TWENTY
There were traps set all over Wolfscar. They were feminine traps, light and easy to escape, but no man tried too hard. On the day after Easter, with Lent past and Ruck's grievous interdict lifted, the sport of Hock Monday became an occasion for high glee.
Ruck found himself hocked at the door to the great hall, barred by a rope from passing until he paid a groat to the mirthful women who stopped his way. His was an easy escape—the other men were bound hand and foot, voicing loud protest, struggling at their fetters, refusing to pay and altogether making the most of their imprisonment while it lasted.
Having bought his freedom, he reached the gatehouse and crossed the bridge safely. Crocus bloomed alongside the road, saffron yellow. Alone but for the grazing animals, with the shouts and song left behind him, he walked beside the furrowed and readied fields, his breath frosting in clear air.
He stooped and probed in the mud with a stick, pleased with the results of the new draining ditches. The mill needed repair, but the mill always needed repair. They had pressed the oxen to plow near four virgates of land, even reclaiming some that had gone to brambles.
He sat on his heels, looking out over the valley and the high slopes. Protection and boundary, the purple-green walls. So easy to forget the world beyond them. He stared at the long morning shadow of the castle across the fields, the dark ripples of turrets and chimneys on red soil.
For weeks they had lived as man and wife, lived as if nothing existed beyond Wolfscar. Not once had she said that the time neared for leaving.
He flipped a clod of mud from the end of the stick. It fell with a plop. He flipped another, watching it hit the ground, thinking of why she would not want to go, why she would sojourn here so long without even desiring to send word of herself to her home. There were dangers, yes; always peril—but he'd never thought she would stay so long.
He should speak, he knew, though it was easy to bide silent. Easy to stay his tongue, hard to find the moment. He'd never been so loath to think beyond the thorn-wood.
A chimney shadow took on life as someone came up the road behind him. He didn't rise, but flipped mud from his stick, waiting for Will to discuss the seed corn.
Instead a rope dropped over his shoulders. A tug pulled him off his feet. With a startled flail and exclamation, he overturned onto his back in the cold grass.
"I have you!" Melanthe said.
She fell on her knees, pinning the rope down with her hands next to his shoulders. He lay looking at her upside down.
"How much?" he asked.
"All your land and chattels, knight, should you hope to rise again."
"I paid the others but a groat."
"Ha," she said, "I make no such paltry bargains."
He pulled her down and kissed her, holding her head between his hands. "All is yours, brazen wench," he said against her lips. "'Beware you what I levy on the morrow, when will be the men's turn."
"You must catch me first."
He rolled over and sat up, casting the rope about her. "Lucky I have you already."
She squealed and wriggled like a village girl. "You traitor! Never!" Their frosted breaths mingled in the sun as he held the cord against her struggles. She tried to push him away, laughing. "No trumping wretch shall cheat me of my lands!"
He stilled, standing on his knees, looking into her eyes. "Melanthe," he said soberly, "don't accuse me of it, even in jest."
Her hands lightened on his shoulders. Then she gave him a push. "Whence this gravity, monk-man? You'll be sorry to fatigue me with earnest speech."
"No, my lady, I've bided silent too long." Ruck let the rope fall. He stood up and walked a step away. "I let bliss conquer my wit. You can't linger here lost for ever more."
He looked back at her. She sat on her knees, holding the rope across her lap, staring down at it. On her hair she wore the golden net. From her shoulders a mink-lined cloak of amber flowed carelessly onto the muddy grass. He did not recognize it; she must have found it among the fabrics and chests that filled abandoned wardrobes all over the castle, more richness than Ruck had ever been able to use. And yet a hundred times more wealth belonged to her beyond the mountains.
"My lady—if it be our marriage that checks you from returning—I ask no open espousal of you. For as long as you will, it shall be secret and private between us."
"Is this repentance," she asked lightly, "that you'd conceal our vows?"
"Not repentance, never mine. But I think me the world will look harsh upon your folly, and therefore you tarry here for fear of consequences. I didn't wed you to obtain your fortune or place. I'm willing to bide without I am acknowledged to the world as your husband, till some fitting time as you choose. Be it long, even."
"Such heavy thoughts!" She reached over and plucked a tiny snowblossom from the grass. "You do weary me."
"We must set our faces to this, and take you to your rightful place."
"The plague," she said. "We dare not venture out."
He shook his head. "I'll go alone. After Hocktide, to ascertain what is in the world. A day or two, perhaps, to discover if plague still imperils."
She curled the rope about her hand, crushing the flower in it. "Your talk annoys me," she said. She cast the blossom away and rose. "Come, I'll have love-laughing, and not leaving."
With her hands about his arms, she pulled him to a fierce kiss, drowning why and wherefore and reason. She could make him forget time and sense. She could make him forget his own name.
On the Wednesday after Hocktide, Ruck came upon Desmond far up the mountainside, plucking doleful tunes on a gittern and staring at the blank wall of mist that shrouded the hills. Although in his gloom the boy appeared not to notice Ruck, he was situated where he could be sighted easily from the trail, a brooding figure in yellow and green like a forlorn elf-prince of the wood. Since it was well known that Ruck intended to make scout-watch outside the valley today, he viewed this melancholy vision with a dry smile, understanding it to be a request for audience. Ruck had a fair guess as to what matter troubled Desmond. Maidens.
He tied the bay mare and hiked up the rocks, coming to where the youth sat cross-legged on a ledge. Desmond made a creditable start of surprise, striking an off-note.
Ruck leaned against the ledge. "Lost lamb?"
Desmond jumped down from his perch. "No, my lord!" He opened his mouth, as if to go on, and then remembered himself. He went to his knee. "My lord, I've been at work on the green wood."
Maintaining the plessis barrier as an impenetrable tangle required constant labor, uncounted twigs staked down or coupled to their neighbors, logs felled and sharp-needled leaves and thorns encouraged. It gave an excuse to be outside the valley and past the tarn, as Desmond was. Ruck made no comment on the boy's lack of industry at this worthy labor, but loosened his wallet.
"Sit with me while I breakfast," he said. "I be gone for scouting outside today."
"Is it so, my lord?" Desmond said, just as if this were fresh news. He climbed back onto the ledge and sat with his legs dangling while Ruck shared out oatcakes and small ale. They ate and drank in silence. The mist drifted past, dewing the rocks with black tear streaks.
"My lord," Desmond said suddenly, "yesterday, and the day before—Hock Monday, you know—"
He broke off. Ruck took a swig of ale, not looking at the boy as he struggled with his words.
"My lord, there was no woman to bind me up on Monday. And yesterday, when it were the men's turn—and I be sixteen this year, so I'm to join in—I couldn't—you'll not have counted, but I can tell for you, my lord, that all the women are taken, and Jack Haliday so jealous of his wife that he shouted at me before I put a rope about her, my lord, which I wouldn't have ventured but she's my sister's friend, and twenty and one, with three bairns!" His voice rose, throbbing with his sense of the injustice of this event. "My lord, I—"