He moved. Cara flinched, her pride withering into a humiliating recoil. His hand gripped her; the tip of the knife touched her rib through the coarse wool.
She could see the pulse in his throat. She was trembling so hard that the stiletto goaded her, stinging like a pinprick, forcing tears to her eyes.
"So do it, Navona!" She showed her teeth like a cornered animal, to defy him.
His beautiful black eyes stared into hers. The knife tip touched her again, and she jerked.
"Don't!" she cried. "Don't taunt me!"
"You're with us," he said.
"No, I'll kill you if I can!" The fear possessed her. She heard herself, long past reason to mindless, witless, hopeless defiance. "I'll work for the Riata; I spit on the name of Navona; I'll wipe it from the face of the earth!"
He pressed the knife to her, and her tears spilled over. It stung violently; she imagined the blade sliding in, a thousand times greater pain. She waited for it. She had a panicked thought that she would be unshriven; but she could not even confess in her heart; she kept saying farewell to Elena, over and over, until it took up all of her perception.
When he let go of her, it happened so suddenly that she fell backward against the trestle table. It rocked beneath her weight as she clutched the edge.
A shadow passed the window. She heard a horse, its feet squelching mud. A voice hailed from outside.
The alewife ran forward. Allegreto stopped her, pressing his fist hard to her mouth and jerking his knife in her face. He freed her slowly. She shrank back and slunk into her corner again.
"Ave!" The door swung open, rain splattering on the sill. A young man walked through, pushing his hood back, showing blond hair. "Ave, good day!" He carried his own drinking vessel. He plunged it into the cask himself, dropping the cover back with a bang, and asked something of the alewife. It was English, but the word Bowland at the end of his question was roundly clear.
The wife ducked a nod, her glance flicking to Cara and Allegreto. The newcomer turned.
"God bless," he said in a friendly way, and waved toward the door, whooshing another English comment through his teeth, obviously a complaint on the weather.
"May God protect you," Cara said boldly in French, seeing a savior in him. She held her fingers pressed over her side, staunching her stinging cut.
He bowed. "Thank you, and God smile on you, lovely lady," he replied, his French accent ungraceful but his words distinct enough. He nodded at Allegreto. "Good sir."
Allegreto bowed, indicating the table. "Honor us."
"Gladly." The young man smiled, doffing his cloak and shaking the drops from it before he hung it on a peg. He wore flesh-colored hose with dirty wool bandages wrapped up to the knees for protection. They were an absurd color, but after a week with Allegreto, an open face and easy smile were enough to please Cara. "I'm Guy of Torbec," he said. "But I think—you aren't English, sir?"
"We serve the Princess of Monteverde," Allegreto said.
"Ha! Mont-verde? Then Bowland it was, by God! I guessed it." Guy straddled the bench. "I'm on the right road at last. Has he got your lady safe back, praise God?"
Allegreto grew very still. "Back?"
Guy seemed suddenly to realize that he might have been indiscreet and set the pot down, glancing over his shoulder. "The lady of Mont-verde and Bowland," he whispered. "She was not—away?"
Cara put her hand over Allegreto's arm. "She was attacked," she murmured. "We were in the party. Do you say she's safe?"
"Or bring a ransom demand?" Allegreto asked sharply.
"No, no—by God's love, I had no part of any such notion!" Guy leaned forward. "I only bring news. I wish to help."
"What news?" Allegreto murmured.
Guy chewed his lip, eyeing them warily. "I was bound for the castle. I thought the green knight might give me a place in his company."
Allegreto's arm relaxed beneath her hand. "If it's reward you want, then tell me. I'll see you get a place if you deserve it."
In spite of his peasant clothes, Allegreto had that easy arrogance about him that bespoke authority. She could see the Englishman puzzling over it.
Guy tapped his fist rapidly against his knee. Then he sighed through his teeth. "Can you? But I don't have much news, I fear. Only that I saw her, with a knight who named himself by his color green, at Torbec Manor, in Lancashire." He nodded in a direction that meant nothing to Cara. "But they fled west, with my—with the man who holds Torbec Manor at their heels. He lost them at the coast. We—he thought they must have gone south along the shore, but I thought the green knight clever enough to come back through the pursuit. And I remembered Bowland, on the falcon's varvel, and that the old earl's daughter was wed to a foreign prince. So I came here, because I couldn't stay at Torbec." He wet his lips. "I hoped they would have come by now. I did him a little good, the green knight, I think, so I reckoned he might look well on me."
"When was this?" Allegreto demanded.
"Four days past."
"And she was with the green man alone?"
Guy nodded.
Allegreto smiled at him. "Well done," he said. "Well done, Guy of Torbec. Come with us. We're for the castle. I think you'll find a place."
It was the finest bed to sleep in that Melanthe could imagine. She didn't leave it for three days, but lay enveloped in warmth, enfolded in slumber and safety while the rain slid down the windows. Ruck leaned over her, already garbed, and kissed her beneath her ear.
"You must be in some witch's thrall," he murmured. "The ever most slothful witch in the world."
She flipped the sheet over her nose, languid in the aftermath of their morning love. "Send drink and bread. And return to me full soon."
"I know well where to find you, at the least."
She smiled with her eyes closed. "Melikes your mattress, my lord. Perhaps I'll never leave it."
He did not answer, but pushed away from the bed. She heard him cross the chamber. The door opened and closed. Before, each morning as he left, she had settled into the bed, satisfied and sated with their coupling, sustained on the wheaten bread and ale someone left on a trestle beside her, drowsing until he came again. She had not thought of where he went; she had not thought of anything at all with more than a torpid interest that passed into pleasing dreams.
But a small doubt crept into her mind, because he hadn't answered her when she had said she might never leave. The two Williams would be out there—unlikely they were singing her praises to his ears, or urging him to prolong her stay. She opened her eyes.
She sat up and swept back the bedcoverings. Chill air touched her skin.
Fool. Fool! No woman held a man with bed-play alone, not with his favorites whispering poison in his ears.
She had felt safe. She was safe. But if there was one lesson greater than any other Ligurio had pressed upon her, it was that to give a man what he wanted was to lose all mastery of him. Ruck was so sweet and stirring when he came, she hadn't sensed the danger until this moment.
She thrust her feet from the bed. There was no maid, of course. She put on her own faithful gown and azure houppelande.
Her hair she could only cover with a kerchief, with no one to dress it for her. She found one clustered with jasper and chalcedony. All of the clothing in the chests was richly adorned with embroidery and gems. No poor knight's hold, this Wolfscar.
She thought of the minstrels who sojourned here at their ease, and narrowed her eyes. But she would move carefully. A man's favorites could be delicate matters, not subject to common reasoning with his wit, as the history of any number of kings could attest.
The stairwell from the lord's presence chamber opened onto the high end of the great hall. Melanthe heard voices and music and laughter before she reached the floor.