But she threw pillows at him. A woman full grown, as old as he, a princess in one look and a looby the next. He'd known court ladies to play the child, to pose and flutter and speak in small voices for to draw the men, but she was so awkward and left-handed at it, and so abrupt. He would have thought her more smooth and artful in dalliance. In good faith, he was more comely with love-sporting himself when he tried.
Sometimes it was as if there were another soul inside her. Or by chance it was all false leading, to mock him. He'd allowed her in, carried her through the woven thorn-wood: she knew Wolfscar now. She would go out, speak of it to the world, mock him and rob him of what was his. There was only Sir Harold left alive to say that he knew Ruck without misgiving or doubt. One mad old man to bring in favor of Ruck's claim, against the richest abbey in the northwest. And all hope of Lancaster's esteem and support with the king lost.
He had shown her through the thorn-wood, but she hadn't slipped so quietly through the thickets that he'd raised about his heart. She burned them down to find him, and then left him smoking ashes.
It was too late. She was here. He was at her mercy, as he had been from the moment he had beheld her.
"You have no choice, if you hold any hope for this sister of yours," Allegreto said, low and harsh. He leaned across the table. "You're a bungler, Cara. You're hopeless. You haven't got the nerve to work alone."
In the miserable little alehouse, the light through a barred window fell on his face. Smoke from the open fire in the floor permeated every crevice and flavored her ale. She drank a sip, forcing herself to swallow the sour brew without looking down. It was cloudy and cold, like everything in this godforsaken northern land. Outside it snowed, when it wasn't raining. She put down the vessel and stuffed her hand back in the muff he'd bought for her.
A week she'd been with him. Once, she'd tried to steal her silver as he slept—a futile chance, and almost fatal. She had a cut the length of his stiletto on the side of her neck, where he'd nearly impaled her throat as he overturned on her.
"How can I go in there?" she whispered desperately. "She said she'd have me killed!"
"If she'd wanted you killed, you would be dead." He leaned back, draining his ale. "She would have told me to see to it."
"So she said, that she'd loose you upon me—only she would not say when, but she wouldn't make me suffer to wait long!"
He laughed. "Naturally. And what did you do, goose? Bolted, just as she designed."
Cara glared at him. "As did you, Navona."
He nodded, his grin becoming a sneer. "Yes. I did. And I'll pay for it in full, if I don't remedy the matter."
His eyes slid away. He stared into the dark corner. Twice, when they had slept in barns and cow-byres on the journey, she had heard a faint sound in the night. He wept, she thought, but she was not certain. Perhaps he only dreamed.
"Well," he said, "she has outwitted herself. She never meant for her escort to leave her to a man, of that we can be sure. I wager even the green fellow deserted her in the end—or died for her when the bandits fell on them, more like, as these love-drunk champions are wont to do. So we've only to see to her ransom, and she's delivered back to us tied up in silk ribbons."
"Perhaps they killed her," Cara said, feeling guilty and hopeful.
"They're a foolish lot of brigands if they did. She's worth their wildest dreams, and I'll wager they know it. We'll have her back for the right price."
"Mary, if you're so anxious to save her, you should have gone to the prince of that Chester city and begged his aid."
"The cities don't have princes here, or patricians. I don't know what they have, but you can be sure that whoever rules so close to that nest of outlaws is like a hand in their glove. No, we'll work from out of the princess's own hold, where we can have some command of matters."
"I can't go in that castle!" Cara kept her voice low, watching the alewife who watched her. No one here spoke a civilized language, only a few words of broken French, but they didn't seem overly surprised at foreign travelers. She feared that meant the Princess Melanthe's retinue from London had already arrived. Her stronghold of Bowland was but an hour's ride from here, if the alewife's nods and babble could be depended upon. "What if the others have come?"
"Hah! Who did she leave in charge of them? Sodorini, that fluttering old buffoon! They'll go in such circles they won't be here for weeks. And why should you fear them anyway?"
"I—" She stopped herself suddenly.
Allegreto smiled in the barred light. "Who is it, Monteverde goose?"
She took another gulp of her unpleasant ale.
"Cara," he said patiently, "do you suppose I don't know there's a Riata among them? You have no choice, I tell you. Come to us—we serve and keep our own, not like the Riata dogs—and Monteverde is gone forever." He leaned forward across the table. "I'll speak to my father. We'll even get your sister back, if she's still alive."
"You can't promise that," she said.
He shrugged. "No, for she may be dead already."
"You can't promise for Navona." Her lip curled. "He broke my family. My father—"
"Was a foolish man," Allegreto said soberly. "If he'd cared for his family, he'd have done what was asked of him. And your mother didn't fare so badly when she married again."
She turned her face away from him, so full of hate that she could not even speak to defend her father. She didn't know what Gian Navona had asked of him; she only knew that he'd been tortured to death on a false accusation, and Navona had caused it.
She pushed away from the table and stood up, flinging her muff onto the smoky fire. "My mother was terrified to be wed to Ligurio's brother. She lived the last days of her life in dread that she would bear a son and see him killed by Gian. I cannot deal with Navona."
He rose as quickly, at the same time that the alewife darted forward and snatched up the muff. The woman held it uncertainly, and then retreated to the far corner like some stray dog with a scrap.
"Cara." He stood between her and the door.
"I cannot," she said.
"Cara!"
"I will not."
"Oh, no, have mercy on me."
"On you!" she shrieked. "Who ever had mercy on my father or my mother or my sister or me? Why should I have any mercy on you, ten-times damned creature that you are!"
"Cara." He was pleading. "For God's pity! I'll have to kill you!"
She stilled, knowing it and yet shocked by it. He had already trapped her; she could not reach the door beyond him. She stared at the knife at his side.
"Don't try," he said. "Don't try. Please."
A cat rose from a pile of rags and stretched. In the moment that she glanced at it, the stiletto was in his hand. The alewife whimpered, backed in her corner.
"Only say it." He held the knife relaxed at his side. "Only say you're with us. I'll trust you."
The fire smoked sullenly.
"I cannot. Not for my life."
He made the same grieving sound that he made in his sleep. His fingers moved on the weapon, rotating it in his hand. "Do you hate me so much?"
"Oh, yes," she said. "More."
"I'll save your sister. On my soul, I'll see her safe."
"You have no soul to swear upon." She was shaking. "Liar and murderer." She began to walk past him. "Hell will embrace you."