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Authors: Laura Kinsale

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“By cause I love thee when I would rather strangle thee.”

“But—haps I am a witch. Haps I am no one. Haps the Devil came and took me
while I slept. I dreamed it once, that he took me, and left naught but a
thing fashioned of lies, to seem like me.” She gripped the mirror. In a
small voice she said, “Ruck. Wilt thou look into it, and see if I am there?”

He went to her and knelt beside her, taking the glass from her nerveless
fingers. It was a perfect mirror, the size of his spread hand, flashing
light from the transparent surface. On the back an ivory lady gave her heart
to a vain-looking knight. Ruck saw his own face as he turned the glass, a
brief glimpse of jaw and nose and the golden buttons down his surcoat.

“Wait!” She stopped him as he rotated the mirror. “Wait— I am not ready.”
She pressed her eyes shut. Her face was taut, her hair in wild curte about
her pallid cheeks. She held his hands still for a long moment. “All right,”
she said weakly, loosing him. “Now. Look. What dost thou see?”

He did not even glance at the mirror.

“Sharp wit,” he said. “Valor past any man I know. Foolish japery and
tricks worse than a child. Lickerous lust, hair like midwinter night. A
proud and haught chin, a mouth for noble-talking—that does kiss
sufficiently, in faith, and slays me with a smile. Guile and dreaming. A
princess. A wench. An uncouth runisch girl. My wife. I see you, Melanthe. Ne
do I need a glass.”

“Look in the mirror!”

“Luflych.” He wrapped his hand about her tight fist. “I see the same
there.”

She gave a rasping breath of relief, without opening her eyes. “Thou art
certain? My face is there? Thou dost not say me false?”

“I fear for my life do I e’er say thee false, my lady.”

“Oh, I am lost! I need thee to sayen me true. I need thee to say me what
I should be. All is changed, and I know not what lam.”

“Then will we keepen watch and see. And if ye be someone new each morn,
Melanthe—God knows thou art still my sovereign lady. Nought will I be at thy
side in e’ery moment, but in spirit always, and return to thee with my whole
heart, to see what bemazement thou wilt work upon me next.”

Her hand turned upright beneath his, clinging. “I pray thee. Ne do I
command thee, but I pray thee—do not go to France and leave me. Not—so soon.
I would not maken thee my lap-dog, but—” She moistened her lips. “Verily, I
know naught of sheep. And I have thousands, so says my seneschal. Haps I
will require thy good advice.”

“I am a master of sheep, my lady. E’en to shearing them, if I mote. I
know some of oats and other corns, and how to instruct the bailiffs. The
garrisons and men-at-arms I can command to good effect, and o’erlook castles
and crenellations for what repairs and enlargements may be required.”

Her hand eased, but still she kept her eyes closed. “All this? Thou art
supreme in merits.”

“I haf thought me a little o’er what my service could be.”

“And what is left to me, but breeding?”

“Iwysse, I think of it each time we keep company, that we may not sin.”

“Monk-man!”

“There be chambers at Wolfscar in need of dusting. I wen well how my lady
wench likes to sweepen a hearth.”

“Wench?” she uttered dangerously.

He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. “If Your Highness finds
time heavy between thy lazy sleeps—I be nought much hand at Latin, my lady,
nor lawyers and court dealings such as a great estate mote always have.”

She opened her eyes, looking out the window. “All these plans and
devises! Methinks thou art a great trumpery, who never meant for a moment to
go back to
chevauchee
in France!”

“If thou hatz truer need of my service.” he said with dignity, “then
shall I nought, lest our king commands me.”

She put her hand on his, preventing the mirror from moving. Her face
diverted, she looked warily from the corner of her eyes. With a cautious
move she shifted the mirror in his hand, turning it slightly toward her.

“Look into it, my lady,” he said. “I ne haf nought lied to thee.”

