Ruck lifted his eyes in shock. He hadn't known she had already spoken her story.
But he didn't trouble to repeat to the archbishop the foolish claim that she spoke under duress. Thrice in as many weeks Ruck had received warnings from his "friend"—and thrice had he lived to value them. He wrestled between believing that his wife was attempting to murder him and hoping that she was behind the warnings that spared him.
He shook his head. "My lord, she is my wife, and she cannot marry another. I do not lie in this, on my soul and any other oath required of me, though for saying it Dan Gian Navona accuses me of deceit and falsehood. I defend my words by arms against him, with leave of the king's justices in the court of chivalry, honorable father, if by God's will you agree."
The archbishop scratched his forehead and read the paper before him again. "He does not fight himself, but sends a champion."
"His ankle is broken, my lord."
The prelate gave a slight laugh. "I see. God in his wisdom prevents a direct meeting, that you may not be charged with a killing to clear your way to his betrothed."
"She is not his betrothed, but my wife, my lord."
"You are zealous," the archbishop said. "So too was the princess in her denial. But—if you speak true, then she married without the king's license and now has a great lord for a suitor. Many a man and woman, rightly wed, has made mock of their vows for less than this." He leaned back on the settle and rubbed his nose. "And when I asked of her where she lay for the months of February to May, in her impudence she told me she'd spent the time so deep in prayer that she did not recall the place." He lifted his brows. "I'm little convinced that such a female can benefit your spiritual welfare, my son in Christ."
Ruck knew that she could not. His spiritual welfare was in bloody shreds. But he bowed his head and said, "Good father, I wish to honor the bonds of holy matrimony."
He did not dare raise his eyes, for fear the man of God would see the depth and heat of gall in him. He listened to the scratch of the quill as the archbishop made a note in the margin of the document.
"I will forbid the banns and delay sitting of the canonical court on this matter until the outcome of the combat," the churchman said. "If God sends that you're successful in your defense against the charge of falsehood, then follows it that between you and Dan Gian, the weight of truth is yours. The court will take fitting account of the point. If you fail—and live, by God's mercy—then I forbid you as a proved deceiver to make further cause before the church. In absence of any earthly witness, let the Holy Spirit direct."
They left the archbishop's lodgings, Ruck's canon triumphant with success and John Marking striding ahead, clearing a path through the orderly confusion of the courtyard with ox-like resolution. Even John had to pause for a moment as the horns rang out and an opulent procession came through the gate.
Ruck felt his elation grow cold. Behind a scarlet vanguard, Melanthe rode beside Navona, who didn't appear much discomfited by his ankle. She was robed in red and gold; he all in white. A tall knight trailed them, armed and horsed and squired—the Flemish champion, without doubt, looking about himself with a keen interest.
The rest of their company came behind, faces shocking in their strange familiarity in this surrounding—Allegreto, the gentlewomen—and Desmond in the scarlet livery, wearing gloves in high summer and sitting a delicate palfrey with bored arrogance.
"There he is!" John suddenly leaned close to Ruck. "Your friend, my lord, who gave warning of the sword."
Ruck looked at Desmond, so unfamiliar and familiar in his finery.
"He rides the fourth in line," John said under the rising sound of halloes and grumbles, "the first in the white surcoats. Young and comely."
"No—" As the company halted, Ruck's gaze shifted from scarlet Desmond to the first rider in the milk-white livery of the Italian. It was Allegreto. "Not in white?"
But at that moment Allegreto's lazy glance passed along the crowd. He looked directly at Ruck. His dark eyes took note, expressionless. With a deliberate move he pulled his light sword from its sheath and examined the blade.
Ruck found the area around himself opening. Someone pressed him forward from behind. The Flemish knight had dismounted; the space between them was suddenly empty—a confrontation, and the voices around rose in shouts of "Saint George! Saint George!"
The champion was a tall man, younger than Ruck by years. He skimmed the cheering English with a smile of delight and made a bow that held just the right touch of mockery, as if they were hailing him. It brought the shouts to a peak.
Ruck stood alone but for John. The Fleming examined him and then made a courteous nod. Ruck acknowledged it. He looked past the knight to where Melanthe sat her black palfrey. Though every eye in the courtyard was fixed on him and the man he would fight, she dismounted as if neither of them existed.
Her path lay away from Ruck. Her Italian lover took her arm, showing only a slight hesitation in his walk as he led her toward the great double tower entrance of the royal lodgings. The Flemish knight saluted Ruck and turned to follow.
Ruck had been prepared for their first encounter by the ford, armored in hate and determination. He had wanted witnesses. This time he wanted witness as he would have wanted staring eyes on him while a lion tore his heart from his chest.
She denied him. To his face, to the church, before the court. And Desmond—who did not look at Ruck, who did not pause or speak—Desmond saw it, and that was worst of all.
"The madman haunts me," Melanthe murmured, before Gian could mention it.
He smiled, patting her arm. "Put him from your mind."
She paused in the echoing gate passage, lowering her voice below the sound of talk and movement, speaking Italian. "Indeed, Gian, I pray you not to have him killed before this cursed duel! Or after, if you please, for they'll never let you leave this misbegotten country then!"
"You upset yourself for no cause, sweet." His eyes went briefly to Allegreto. "Put your faith in me, and say no more."
"Gian! You don't understand the English! If he dies by any way but in this combat, you'll not go unscathed. Let the lawyers pay him off. Or the—"
"I've told you not to speak of him." His fingers closed cruelly on her arm. He made her walk slowly on.
"I only—"
"My dear princess, if you add another word, I shall be forced to think you plead for his life because you love the poor devil."
She bore his painful grip without wincing. "My dear Gian," she said, "if you do not heed me, I shall be forced to think you are a great fool."
"Shall you?" He slanted a look down at her. "But in truth, Melanthe—I don't think I am."
TWENTY-FOUR
Inside the tent the sound of the spectators was a steady mutter embroidered by music, the king's favorite airs. John knelt at Ruck's feet, fastening on spurs. His green plate was polished and restored, the dents beaten smooth and the silver bosses renewed.
Ruck wore her colors, but he went to the fight not knowing her. She was the argent and green of Monteverde, or the red and gold of Bowland. She was his murderess, or she was trying to save him. She kept Wolfscar a secret to preserve it, or to discount him as a nameless adventurer. She had sent Allegreto with the warnings, or her lapdog betrayed her.
He didn't know if she wished for Ruck to win and free her, or if she hoped that he would die and free her. He did not know.
But he shook his head to clear away fantasy. He knew. If she wanted him, all she had to do was speak what was true.
The flap of the tent flashed open, and Allegreto stepped inside, dragging the silk fully closed. "I've only a moment," he said quietly. "My father must not smell me here. The Fleming has been told that you cannot withstand blows to the head. Beware your helmet."