It was hopeless to try to direct the youth's attention to the nut-brown daughters of the village. They were shy; Desmond was shy; it had taken the city maid's coaxing smile to cajole him into performing, and then she'd chosen a love song and added her clear untrained voice to his—and Ruck saw himself fifteen years past, beguiled past all wit.
"Come, you will travel with us?" the shoemaker was saying to him as Desmond sat down on the bench beside his love, having just proven he could stand up his hands to the count of fifty. "Your boy's good—I don't doubt you can play the better, my man, and it's a weary mile to York."
"York?" Desmond said between pants, before Ruck could deny that they wished to travel. "How far is it, sir?"
Ruck gave him a quelling look. Desmond hid his face in an ale tankard while the redhead smiled benignly at him.
"Ah, ten days, or twelve. Little enough on the way, in truth, nothing but Lonsdale and Bowland, and Ripon—but such lone places welcome minstrel folk, for it's not often they're seen."
Ruck turned to him in new interest. "You came that way?"
"Yes, and will return by it, for with this guard we've no fear of border reivers, God be thanked."
"How fare the roads?" he asked, but missed the shoemaker's answer, for Desmond had suddenly choked on his ale and begun twitching his head in a strange manner.
He was looking fixedly at Ruck. After a moment he stood up, bowing frantically. "My lor—sir! Sir, I must speak you, sir!"
Ruck thought he must be ill, he seemed so agitated. He pushed back the bench and followed the boy hastily outside.
"My lord!" Desmond turned just beyond the door and dragged Ruck behind the horses. "My lord! Bowland!" He was bouncing on his heels, his face radiant. "Bowland! Is my lady's hold, is it not?" he demanded.
"Yes, I know it."
"My lord, I can go! I can go with them now!"
Ruck released a heavy breath. He shook his head. "No, Desmond, I want Bassinger—"
"My lord! Only consider! The Scots raid, and Uncle Bass hasn't seen the road for years! Perhaps is all changed! These folk just came over from York—they'll not be lost nor stray out of the way."
Ruck started to refuse again, but Desmond went down on his knee.
"My lord, I beg you! When will another armed company be that way? Will you send Uncle Bass and me alone?"
The pleading made no impression on Ruck, but the thought of Bassinger and Desmond traveling alone across the barren reiver country was enough to arrest him. When he looked about the green, he saw that the guard had been divided and an evening watch posted. The men off duty did not idle in the tavern, but went about business with their horses and armor, efficient and experienced in their moves.
Desmond was gazing up at him in the late evening light, full of desperate hope and excitement. Ruck leaned against the wall and frowned, calculating. There was the chance that Desmond in his lovesotted state would not stop at Bowland, but trail behind the object of his heart all the way to York. Ruck suspected, though, that this redheaded maid would grow bored with a rustic swain long before York, and probably before they reached Bowland. She had the look of experience on her—a lesson that might not be a bad one for a boy who had seen nothing of the world.
But it was just that greenness that made him loath to send Desmond. If it had been any older man of his hold, he wouldn't have hesitated. The advantages were obvious, and just as Desmond stated. It would not be soon that a stout armed party would travel from here direct toward Bowland.
"My lord," Desmond said, "if you think I'm too young—it's said you had no more than fifteen years when you first went out! And I am older."
Ruck nodded, barely hearing him. In his heart he was glad that Melanthe was not here now, for he could hardly have demanded that she stay in Wolfscar with such a favorable company to conduct her.
It was that thought that decided him. He was delaying; if he did not send to Bowland now, he would go back and find another reason to delay; Bassinger would protest his rheum, the planting would need management, the weather would be untoward—he could find a thousand reasons, and they were all shirking and tarrying to avoid what must be done.
He took Desmond by the shoulder and hauled him behind the granary. "If I say you yes, Desmond," he hissed through his teeth, "and you fail by some idle chance, or for this maid or another—I'll profane your name with my last breath, do you comprehend me?"
Desmond's face lost a little of its zeal. He stood soberly and nodded.
"You aren't to let two things pass your lips, to no creature man nor woman. You're not to say whence you came, or the name of Wolfscar. Nor anything of my marriage to my lady. Swear to it."
"No, my lord. I swear by my father's soul, my lord, nothing will I speak of Wolfscar nor whence I come, nor anything of my lord and my lady's marriage."
Ruck pulled the top buttons of his cote open and searched beneath his shirt. "Now listen, and learn your message. Her lady's grace is safe and free from harm or restraint. Before Whitsunday, a guard and company with all things suitable to her estate is to come to the city of Lancaster and await her there. This is her free wish and command, as attested by her chattel here sent." He held out the leather bag that he wore. "Lay this about your neck, and guard it. Will prove you from the princess. Say me the message."
Desmond repeated it instantly by heart, well-trained in minstrel's learning. Ruck gave him the whole contents of his wallet, silver enough to tide him there and back, and saw the leather bag stowed safely about the boy's neck.
He felt a terrible misgiving as Desmond tucked his green scarf back into place. "Stray not out from the party," he said. "Keep you with the shoemaker if there be fighting. Do not think you can aid in any combat."
"No, my lord."
"When you return, signal from the tarn. Do not come farther. I'll meet you."
"Yes, my lord."
"Desmond, this red-haired maid—"
Desmond lifted his eyes, so innocent of all love's dangers that Ruck only sighed and shook his shoulder.
"Don't fail me," he said. "Do not fail."
"I won't, my lord!" Desmond said fiercely. "Not for no maid nor any other thing!"
Ruck stood back. "Then fare you well, as God please."
Desmond went down on his knee, crossing himself. "God have mercy, my lord!" He leapt up and ran, leaving Ruck in the deepening shadow behind the barn.
Ruck made a cross and prayed to God that he had not done a dearly foolish thing.
TWENTY-ONE
"I don't know why you ask me," Cara said. "I've no help to give you."
Allegreto stood with his back to the trefoiled window. He never paced. She wished that he would, or do anything but be so still and yet seem as if he would spring.
"You did not like what I did before," he said. "So I ask you."
Cara sat straight in the chair he'd given her, staring at a tapestry of the conversion of Saint Eustace. It was a finely detailed piece, full of greens and blues, the white stag with the miraculous cross between its antlers gazing fixedly at the hunter.
"I don't know what you mean," she said.
"Ficino," he whispered. "Ficino is what I mean."
The stag, she thought, was a brave creature, to stand trapped on a ledge that way, even for a miracle.
"He was dead before the fire," Allegreto said, "if that is what upset you."
She closed her eyes. "Don't speak of it."
Weeks had passed, all of Lent and Easter, and more, and still she could smell the smoke and see him standing in red upon the dais. He wore white and blue today; he had not worn red since, which was the only reason she could look on him.
He turned suddenly, facing away out the window. "This messenger from her—I know it's a ruse! I have to do something. Christ, I can't bide till Whitsuntide—and then find that it's some wile to bait me!" He put his hands over his face. "God's mercy, where is she?"