She turned it all the way, staring down into the glass. Her brows rose in
outrage. “Why—I am not comely! I am
not!
” She slapped the mirror
facedown. “I knew it was all dishonest dwele, these songs and praises to my
beauty. Wysse, when is a rich woman plain?”

Ruck smiled at her. “Art nought comelych? Is my fortune to be blind,
then.”

“Pah!” She reached out, catching him off balance with a hard shove at his
shoulder. He fell back off his heels, sitting down with a grunt on the bare
stone. “Any woman would look comely to thee, monk-man, after ten and three
years of chastity!”

Epilogue

Cara sat in the solar, her toes by the fire and the cloth of gold spread
over her lap as well as she could with the child so great in her. The
ciclatoun was to make a coverlet for an infant’s cradle—none of hers, of
course, but Lord Ruadrik’s gift for his lady’s churching, along with a robe
of scarlet trimmed in ermine. He had left the fabrics at Savernake as he
passed through just before Christmas, and bade her have them sent back to
Wolfscar by Easter to be well in time.

She lifted her head, taking a deep breath after bending over the labor.
She was flattered to have been chosen to embroider the gifts; Lord Ruadrik
had taken special note of her work among Lady Melanthe’s apparel, and
brought the fabric to her. She shoved herself to her feet, carrying the
cloth to the cold window, where she could inspect the fine detail in what
was left of the cloudy light.

She glanced out over the snowbound yard. The cloth fell from her fingers.
“Elena!”
she shrieked.

The door, the stairs, the way that was so slow in her cumbersome state
vanished beneath her feet. She burst from the door onto the porch without
even stopping for a cloak.

“
Elena
, Elena—”

Her sister was just dismounting, her small feet disappearing in the snow.
Cara swept her up and buried her face in the thick woolens, panting with
exertion.

“Here now!” Guy’s chiding voice barely reached her. She clutched at Elena
as he lifted her away. “Inside.” He hiked her sister in his arms, carrying
her as Cara ran alongside, almost dancing in spite of her bulk. Elena was
chattering in Italian; it sounded strange and wonderful to hear; Cara took
in not a word of the childish talk, only heard the gay high voice and knew
all was well, that Elena was whole and unhurt. She was weeping too hard to
see more than Guy’s outline in the passage. Someone came in with them—a
woman, a nurse; there were others in the yard; it was all confusion as Guy
went back out to see to them, but Cara could only hold her sister tight.

“You’re so big!” Elena said, her dark blue eyes finally coming clear. “We
have had a great adventure, coming through the snow! Dan Allegreto’s horse
fell in a drift! Will we live here? It is so cold! Dan Allegreto says that I
shall like it when I grow accustomed. I threw snow at him, but he said it
didn’t hurt. When will the baby be born? Will I be its auntie?”

Cara’s hands loosened. “Allegreto?”

Guy came in the door, knocking snow from his boots. No one followed him
but another duenna, an older lady who crossed the threshold with offended
dignity as he held open the door.

“Donna Elena, thy decorum!” she snapped.

Elena stood straight in Cara’s arms, making a little courtesy. “Dan
Allegreto says that if I wish to marry him,” she confided to Cara, “I must
learn to be a lady, for I am now a hoyden.”

Cara stood straight, her heart thundering. “He is come?” she said to Guy
in French.

“Nay,” He shook his head. “This is all the party, but the guard that I
sent to the stables.”

“Oh, Dan Allegreto is here. He brought me to you,” Elena said, slipping
easily into French.

“The yard is empty,” Guy said.

Elena pulled away. She ran to the door, pushing it open. Cara hurried
after her as the little girl ran out into the snow without her cloak,
calling.

Cara could not run so fast—her sister had raced across the yard and past
the gate before Cara could prevent her. The duennas made shrill helpless
cries after their charge, but it was only Guy and the porter who caught up
with Elena after she crossed the bridge.

The little girl had already stopped. She stood gazing down the empty
road. She put her hands about her mouth and cried, “Dan Allegreto!”

The name echoed back across the snowy fields. Two horses in the nearest
pasture lifted shaggy heads.

