"He seems to have become shy." Gian leaned against the carved arcade of the oratory. "Gone to earth somewhere, like your English foxes."
She didn't know whether to bless Allegreto for his forethought, or fear that Gian had indeed questioned him and now wished to compare their stories. "He has a great fear of your displeasure," she said, a description so patently inferior to the actuality that she found herself returning Gian's smile with a wry curl of her own mouth.
"Still, a son shouldn't hide from his father's just wrath. Or the world would become a wicked place indeed, don't you think?"
She gave him a surprised look. "Wrath? But what has he done?"
"Failed me, my dearest lady. Failed me entirely, when he allowed this calamity to befall you. And acted beyond himself in another small matter, not worth mentioning. If you should come across his burrow, you wouldn't be amiss to tell my little fox that delaying the chase only puts the hunter out of temper."
"If you mean that he failed in my protection—surely you didn't expect him to take on a pack of murdering bandits?"
"Ah, we come now to the bandits." He examined a painted and gilded angel's face carved at the base of the arch. "Was it a large body of outlaws?"
She shrugged. "I think it must have been. I was woken out of a sound sleep to flee."
"You're very easy about it, my lady! Weren't you dismayed?"
She made a sound of impatience. "Indeed no, I was so delighted that I stayed to offer them wine and cakes! Truly, I'm not eager to relive the experience only for your entertainment."
He bowed. "I must ask your pardon. But these outlaws should be brought to justice."
"That has been taken care of, you may believe."
He raised his brows. Melanthe looked back at him coolly, daring him to put her to an inquisition, or hint that she did not rule here in her own lands.
"Alas, I arrive too late to rescue you, and now I can't even take your revenge. A paltry fellow!" He drained his wine. "Hardly the equal of this mysterious green captain of yours, I fear."
She leaned back in her chair and gave him a dry smile. "Truly, not half as holy."
"Holy? I was told he's a knight of some strength and repute."
"Certainly he is. I retain only the best for my protection."
"But where is he now, this paragon?"
Melanthe turned her palms up. "I don't know. I believe a great hand comes down from heaven and lifts him up to sit among the clouds. Perhaps he prays and parleys with angels, which is as well, for his conversation is too pure to be borne on earth, I assure you."
"Even when he shares a bed with you, as I'm told?"
"A bed!" She stared, and then laughed. "Ah, yes—a bed. At that delightful manor house, you mean. But how came you to hear of that farce? Most notably holy when he shared a bed with me." She grimaced. "My ears rang with his prayers."
He observed her a moment and then chuckled. "My poor sweet, you've had a hard time of it, haven't you?"
"Worse than you know! I fell from the rump of his repellent horse and broke my collar-bone. Three months I've sojourned in the most contemptible little priory, among nuns! The prioress could barely speak French and did nothing but pray for me. She and my knight got along excellently."
He laughed aloud. "But I must meet him, this knight. And the prioress, too. Such intercessions might save me a little time in Purgatory."
"Gian, don't flatter yourself. Prayers are wasted on you, as they are on me. I told her so, but she was relentless. God is weary of hearing my name, I quite assure you."
He strolled back to her chair, standing near. "Surely, though, some gift or reward should be—"
She turned an angry eye on him. "Do not forget that I'm mistress here. I do not require your advice or assistance in it."
"Of course not, sweet. But I think—hearing of your trials and adventures—that I don't like you riding about the country on the rump of some nameless knight's horse. Or falling off of it. Or sharing a chamber with him, however holy he might be. You've had your way, and paid respects to Ligurio and your king, and seen to your estates." His hand skimmed her cheek. "I think, my dear love, that it is time and past for our betrothal."
She stared at the colored window in the oratory. "Yes, Gian." She kept her breathing slow and even. "It is time."
His finger pulled back the silken scarf, tracing her jaw and the telling pulse at her throat.
"If he touched you in desire, fair child," he murmured, "he is dead."
Melanthe rose, moving away from him. She locked her hands and stretched her arms out before her. "If the man ever felt desire, I warrant it would kill him. Now indulge me, Gian, I want to rest. My shoulder pains me." She smiled at him. "And do leave poor Allegreto alone if you love me, my lord. I want to dance with him at our wedding."
TWENTY-THREE
They hunted with ladies' hawks, summer birds, a blithe company passing through the meadows with laughter and elegant disport. Melanthe wore a garland that Gian had presented her. The sparrowhawk she carried felt no heavier than one of the blossoms from the spray, tiny and fierce, pouncing upon thrushes and woodcock and returning with them to the glove, a delicate court lady with savage yellow eyes.
Melanthe rode beside Gian, tame as the sparrowhawk returned to hand. Their time at Windsor drew near to a close. He had completed the contracts and assignments; the king's license was sealed at the price of only two of her five castles, the quitclaim to Monteverde purchased back from Edward for a proper princely ransom. In three days the betrothal feast began, a week more of such pleasures; of gifts and minstrelsy—then Italy, and their wedding. Gian was not eager to wait.
He chafed at their separate residences, but Melanthe had held adamant on that point and his proper behavior beforehand. He laughed and cajoled her, but knew her better than to believe she would give anything away for nothing. That was what he thought and said of her, not knowing that she would give everything away for nothing. For the nunnery, as the only place she could avoid fornicating with him.
When she lay awake at night, as she did every night now, she laughed silently until she wept at the mockery of it all. The place she'd walked through wilderness and fire to avoid, the abominable nunnery. She did not dare attempt to evade him in England again. Once they were back in Italy, she could fly to the abbey that she and Ligurio had endowed. She had Allegreto's promise that he would help her. And vows upon vows, lies upon lies, until she forgot who she was, if she had ever known.
Amongst the betrothal gifts there were already three mirrors, carved ivory and sandalwood and ebony, all buried as deep in her chests as she could bury them, so that she would not chance to look into the glass and see no one there.
"It's a great shame that your gyr is still in mew, my lady," the young Earl of Pembroke said, while the others complimented a fine flight for Gian's hawk on a blackbird. "What a day she might have given us!"
"It's a lighter weight to carry, this!" Melanthe held up her little bird. "And only think how fat Gryngolet will be, come autumn."
Laughter rippled over the company. The spaniels put up a bevy of quails, and two ladies cast off. Turning away from the late afternoon sun, they allowed the horses to ramble toward Windsor and the castle, its highest banners just barely visible over the far trees.
The shade of a narrow lane spread the party out, with Melanthe and Gian paired at the head as if by design. "You look a mere maiden in your blossoms," he said to her, smiling. "Flowers become you."
"Do they?" she asked lightly. "No, I think you suppose to flatter me, sir, so that when I ask for diamonds you can satisfy me with daisies."
She expected some smooth wit in response to hers, but instead he tilted his head. "Never do you consent to a tribute to your beauty, my lady. Is it the compliments or the giver?"