of brilliant parti-color robes. "Thy form gives thee the lie, sir. Thou art uncommon strong and pleasing." Smiling, she traced him with her forefinger from the base of his throat down to his chest. "And uncommon brave, to proclaim such a challenge."
He lightly clasped her hand and lifted it away from him. "For the honor of Her Highness," he said evenly.
Her smile deepened. "Such wild courage," she murmured, lifting her mouth. "We have heard much of your ferocity in battle. Stay and tell us more."
He looked down at her offered lips, the soft smiling curve. "For God's mercy, you tempt me to dally, but I cannot." He held up the apple, brushed her cheek with the rosy smooth skin, and pressed the fruit into her fingers, setting her away from him. "Accept this, and I know I've shared a sweet with a gracious lady."
A shadow of pique crossed her features. But she stepped back, taking a bite with a crunch of white teeth. "The Princess Melanthe," she said airily. "You know her?"
"I know her," he said.
"Ah. Then you know to accept no apples of love from that one. She poisoned her own husband."
Ruck stiffened. "Madam—it were better that thou spake truth on thy tongue."
"Oh, I speak true enough." She licked a drop of juice from the apple. "Ask it of anyone. She was put to trial for the deed."
He scowled at her for a moment, and then held out his hand to Pierre for his tunic. His squire caught the mantle as Ruck shrugged it off and pulled the green wool over his head. A few more gentlewomen hovered outside.
"She is a sorceress," his blonde temptress said, and looked to the others. "Is she not?"
"That gyrfalcon," another offered. "The bird is her familiar. Never has she flown it in the light of day."
"She bewitched the magistrate to release her—"
"She took her own brother for a lover—"
"Yea, and murdered him with that very dagger at her waist; whilst he was a guest in her husband's house."
"And now on her way to gorge on his birthright! But no Christian knight will escort her hence, for fear of his soul."
"Nay," Ruck objected, "she is a princess."
"A witch! Sir Jean will say you!" Feminine hands urged a knight forward from where he'd been lingering at the edge of the group, trying to woo one of the gentlewomen.
Pierre helped Ruck into his surcoat, smoothing down the cloth-of-silver. Ruck stood facing the other man, his jaw rigid. "Have a care," he said. "The chatter of the women is naught. On behalf of my sworn lady, sir, I will not take thy words so lightly."
"You have sworn to her?" the blonde asked, stepping back.
"Yea. I am her man."
"For the tourney," the other knight said. "My lord the duke will abide no more." He gave Ruck a shrewd grin. "It was a bold stroke you took. He's angry now, but he'll value you to show him at his finest on the morrow."
"I am her man," Ruck repeated.
Sir Jean looked at him. "Nay, you don't mean to be serious in this?"
Ruck stared back, eyes level, showing nothing. "I am sworn to her. I am honored with her gift. I fight for the Princess Melanthe."
The spectators began to depart, withdrawing with sidelong glances and murmurs among them. Ruck threw his mantle round his shoulders and stabbed the pin of his silver brooch through the cloth. When he looked up, he and Pierre were alone in the buttery.
The mute squire elevated his eyebrows expressively. He dug in his apron and held out a leather-bagged amulet.
"She is not a witch," Ruck snapped.
Pierre crossed himself and mimicked a priest blessing the charm.
"Curse thee! She is my lady!"
Pierre ducked and genuflected. With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, he tucked his saint's tooth away.
TWO
"Tell me," Melanthe said lightly in Italian. "I can see thou art full of thine own shrewdness."
Allegreto Navona rested against the curve of the spiraling stairwell, his arms crossed, grinning down at her from two steps above. The last thin light fell between them from an arrowslit. "The green man is invincible, my lady," he whispered, leaning as near as he dared while she had Gryngolet on her fist. "Your fine Duke of Lancaster will have his tail feathers plucked tomorrow."
"Will he? After they have sent half their knighthood against my poor—champion?" She made a short laugh. "So I suppose I must title him."
"Nay, you miscalculate your knight, lady. They have another name for him here. They call him after some barbarian tale from the north—Berserka, or some such." He gave an elegant shudder. "I'm told it is the north-name of a savage in bear-coats. A warrior who would as soon kill as breathe."
"Berserker," Melanthe said, gazing at Allegreto thoughtfully. "Thou hast busy ears, to know so much of him. Where didst thou find this great warrior?"
"Why, in the stable, my lady, braiding his green destrier's green mane with silver, in preparation to fight in the hastilude tomorrow. A most pure and courteous knight, well-liked by common men-at-arms. He keeps to himself and the footsoldiers and the chapel, and has no traffic with ladies. But when they ordered him to play your unicorn because of his color...I thought to take him aside, Your Highness, and tell him of your wishes."
"My wishes." She lifted her eyebrows.
"You wished to bestow your tournament favor on him, lady." Allegreto smiled angelically. "Did you not? But he would have none of it, I fear—until I walked with him past the hall. I caused him to look upon you, lady...and sweet Mary, I only wish you might have seen his face."
"What was in his face?" she asked sharply.
Allegreto leaned his head back against the curving wall. "Indifference. And then—" He paused. "But what does my lady's grace care of his thoughts? He is only an English barbarian."
She stroked Gryngolet's breast. The gyrfalcon's talons relaxed and tightened on the gauntlet. Allegreto did not change his lazy stance, but he moved a half-step upward.
"Indifference, my lady," he said more respectfully, "until he had a fair sight of you. And then he became just such a witless lover as we needed to dissuade your duke, though he veiled it well."
"Thou promised him no promises," she said coldly.
"Lady, the sight of you is promise enough for a man," Allegreto murmured. "I made none, but I cannot vouch for what blissful hopes he might have in his own mind."
She regarded him for a long moment. He was young and beautiful, dark as a demon and as sweetly formed as the Devil could make him. Gryngolet roused her feathers, pure ruthless white. He glanced at the gyrfalcon for the barest instant. Allegreto dreaded naught on earth but three things: the falcon, the plague, and his father. Gryngolet was Melanthe's one true shield against him, for she had no mastery of the plague—and none over Gian Navona, for a certainty.