“Oh,” Elena said in a tiny voice. “He didn’t say goodbye to me.”

“Elena, thou wilt catch thy death, standing in the snow.” Cara spoke
sharply. “Guy, she must go inside.”

“Come then, little donna.” Guy lifted her high in the air and set her on
his shoulders. “Mama speaks, and we listen.”

Elena made no protest, but she craned her head to see behind her until
Guy had carried her through the gate. Cara watched them out of sight. She
turned, looking down the road—waiting.

No one came. The tracks made a long thin shadow in the snow, vanishing
out of sight where the horse pastures met the forest.

“God grant you mercy,” Cara said. Cold tears spilled down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry. Grant mercy. Thank you.”

The snow chilled her feet. She stood with her arms hugged close to
herself, stood until the cold went through her to her heart. When she
realized she was shaking with it, she turned back, and left the empty road
to night and frost.

Acknowledgements

Firstly,
Suzanne Parnell,
for “Fun with Middle English.” Readers should know that there exists in the
world a manuscript of this book in which
all
of the Middle English
dialogue has been rendered accurate in both spelling and grammar, a labor of
love for the language by Suzanne, which allowed me to water it down for
modern consumption—and Suzanne, I wept for every “arn” and “ert” and
“hopande” that wenten, forsooth, by cause our moder tonge mei maken swich
luflych layes, and gets inside your head and sings. All errors introduced by
editing are mine alone.

Secondly
, “Tercel” on GEnie
Pet-Net, and Don Roeber of Texas, for introducing me to falconry. Through
the strange magic of computer networking, Tercel
(not
to be
mistaken for a car) passed his love of hunting birds and this ancient sport—
and more of his patience and sweetness of character than he knows—to me when
I didn’t know a falcon from a hawk. Don generously answered my questions and
loaned me books and gave me the opportunity to watch a real falcon on the
hunt— and if it wasn’t the most perfect weather in the world, we got the mud
part right, anyway. Next season—less fog, more ducks! All exaggerations and
technical mistakes I may have made in creating my “superfalcon” once again
are mine alone.

Thirdly
, Mary Wilburn of
the Zula Bryant Wylie Library, for ever-patient ordering of inter-library
loans, and taking time out of her London trip to provide me help beyond the
call of duty.

Fourthly
, Commander Bill
Ashmole and his wife, Joan, of Devon, who generously spent part of their
holiday visiting English abbeys and priories under my orders—for showing
Mother and Daddy the best of good times as usual. They always come home
smiling.

Lastly
, but never leastly,
Mother and Daddy themselves. Braving the roundabouts and shipyards, and
nearly sucked into the Liverpool tunnel, my father managed to locate
Birkenhead Priory tucked among the drydock cranes, when even the fellows at
the petrol station down the street didn’t know where it was. Another of the
world’s small ironies: the little priory that lay deep in the wilderness of
the Wirral some five hundred years ago—still used for worship, recently
renovated as a pleasant, tree-shaded civic center for the city of
Birkenhead—still difficult for the average pilgrim to reach. It takes a man
of true determination like my father, and very glad to see him the priest
was, for it seems they don’t get as many visitors as they deserve down there
in the midst of the Birkenhead shipyards where no one can find them.

In addition, the Hundred Years War gamers on GEnie, who not only provide
some pretty slick role-playing in the fourteenth century, but helped me
obtain my own copy of Froissart; the Oxford University Press, for publishing
the
Oxford English Dictionary
on CD-ROM; and Travis, the only guy
in the universe, as far as I know, who can successfully install an internal
NEC-84 CD-ROM drive.

And finally, most of all, an unknown poet or poetess, for
Sir Gawain
and the Green Knight.

To each of you, my heartfelt thanks.

Glossary and Notes on
Middle English Grammar

I’ve provided this glossary in the new edition of
For My Lady’s Heart
as a small glimpse into the fascinating history of our language. Some of the
words listed have other definitions, but here they are limited to the
meanings I used in this book. I’ve given alternate spellings, for those who
wish to investigate further in dictionaries, and a couple of grammar hints
for those of you who like to go around talking to your friends like this.
You know who you are!

