For My Lady's Heart (14 page)

The untarnished image of the lady he served had once sustained him, but
it held him no longer. Nay, she drove him now toward infamy herself. The
vision of Isabelle alone had never been enough to bind him; he’d needed his
liege lady of the hawk to serve, governing himself for her honor. When he
tried now to put Isabelle in her place instead, he found an abyss of anger
opening up beneath his feet: anger at Isabelle, at the archbishop who’d let
her leave him, at God Himself. Without his liege lady, his defense crumbled
against the endless question of why, why, why he must live without a wife.

He raised his face to the gray sky and found no answer there. The
archbishop had declared his vow before Isabelle invalid, but taken her
anyway—leaving Ruck in an impasse he could only understand as God’s
intention to hold him fast to chastity, archbishop or no.

It seemed too pitiless that he should only be given a few weeks of love
in his life and never permitted to seek it again. He had no calling for holy
orders, of that he was certain. He felt no urges to preach to the Ninevites—he
wouldn’t have known what to say to them if he had. He heard no voice telling
him to wear sackcloth against his skin or wall himself up as an anchorite.

He was only an ordinary man, and ordinary men were suffered to marry
instead of burn, to have sons and daughters, to have a bed and a fire and a
wife waiting at the end of the journey.

Without his liege lady to fortify his resolve, he could only cleave to
his bitter perfection, hating Isabelle and God ... or surrender honor and
hate himself. He had never thought truly of yielding before, but he thought
of it now. He felt the tent and the deep furs behind him, and the whisper of
hellfire on the nape of his neck.

* * *

Melanthe felt that today might be the time. Or tomorrow, perhaps. She
waited for Allegreto to wake—or perhaps he was awake already: she thought he
must sleep no more than she, always on the edge of consciousness, aware of
her every move as she was aware of his. They had come to this compromise,
that they slept so close that neither could move without the other heeding.
She could feel his suspicions growing in the tightness of his arms about
her.

To Cara, Melanthe had said this journey would end at an English nunnery,
but that was to be kept secret from Allegreto. To Allegreto, she had
declared they traveled to her castle at Bowland, and that was to be
concealed from Cara. Melanthe herself waited for the moment that she could
rid herself of both of them. They did not know the country; they could not
speak to the English men-at-arms, and she had kept them strictly away from
her knight. She had directed the Green Sire in a fickle course, invoking the
fox to confound pursuit, leaving no scent in such places as towns and
cities, winding and turning toward the safety of a strong and secluded
earth.

She worked upon Allegreto’s fears of plague. Like his fear of Gryngolet,
it went beyond his reason—Allegreto, who had killed a man before his tenth
birthday, would weep at her feet to protect him from plague.

So she thought. Sometimes she feared it was only another illusion, that
he and his father were always ahead of her in their intrigues. Gian Navona
had his own intentions, driven by passion and mystery, as he had always
been.

But the safe earth of Bowland was almost within her reach. Already she
had left the whole of her retinue behind in London—they had not anticipated
that, for Melanthe traveled always in great state, however quickly she might
move. She could not disperse her Italian household entirely yet without
suspicion, but to organize their separate journey to Bowland, she had
appointed her most hopelessly incompetent and aimless attendant, to be
certain they did not arrive ahead of her— if ever, considering Sodorini’s
truly wonderful lack of efficiency.

Only Allegreto remained. And Cara. Innocent-eyed Cara, who slept in
Melanthe’s tent and brought her food; who would not be left behind, her
devotion to her mistress was so very ardent. This sudden display of mulish
loyalty confirmed all suspicions of the girl. Allegreto was right—the Riata
had subverted her.

It made no matter. Melanthe was going to be free of her; free of
Allegreto; free of any threat of Riata or Navona or Monteverde. Within the
walls of Bowland no foreign strangers could pass unnoticed, no Italian
assassins could slip past the gate. She had only to arrive there before any
enemy, and live enclosed by a fortress of Englishmen loyal to her alone.

Cara returned to the tent. Melanthe pretended to wake, turning and
stretching. She sat up, and Allegreto jerked a little, caught half drowsing
before he was full awake the next instant, like a cat. He rolled away and
made a dismayed mutter when he saw the foulness of the weather outside,
catching up his pestilence-apple and holding it to his nose as he left the
tent.

