She would end with Lancaster a powerful enemy, his lands marching with hers in bitterness instead of friendship. A man such as he would not soon forget a woman's public refusal. Among these northerners, chivalry and honor counted for all...but the Riata must be shown that she would not have the duke, and must be shown it soon and well.
She suffered Lancaster's attentions to grow more and more direct. She began to encourage him, though he needed no encouragement from her to lead himself to his own humiliation. She was angry at him, but smiled. She regretted him, but she smiled still, ruthless, laughing at his wit, complimenting his banquet. It was no sweet love that drove Lancaster now, but ambition and a man's lust. She could not save him if he would not save himself.
The second course arrived. As a gilded swan was carved before them, the duke grew a little drunk with wine and success. He plucked a subtlety in the shape of a rosebud from the profusion of decoration on the platter and offered it to her with a glance more of affection than desire. Melanthe accepted the almond sweet from his fingers. She looked at him smiling softly upon her and felt a twinge of regret for his spare, comely figure—for women's fancies—things she had heard about him, of the love he bore still for his first wife, things that could not now nor ever be between her and a man.
In exchange for her life—his pride. It seemed a fair enough bargain to Melanthe.
As Lancaster prepared their shared trencher with his own hands, she glimpsed a slim figure in blue-and-yellow hose in the throng below. Allegreto Navona lounged at the edge of the hall, near the great hearth, his black hair and bright hues almost blending into the shapes and figures in the huge tapestry on the wall behind him. The youth was looking toward the dais. As Melanthe accepted the duke's tidbit, Allegreto smiled directly at her.
It was his sweet smirk; charming and sly. She stared at him a moment.
He had succeeded at something. She looked again quickly for the assassin wearing her own green-and-silver livery—there he was, the one Riata watchdog she knew of certainly, still holding checked, still only observing from a distance—Allegreto had not slain or expelled him. Which did not mean that the youth had not bloodied his hands in some other way.
She was torn between anger and relief. She had her own agreement with the Riata. In spite of the unceasing threat of the watchers they had placed on her, she wanted no Riata lives spent, not now. But she could not disclose that to a son of the house of Navona. And a murder in the midst of this banquet, in her retinue...it would be offensive; there would be trouble; things were not done so here as they were in Italy, but she could not make Allegreto understand.
She did not acknowledge him with more than a brief look, reserving her pleasure. He made a face of mock disappointment, then lifted his chin in silent mirth. A pair of servants bore huge platters past him. When they had moved beyond, he was gone.
The trumpets sounded.
Melanthe looked up in startlement. They could not yet herald the last course. Over the hum of gossip and feasting came the shouts of men outside the hall. Her hand dropped instinctively to her dagger as the clatter of iron hooves rang against the walls. People gasped; servers scattered out of the great entry doors, spilling platters of sweets and more subtleties. Melanthe reached for Gryngolet's leash.
An apparition burst into the hall. A green-armored knight on a green horse hurdled the stairs, galloping up the center aisle, the ring of hooves suddenly muffled by the woven rushes so that the pair seemed to fly above the earth as ladies screamed and dogs scrambled beneath the tables.
Nothing hampered his drive to the high dais. Not a single knight rose to his lord's defense. Melanthe found herself on her feet alone, gripping her small dagger as Gryngolet roused her feathers and spread her wings in wild alarm.
The horse reached the dais and whirled, half rearing, showing emerald hooves and green legs, the twisting silver horn on its forehead slashing upward. The destrier's braided mane flew out like dyed silk as light sent green reflections from the lustrous armor. Silver bells chimed and jangled from the bridle and caparisons. At the peak of the knight's closed helm flourished a crest of verdant feathers, bound by silver at the base, set with an emerald that sent one bright green flash into her eyes before he brought the horse to a standstill.
The knight was on a level with her, the eye slits in his visor dark with the daunting inhumanity that was the life and power of his kind. The destrier's heavy breath seemed to belong to both of them. He held the reins with gloves of green worked in silver—on his shield the only emblem was a hooded hawk, silver on green. Rich ermine lined his mantle, and all over the horse's caparisons embroidered dragonflies mingled with flowers and birds, silver only: argent and green entire.
Melanthe's hand relaxed slightly on the dagger as she realized that this was not immediate attack. She felt the sudden exposure of standing alone, but it was too late to sit down and hide her reaction. Everyone stared, and after their first startlement, no one appeared dismayed. At the edge of her vision, she could see the duke grinning.
"My lady," Lancaster said into the utter stillness. "Your unicorn comes."
"Mary," Melanthe said. "So it does."
"My liege lady." The knight's voice sounded hollow and harsh from within the helmet. He made a bow in the saddle. The horse danced. "My dread lord."
"Trusty and well-beloved knight." The duke acknowledged him with a lazy nod. "My lady, we call him the Green Sire who rides your unicorn. I fear he will not grace us with his true name."
"Liege lord of my life," the knight said, "I have made a vow."
"Yea, I remember. Not until thou art proved worthy, was it? At least remove thy helm, sir. It alarms the ladies, as thou canst well see." He made a slight gesture toward Melanthe.
The green knight hesitated. Then he seized his helmet and pulled it off his head. The feathers fluttered as he held it under his arm. Melanthe glanced at the emerald that adorned the crest, and looked into his face.
But he kept his eyes well cast down, focused on some spot below the table at Lancaster's feet, showing mostly a head of black hair cut short and unruly. He was clean-shaven, with a strong jaw and strong features, sun- and battle-hardened in a way that was different from the men she was accustomed to—in the way of campaign and chevauchée, open-air knight errantry instead of close-handed duellum with wits and dagger. Melanthe had an abiding respect for any type of violence; this type had the benefit of a certain novelty. One could appreciate the theory of chivalrous knighthood...one could smile at the idea of a man who would not give his name until he was proven worthy.
Since she felt the urge to smile, she followed the primary rule of her existence and did not do it. Had she followed that principle a moment ago, stifling instinct, she would not now be standing in this foolish and conspicuous way, showing herself the only one who had been so affected by the sensational entrance.
"You desire a unicorn, and I give it you," Lancaster said in high good humor. "The beast is yours to command, Princess."
The knight lifted his head slightly. His face was immobile. A faint tickle of significance stirred in Melanthe's mind, a fleeting thought she could not catch. He was indeed a fine man, tall on his horse, strong of limb, his face that combination of beauty and roughness that provoked the ladies to sighs and the more elegant courtiers to spiteful remarks about vulgarity. The range of expression in the company behind him was of vast interest to Melanthe—and not least intriguing the green knight's own taut countenance. He had a look of extremity on him, some emotion far more intense than mere playacting at marvels before a lady.