Abbreviations: ME (Middle English); OE (Old English); OF (Old French);
L (Latin)
aghlich
(also awly; OE, ME)—Terrifying, dreadful
alaunt
(OF)—A wolf-hound
ambs-ace
(L, OF “both aces, double ace,” the lowest possible
throw at dice)—Worthlessness, nought, next to nothing.
a’plight
(OE, “pledge”)—In faith, truly, certainly, surely,
in truth
austringer
(OF)—A keeper of goshawks
aventail
(OF, “air-hole”)—The movable mouthpiece of a helmet
avoi
(also avoy; OF, unknown origin)—General exclamation of
surprise or fear
besant
(also bezant; OF “Byzantium,” where it was first
minted)—A type of gold or silver coin; a gold button
caitiff (also
caytif; OF)—A base, mean, despicable wretch
camelot
(also camlot, cameline; OF)—A light, plush fabric
supposedly made from camel’s hair; a garment made of this fabric
cheap
(OE)—A purchase, a bargain
ciclatoun
(OF, possibly from Arabic)—A precious material;
cloth of gold or other rich material
comelych
(ME)—Comely, lovely
comlokkest
(ME)—Comeliest, most handsome
coquin
(also cokin; OF)—Rogue, rascal
cotehardi
(also cote-hardie, OF)—A close-fitting outer
garment with sleeves, worn by both sexes
cuirass
(OF)—Breast-plate and back-plate armor
cuir bouilli
(OF, literally “boiled leather”)—Leather armor
cuisses
(OF, “thigh”)—Armor pieces for the upper leg
depardeu
(also depardieu; OF)—In God’s name; by God
descry/descrive
(OF)—To discover; to describe or reveal
destrier
(L
dexira
“right hand” because the horse
was led by the squire with his right hand)—A warhorse or charger
disturn
(OF)—Turn away
drury
(OF)—A love-token, a keepsake
enow
(ME)—Enough
escheat
(OF)—To confiscate from; or more specifically the
reversion of a fief to the lord, commonly when the tenant died without
leaving a successor
fermysoun
(also fermisoun; OF)—The close season, when it was
illegal or uncustomary to hunt the hart (a male red deer)
fette
(OE, “fetch”)—Lay hold of
font
(ME)—In front, forward of
foryield
(OE)—Reward, repay
fourchee
(OF)—A skewer for the special tidbits reserved for
the lord from “unmaking” or butchering of the hart at the end of a hunt
frith
(OE)—wooded or waste land, underbrush
frumenty
(ME)—A dish made of hulled wheat boiled in milk,
with spices and sweeteners added
fustian
(OF, possibly from
Fostat,
a cloth-making section of Cairo)—Coarse cloth made of
cotton and flax
gambeson
(OF)—undecorated body garment of quilted material or
leather, worn under armor to prevent chafing
greaves
(OF, “shin”)—Armor for the leg below the knee
haf/hatz
(OE, ME)—have
harlot
(OF)—A rogue, rascal, villain, low fellow, knave; also
applied to the pointed boots worn in the fourteenth century
hastilude
(L “spear-play”)—A tilt or tournament
havercake
(ME northern dialect)—Oatcake
houpelande
(also houpland; OF, unknown origin)—A tunic with a
long skirt, sometimes with train attached, worn by both sexes
iwysse
(OE,
gewis
“certain”)—Certainly, assuredly,
indeed
lay
(OF)—A short lyric or narrative poem
leman
(also lemman, lemmon; ME)—A lover or mistress
lickerous
(OF)—Delicious; lustful, wanton
liripipe
(L)—A long tippet hanging from the peak of a hood or
from the elbows
lovelokkest
(OE, ME)—Loveliest
luflych
(OE, ME)—Lovely; gracious; a fervent expression of
admiring or delighted feeling
lymer
(OF, “leash”)—A leash-hound; a dog bred for tracking
the quarry by scent without disturbing it, similar to a modern bloodhound
menskeful
(ME,
menske
“courtesy, honors”)—Elegant,
ornamented
misericorde
(OF, “compassion, pity, mercy”)—A dagger