“Give you good morn, my lady,” Cara said pleasantly, on her knees beside
the chest as she laid out Melanthe’s clothing. “The hunchbacked man, he
brought fresh cockles from a hermit here.” She gestured toward a bowl, where
they were already washed and opened. “Will you break fast while they are
still sweet?”

“Bring them here,” Melanthe said. “I’m in no hurry to leave my bed on
such a morning. Where is my water? Not heated yet? Go—fetch it at once.”

Cara bowed, still on her knees, and scurried out of the tent. Melanthe
eyed the cockles.

Though Melanthe had been first cousin to Cara’s own mother, the
soft-voiced maid was far more dangerous to her life than Allegreto. Cara
could hide much behind her mild pleasantries, a sharp eye and perceptive
mind the least of it. Yesterday she had asked quietly if she would be
allowed to stay and attend her mistress in the English nunnery. Melanthe had
returned some careless answer, but verily, should not Cara have shown more
curiosity than that about the location and name of this religious house? She
had asked no more or less in the whole time they traveled.

Melanthe stared at the cockles. Then she grabbed up the sandy bag that
Cara had laid aside and poured the shellfish in. Pulling up the silken floor
of the tent, she pushed the bag down into the sand. She heard Allegreto
returning and hurriedly smoothed the fabric back in place.

She did not bother to tell him of the suspicious cockles. She was weary
of hearing his spiteful accusations against Cara—and no more did she want to
wake and find the maid dead of poison or a knife. Allegreto, at least, was
determined that Melanthe should live to become his father’s wife, at the
cost of any other life but his own.

Forsooth, it was something strange that he had not killed Cara already.

Once across the river ford Ruck kept Allegreto close beside him on the
traverse of the sands, dragging the patient cart horse along at his knee,
following hard on the footprints of the mount in front of him. Ahead, lost
in mist, the horses bearing Princess Melanthe’s litter were immediately
behind the hermit’s donkey, held narrowly in the track to avoid quicksands.
Each man had strict instructions to keep the man ahead and behind in sight
or send an instant alarm.

Ruck and Allegreto brought up the rear, but the pace was so sedate that
there was never any danger of Hawk falling behind, even burdened as he was.
The war-horse proclaimed his displeasure at the sluggish speed by leaping
from bank to bank of each sandy tidal stream instead of fording them, which
annoyed Allegreto and his cart horse very much. The boy was already
complaining of saddle sores. He held a smelling-apple of powders and herbs
constantly to his lips to ward off pestilence. In a muffled voice Allegreto
kept Ruck fully informed of his sentiments regarding the danger of their
position as last in the procession and the folly of allowing a stranger any
contact with the party. He vacillated unhappily between fear of association
with the hermit and desire to cross the quicksands directly at his heels.

When Ruck saw large broken shells beneath Hawk’s hooves and heard the
sound of the mild surf that marked the solid shore of the Wyrale, he let go
of the cart horse’s reins and tossed them at Allegreto. But the youth gave a
dismayed cry as his mount immediately began to fall behind. He pounded it
into a trot, holding the reins out toward Ruck with his free hand.

“Do not leave me!” The order was arrogant and scared, half-stifled
through the scented bag. “The vapor! Is it thicker behind us? It breathes
poison—dost thou sense it?”

Ruck tendered no opinion on the vapor, but he took back the leading
reins. Up a sharp, sandy bank with a heave and a scramble, and they were
safe across the mouth of the river, the marsh and bleak forest of the Wyrale
before them. He took a quick account of the party as he rode up to Pierre
and the hermit, ignoring Allegreto’s vociferous objections.

Pierre had thieved something—Ruck could tell by the beatific smile on his
squire’s lips. He fixed his broken-backed man with a ferocious scowl.
Pierre’s benevolent smirk faded. No doubt he’d found some mislaid trinket as
they broke camp and folded the tents, but Ruck knew, having done it once or
twice, that even if he upended Pierre and shook him by the feet, there would
be no finding the hidden cache.

The hermit went to his knees, folding his hands for a benediction. Ruck
dismounted, kneeling with the rest. Even Allegreto fell to the shelly bank,
both hands pressing his herbal over his mouth. During a long prayer of
thanksgiving for their successful crossing, Ruck took another count with his
head bowed, considering each of the men-at-arms while repeating
paternosters, deciding on the day’s order of march. Once, his lowered gaze
wandered to Princess Melanthe’s litter: he saw the curtain pulled slightly
back and her eyes upon him instead of closed in prayer.

