"Sire," the herald said softly, "Lord Ruadrik died in the year of the great pestilence, and all his household with him."
"No." Ruck heard his own voice, still short of breath from his fight, but strong and clear. He fell on his knees before the dais. "Sire, I've sworn to conceal my name and place until I was proved worthy of it, but if God sees fit that Your Majesty knows me, by what grace or method I know not, then I avow that I'm in truth Ruadrik, son of Ruadrik of Wolfscar and my lady mother his wife Eleanor."
The audience broke into a clamor. The king looked bewildered.
"What proof have you of this, sir?" Lady Alice's sharp voice cut through the noise.
Ruck ignored her. She was the king's mistress. He had heard that she would have profited greatly from Dan Gian's betrothal bargains.
"Sire," he said to the king, "my sovereign and beloved lord, gladly will I obey you and resume my own arms of Wolfscar from this day forward."
The king nodded, his perplexity brightening to simple satisfaction. "We are pleased. Full often have we been glad to see your blazon spread in battle with our enemies. You may rise, our trusty and well-loved Ruck."
Lady Alice put her hand on his arm and whispered into his ear. He frowned and shook his head as he listened to her. "No, my dear lady, we are not mistaken." He patted her hand. "The herald supports us. It is the azure-and-black wolf. Lord Ruadrik himself admits our verity."
"Voire." Ruck stood with his smile breaking, impossible to restrain. The king had recognized him. Or mistaken him for his father, but that was no less a triumph, and an elation in itself, for he hadn't known it possible. "Truly, sire, it is as you say." He felt sweat trickling down his temple and had to prevent himself from wiping it away.
"Your prize," the king said, looking about him. A man came from among the attendants, offering the king a wallet of coins. "How much?" the king whispered audibly as the attendant bowed at his knee.
The man murmured. King Edward frowned and nodded, beckoning Ruck to approach.
"One hundred mark," he declared.
Ruck stepped onto the dais and bent knee, his armor clunking loudly as it hit the wooden platform. He accepted the modest purse and rose at the king's command. Edward stood up with him.
"A dear fight! God and Saint George!" The king clouted Ruck's face between his palms and kissed him on the mouth.
Then he fumbled at the golden clasp on his robes and pressed the jeweled pin into Ruck's glove. "And here—a small love-gift, for your service at Nottingham."
Ruck lowered his eyes, shaking his head at the mention of Nottingham and the king's love. "Sire, I can't accept this. My father it was who climbed from the cellars with you and the others, sire, at Nottingham Castle. Not yet was I even born upon earth that day."
The king held the clasp, blinking down at it. He rubbed his thumb across the gold. "Not born, by God," he muttered. "Not born." He gave a deep sigh. "Aye, it is long ago now." He looked up, his eyes vague. "You were not born?"
"No, sire. Was my father who was with you, sire."
The king seemed to grow shamefast. "Ah. Your father. Who is he?"
"Ruadrik of Wolfscar, sire. You called him Ruck, as I am called, too."
"His son!" A pleased smile grew on the king's face. "But how much you're like him, in your face, and your uncouth northern tongue! Remember when we—" Then he shook his head. "But he's dead. All of them dead, Montagu and Bury—the best of men." He suddenly took Ruck's face between his hard old hands again, the clasp pressing into Ruck's cheek. "The most remembrance that I have shall be upon you, and on your needs. Keep this, I command you."
He pushed the clasp into Ruck's hands and strode from the dais before Ruck could even say his thanks. Alice and the royal attendants hurried after—he might be wavering in his mind, but the king's body was in no wise impaired.
Ruck made a belated bow. He stepped down from the dais. In a maze of joy he walked toward John and the gate as noble spectators flooded down from the stands, crowding about him offering compliments and cheer. John gave him a towel to dry himself. Someone thrust a cool goblet into his hand. He glanced and saw it was Allegreto, with a triumphant grin and wink—Ruck's dark and strange savior, her envoy.
Beyond the crowd around him, a chariot was drawn up beside the lists. Ruck stopped, lifting the goblet to his mouth. She was still there, beside her treacherous lover—watching him with a faint smile. He drank, washing exertion and passion down his dry throat in one great swallow, taking boldness in with the wine. He started toward her, to demand that she come to him, his wife, the wine a bitter sourness on his tongue.
Her smile widened. She touched Navona's arm and nodded toward Ruck.
The moment that she did it, the cold enveloped him. His fingers numbed, his feet and his legs. As he took a step, his knee collapsed, cold rising to his waist, poisonous cold.
The wine killed him. He felt it stop his heart. Like a murderous hand, it strangled his throat. His lungs froze; his limbs seized.
His mind failed him. He felt himself die, the ground hurling upward to meet him.
Princess Melanthe sat on the window seat. She leaned her elbow on a pillow, looking out an open glass, staring down into the garden. Cara stood in attendance, gazing at the painted window glass where two angels held the message "Love God and dread shame."
"My dear one," Gian said, bending before the princess, "I beg your pardon for my delay." When she only lifted her hand for a kiss without turning from the window, he left her in the sunset glare and went to pour himself wine. "But it was entertaining, you may be certain."
"What have they decided?" Princess Melanthe asked idly.
He set down the brass ewer. "For two hours they debated over whether this green fellow had upheld his word after all. It turned on a fine point, my dear. A fine point. Did he leave the lists before he died or after? Had it been after, the case might have been different." He put on a mock solemn face, imitating a justice. "For then no one could assert that he had been killed by the Fleming, without a mark on him. But he was still in the lists when he expired, so it could be argued that the Fleming killed him with one of those blows to the head, but the effect was belated. You'll delight in the verdict, my love."
"Will I?" the princess asked. She turned her face to him. Cara thought her cold—so cold that there was not a shred of living feeling in her.
"Since the green fellow didn't lose, his cause was just and true. So he did not lie." Gian shrugged and smiled at her over his cup. "I suppose it must follow that you did, then, but we'll pass over that lightly in the circumstances, as our clever justices of chivalry chose to do. They have determined that God could not allow the green churl to lose, precisely—but clearly He did not think it a satisfactory match, and so put period to your late husband with a flourish, rather in the style of striking him with lighting. Be it a lesson to all abductors and rapists of innocent females."
The princess narrowed her eyes. "I will not remain here another day. We leave tomorrow, Gian. No more of this!"
He didn't answer her, but roamed the solar, his white velvet turned to rose by the late burn of the sun through the tall open windows. "So, my betrothed—you're a married woman and a widow in the space of a few moments. With all thanks to my precious boy—" He stopped beside Allegreto, who lounged against the bedstead. Gian stroked his son's cheek lovingly. "Ah, Allegreto, you're forgiven everything. You did so well. I saw his face as he died—and he knew it. He went to Hell knowing, and he'll burn there knowing. I couldn't have asked for more, my sweet son. I do love you beyond words."