Melanthe watched him. She had no nightmares. She never slept enough to dream.
The Princess Melanthe held audience amid Tharsia silks and exotic courtiers, warmed by a perfumed fire. And of course she did not remember him.
Ruck had himself not recognized her at once there in the hall, at a distance, chafed as he'd been by the duke's sudden demand to appear in full tournament armor for the pleasure of some highborn lady, distracted by the strange foreign youth who dogged his heels. He'd thought nothing of the duke's guests, annoyed by the whelp's insistence that Ruck pause at the door to look. He had seen only a bored and black-haired feminine figure on the dais—until she had turned her head and gazed with that cold irony upon Lancaster himself, had lifted her fingers to stroke the white falcon's breast—not until that crystallized moment had her face and the silver-and-green colors that matched his own burst into recognition.
Now that he saw her again, he could not imagine that he hadn't instantly perceived the lady of his life. She was precisely as he recalled; all of his dreams, all of his aspirations, thirteen years of fidelity and devotion come to pass in gemstone radiance...except that he had thought her hair not quite so dark, and her eyes a paler blue.
In fact, he'd thought her more like Isabelle, only comelier.
She was comely indeed; gloriously, magnificently beautiful, none could gainsay it, but in a bold style that made the ladies' gossip just a trace more credible. Her chamberlain intoned, "The Green Sire, Your Highness," and she didn't even glance up at Ruck from the jewel casket that one of her gentlewomen held before her, merely lifting a hand toward the side of her bed.
He strode to the position. The slender youth who had conveyed her command to Ruck, that he challenge for her favor, showed no such respect. The boy lounged against a carpet-covered chest, decked in hose of one leg yellow and one leg blue. From the extreme edge of his vision, Ruck could see the puppy staring at him. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he had nothing to look at but his liege lady, and she was a vision like ebony hammered into gold.
She had changed her gown. It was not now the low-cut kirtle of green samite that she had worn in the halclass="underline" it was a golden brocade cote-hardi, long-sleeved, tight-fitting, trimmed in black, cut open and laced all the way down both sides—and it took him a long moment to realize that she wore nothing beneath it. He could see her white, bared skin all the way from her torso to her ankle.
He strove to keep his face expressionless. He dared not even blink. The sultry room made him hot beneath his ermine mantle. As she chose a necklace and belt of copper gilt and black enamel, the youth at his side moved, sliding a grin at Ruck, lolling across the bed to pluck the jewelry from her hands.
She bent her head as he clasped the necklace at her nape and smoothed his fingers down her throat. He was sixteen, mayhap less, scarce half her age or Ruck's, with black hair and skin as soft as hers. He stroked her as a lover would, bending to fasten the belt about her waist, kissing her shoulder as he did it.
She tilted her head, refusing to look into a mirror held up by one of the ladies. The youth watched Ruck beneath his lashes.
"Let me take down your hair, lady," he said, moving to do it. His fingers worked amid the crown of braids, unpinning them, spreading them. He held a curling lock up to his lips, laughing silently through it at Ruck. "Look you, my love," he said, speaking clear while pretending to whisper in her ear. "The green man wants you."
"So much the worse for him," she said indifferently.
"Only look at him, lady!" The youth was grinning in delight at Ruck. "He wishes that he might embrace you as I do. Just so—" He slipped his fingers around her waist, never taking his black eyes from Ruck.
She brushed his hands away. "Come, leave thy mischief. Dost thou wish to sharpen thy claws on him, Allegreto? Play, then—but recall that he is of use to me." She turned for one instant and met the youth's eyes. "See that thou dost not kill him, or I shall set Gryngolet upon thee."
This threat had a salutary effect upon her young courtier. He glanced at the falcon perched on a high stand at the foot of her bed. "Lady," he said submissively, drawing back from her.
"Do up my hair," she bid him. "The crespin net, I think."
In silence he took the comb and sparkling net from her lady-in-waiting and began to comb out the length of her hair, coiling it deftly.
As he worked, Princess Melanthe lifted her hand, beckoning to Ruck. He moved to the foot of the bed, lowering himself to one knee.
She laughed. "Truly, thou art the most courteous knight! Up with thee. I prefer to see the faces of my servants better than the tops of their heads."
He stood up.
"I will lead thy destrier into the lists tomorrow," she informed him. "See that the heralds know it. And thou must wear my favor upon thy lance for the entry—then I wish it brought to me for the nonce."
He bowed.
"Thou speakest English," she said suddenly.
"Yea, madam."
"Excellent. I will from time to time speak to thee in English. I wish to recall it from my childhood. A lesson for thee, Allegreto—always have a care to understand a little of the language of thy servants and dependants, that they may not take undue advantage of thee."
Allegreto pinned her hair, placing the net over it with care. In a subdued tone he said, "You are the source of all light and wisdom, Your Highness."
"Sweet boy, I would not let Gryngolet have thee for aught."
The shadow left his face. He began to knead her shoulders. Ruck lowered his eyes to the foot of the bed. He took a step back, withdrawing.
"Green Sire," she said imperiously, rejecting the youth's attention with an impatient flick of her wrist. "Word has come to my ear that thou art merciless in combat and tourney."
Ruck stood silent. She looked at him full for the first time, scanned him from foot to chest to shoulders in the manner a hosteler might assess a horse. A very faint smile played at her lips as she looked into his eyes, holding him with blue-purple dusk and mystery.
"Excellent," she murmured. "Savagery amuses me. And what glorious feats of arms shall I expect to see executed for my favor?"
That answer he'd considered long and well, knowing the number who were sure to challenge him. "Ten courses with the lance," he said evenly, "five with the ax, and five courses with the sword will be my offer to any knight who strikes my shield. What glory that it please God I may gain is my lady's."
"Well for that." Her smile took on a hint of humor. "My public esteem always stands in some want of luster."
The moment of self-mockery glittered in her eyes and vanished, lost in a graceful lithe motion as she lay back upon the cushions, beckoning for the wine cup held by one of her ladies. He wanted to look away, but it was impossible: the irony and obscurity and dark radiance of her held him.
Lancaster commanded Ruck as his prince and liege, but if she thought of that she gave no sign. She set Ruck square in the sorest dilemma a man could be placed—vassal and servant to opposing masters—though not for war or any great thing did she command him to declare a challenge for her on his own prince, not that Ruck could tell.
Yet he would serve. She was his sworn lady. Beyond doubt or motive he would obey her. It was not his place to ask for reasons, even if she did not remember him.
And she did not. When she looked at him so negligently, he was certain—almost certain—that she did not.
Two emeralds and thirteen years. But emeralds must be naught to such as she, as he would have been naught so long ago, a ridiculous boy, no one and nothing.
He wore the green jewel on his helmet. He carried her falcon on his shield. Why had she asked for him, if she did not remember?