The curtain dropped, hiding her. Ruck felt his body flush and harden with
the chance of what her thoughts might be. She’d been looking at him,
staring. He lost the sequence of the prayer, his “amen” coming too late and
loud after the rest.

“Thou,” Allegreto said imperiously from behind his smelling-apple.
“Hermit! Hast thou heard tell of pestilence in this region?”

The man betrayed no sign of understanding. Ruck repeated the question
more respectfully, in English, and got a negative shrug.

Allegreto wasn’t satisfied. “The atmosphere is corrupted here. I feel
it.”

“We move onward,” Ruck said, to forestall any enlargement on this
unsettling topic. He gave orders, placing himself at the head of the
cavalcade once more, the litter midway back and protected on both sides.
With Allegreto’s and Hawk’s reins firmly in one hand, Ruck lifted his arm
and shouted,
“Avaunt!”

As they moved off the sandy shore and into the trees, Allegreto leaned
forward, holding the rouncy’s thick mane, keeping his bag of herbal
protection pressed across his mouth and nose as he bumped along. “The
recluse was bloodless, thinkest thee not?” he demanded through his bag. “He
sickens.”

“I saw aught of such,” Ruck said in a deliberately disinterested tone.

“He sickens. He was ashen. By nightfall he is dead.”

Ruck cast him a glance. “What is this? Thou art now a physician, whelp?”

“The miasma is infectious!” Allegreto insisted. He let go of the horse’s
mane and dug in his mantle, pulling out another bagged smelling-apple. He
offered it to Ruck. “I have three. I’ve given my lady’s grace the other.”

Ruck lifted his brow in surprise. “Hast thou no need of it thyself?”

“Take it,” Allegreto said. “I wish thee to have it, knight.”

Ruck gave him a one-sided smile. “Nay. Keep it for thine own. The plague
never touches me.”

Allegreto crossed himself. “Say not so! Thou wilt call the wrath of God
upon thee!”

“I speak only the truth,” Ruck said mildly.

The youth changed hands, holding his apple with the left.

“Cramped arm?” Ruck asked, hard put not to smile.

“Yea,” Allegreto said seriously. “It is a most wearing thing to hold.”

Ruck raised his hand, signaling a halt. He drew the cart horse up even
with him. “Where is thy scarf?” He leaned over and dug under the youth’s
furs, pulling the dagged silken scarf from his shoulders. With a few knots
he made a cup in the middle of the length and reached for Allegreto’s
smelling-apple. “Hold in thy breath.”

The boy reluctantly released the bag, making a small, choked sound of
protest as Ruck dumped out the amber apple. As quickly as he could, Ruck
secured the herb bag and apple within the scarf and reached over to tie it
round Allegreto’s mouth and head.

“There. Thou art safe from pestilent airs, whelp.”

Allegreto looked down over his bright blue mask and tucked away his spare
bag of herbs. “God grant you mercy,” he said behind the scarf, the most
courteous words he’d yet spoken to Ruck.

He answered with only a short nod. Allegreto looked foolish in his
sapphire kerchief; foolish and young. Ruck wondered if it was possible to
make a cuckold of a castrato—his mind pondered on the wordplay until he
realized what he was thinking. He slapped Hawk overhard with the reins and
yelled the order to move.

“Thou hast seen plague, then?” Allegreto asked from inside his muffle.

“Yea,” Ruck said.

“I was but a child when it came again. My father took me into the
country, away from the malignant atmosphere.”

“Give thanks for that.”

“How comes it thou art certain it touches thee not?”

Ruck rode in silence, watching the trees ahead for any sign of hazard.

“Hast thou a charm?”

“Nay. None of man’s making.”

“What, then?” Allegreto urged. “What protects thee?”

“Nothing.” Ruck frowned at the sandy track ahead.

“Something it must be. Tell me.” When he got no answer, he raised his
voice. “Tell me, Englishman!”

“I know only that all about me died, and I lived,” Ruck said at last. “In
the last pestilence my man sickened. I stayed with him when the priest
refused to come, but it never touched me.”