mote
(OF)—A note-call on a hunting hom
mote/moten/moste
(OE)—Expressing permission, possibility, or
obligation; might, may, or must
ne
(OE, ME)—A simple negative; no, not. Sometimes formed in
contraction with a verb, as in “n’ill I” for “ne will I” (I will not). Our
modern term “willy-nilly” comes from “ Will ye or nill ye!”
passager
(OF)—A wild falcon trapped during migration and
trained; sometimes used only for a season and then released
pillion
(from Celtic
pill
“cushion”)—A kind of
saddle, esp. a woman’s light saddle. Also, a pad or cushion attached to
the back of an ordinary saddle, on which a second person (usually a woman)
may ride
plessis
(OF)—Felled trees, young trees, brambles, and thorn
bushes woven and grown together as an impenetrable barrier and defense;
plessis were common all over Europe in the Middle Ages, some so ancient
they dated back at least to the Germanic tribes of Roman times.
poleyn
(OF)—Plate armor for the knee
poulaine
(OF, “souliers a la Poulaine,” shoes in Polish
fashion)—The long pointed toe of a shoe, as worn in the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries
rache
(OE)—A hunting dog that pursues the quarry in a pack by
scent, like modern foxhounds
ramp
(OF)—A bold, vulgar, ill-behaved woman or girl
rechase
(OF)—The horn call to denote the hounds are running,
or to release them to run
rouncy
(OF)—A riding horse
runisch
(also runish, renish; ME, unknown origin)—Fierce,
violent, rough
sabaton
(from L “shoe”)—Armor for the foot
shend
(OE)—Overcome with fatigue; bewildered, stupefied
sparviter
(OF)—A keeper of sparrowhawks
Tam Lin
—A traditional name for the King of the Fairies
trow
(OE)—Trust
unhende
(also unhend; OE)—Ungentle, rude, rough
varvel
(OF, “bolt, hinge”)—A falconry term for the metal ring
attached to a bird’s jess, on which the leash is tied; usually engraved
with the owner’s name
vauntguard
(also avantguard; OF)—the foremost part of a troop
or army, the vanguard
vewterer
(also fewterer; OF from the Gaulish word “run”)—A
keeper of greyhounds
voire
(OF)—In truth, indeed
waster bread
(also wastel; OF “cake”)—Bread made of the
finest flour; a cake or loaf of this bread
wit/wis/wist/wen/wot
(OE, ME)—Know, understand
witterly
(OE, ME)—Clearly, plainly, evidently; for certain;
without doubt
woodwose
(OE)—a wild man of the woods
wrathe/wrothe
(also wrath; ME)—annoy, vex, anger
Negatives
—The modern idea that multiple negatives in a
sentence are bad grammar and that “two negatives equal a positive,” has no
historical basis. In Middle English, the more you wanted to negate
something, the more negatives you stuffed into the sentence. “No I ain’t
done nothing,” would be perfectly proper Middle English.
Word order
—Negative statements, commands, and questions often invert
the typical subject-verb-object word order. “Ne care I nought,” for “I
don’t care.” “Swear thee now.” “Why sayest thou so?”
Conjugation of verbs
—As a very general rule, the first and
third person singular are similar to our modern forms.
I hear. He
hears.
Middle English differentiated between “thou” and “you,” for
the second person pronoun. Between equals, or to inferiors, “thou” was
used. This informal second person singular adds an
-est
ending
for many verbs.
Thou hearest.
When addressing a superior, “ye” or
its plural “you” was used. This polite address, plus the infinitive and
all other plurals typically use a
-en
ending.
You hearen. To
hearen. They hearen.

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