For My Lady's Heart

  Allegreto was silent, his eyes glazed dark and empty.

  "But haps I will forgive him. Perhaps someone else has been more false even than he. My betrothed was in such concern to haste me toward home." Gian turned his back on his son and walked to where Princess Melanthe's knight stood watching. "I may thank what wit I retain, I suppose, that I am not chained up like this poor hound, to await her pleasure. Does she love him?"

  He observed the knight, who looked back with a grim and even stare.

  "Does she love thee?" he asked in French.

  "She is my wife."

  "Nay, but does she love thee?"

  "Ask her."

  Gian tilted his head. "She denies thee. And yet—thou art here, instead of under a pile of dirt where I would have thee. She forgives Donna Cara for poisoned mussels, because she can buy my son's service by it. She has lain in bed beside thee, and feared for thee, and lied for thee!" He put his fists to his head. "Melanthe!"

  The knight moved. His steel fetter caught light, a flash and slam, the chain hitting the end of its length a bare instant before it would have struck Gian's temple. The sound went around the chamber in discharges like hands clapping.

  Gian recovered from his recoil, standing beyond the other man's reach, his hand on his sword.

  "He is mad," Cara said desperately. "My mistress says that he's mad. She is to marry thee. Don't kill him."

  Gian's attention came to her, and she regretted speaking. She thought of the stairs so close behind her, of Guy at the smith, waiting for her, and new tears blurred her eyes.

  "Why, Allegreto, what a kind heart thy maiden has. Did I say she was not worthy of thee? She is too good for thee."

  His son said nothing. He stayed on his knees, his gaze on the stone pavement. Gian walked around the well and stood before him.

  "There, I will not run the poor hound through, dost thou see, Donna Cara? I cannot resist a lady's pleading. Verily—verily, thou art far too good for my black-hearted son."

  Allegreto was trembling, breathing as if he would weep and could not.

  "Look at him. So frightened. Shall I forgive him, Donna Cara? His life is in thy hands."

  "Oh, yes! Forgive him!"

  "Come, rise, my sweet son." Gian touched his shoulder. Allegreto jerked as if he'd been pricked. He rose to his feet, but there was no reprieve or relief in his face. He seemed to have gone beyond any thought at all, closing his eyes when Gian took him by the shoulders and pressed a kiss to each cheek.

  Gian stepped back, shoving his son hard away. Cara screamed, watching in disbelief as Allegreto reached and failed and fell, his arms outstretched toward his father. He disappeared at the edge. A moment later the water broke in immense echoes.

  She ran forward without thinking, looking over the edge. His head came up, his shoulders, the water surface shattered into silver and jet. She grabbed for the bucket and rope that hung from the huge crane, but Gian jerked her back. He crushed both her wrists together in his hand.

  Allegreto held his head out of the black water, pushing his hair from his eyes. He looked up at them. The blankness was gone from his eyes. Water plashed softly as he kept himself afloat.

  Gian walked to the edge, still holding Cara. She struggled, terrified that he would throw her in, too, but he did not. He only stood, looking straight down the wall into the water. Allegreto swam toward them. His upturned face looked deathly white against the dark liquid. He put his hand on the wall, searching it.

  Gian shook his head. He pulled Cara with him, walking around a quarter of the well, still staring down the edge. Allegreto followed, as if a magnet drew him. His hands slid on the well-dressed stone, finding no hold.

  She realized that Gian was making certain he could not. Slowly he circled the whole well. When he came to the water bucket and rope, he picked up the bucket and set it beyond reach of the knight, who watched them from his bolted chains.

  No one spoke. Cara thought it must be a nightmare, but for the pain as she pulled and twisted to free her hands. When Gian forced her to the stairs and up, she tried to look over her shoulder. Allegreto seemed a ghost in the huge well, his wet face already confused with the shining black water in her eyes. His father closed the door, and the one beyond it, driving down the bars.

  * * *

  The bright morning outside burst upon her. It seemed for a moment that it could not be summer, and day, but should still be that dim cold twilight they had left behind. The numb burn in her hands was like the speechless horror in her brain. It was day; there were birds and grass and the river sparkling.

  Down among the reeds Gian stopped, loosing her hands. "Now, Donna Cara," he said reasonably, "for the sake of thy sister, and thy Englishman, thou wilt forget this morning, and this place forever."

  In the summer warmth it already seemed a dream, and his calm voice seemed part of it. She was stricken with dumbness, like a sleeper unable to speak.

  "Thou hast been a brave child, and done well for thy sister. We will have her safe from the Riata for thee. And thou hast helped thy husband, too." He led her up onto the wharf. "For coming with us, I'll make him a greater man than he dreamed of being."

  The boat waited, tied. Cara stood on the stone quay, her toes over the edge. Gian let go of her and pulled the boat closer.

  She heard her name. Caraaah—faint and hoarse and distant, a howl of fear and pleading.

  Gian heard it, too. He straightened, looking at her with a faint concern, as if he worried for her. "Come. We all must make our choices, Donna Cara."

  She jerked away from him. He grabbed, catching the liripipe on her sleeve as she flung herself toward the path. She felt the fabric part, tearing loose, freeing her with an unexpectedness that made her stumble. He shouted; there was a great plash behind her, and suddenly she had a chance. She scrambled, not looking back, not thinking, only running.

  Oh hurry oh hurry oh hurry, the sound of her own breath obscured anything else. She did not know how long it took him to get onto the wharf, how close he came behind. She hiked her skirt and slipped and ran hurry hurry her mind on nothing but the bucket, the door—could she bar it behind her? Allegreto must have the key to the knight's fetters—if he would not fight his father, the mad knight surely would.

  * * *

  Ruck strained against his steel bonds with impatience as he watched the weeping maid fumble the bucket and the crane.

  "Give it to me!" he snapped. "Give me the rope! God's blood, you can't raise him on that thing!"

  She ceased trying to work the heavy machine and ran to him, panting, with the bucket. He did not need the bucket—what wit she had appeared to have completely deserted her—but for escaping Navona and barring the door against him, Ruck blessed her with every blessing that he knew. He tossed the bucket into the well and braced the rope across his steel boot, taking a loop around his arm fetter.

  "Now!" he exclaimed.

  The girl was down on her knees, crying and urging Allegreto in Italian. The rope strained, slipping a little as it took the youth's weight. Ruck heard water surge and plash.

  He held firm with the boot and his arm against the hard jerks of Allegreto's climb.

  The boy's black head appeared. He grasped the rope above the edge and heaved himself up. With a grimace he thrust onto the stone on his hands and knees, water spilling off his dragging clothes.

  "Where is he?" Frenzy edged Allegreto's words as he looked toward the door. "Where is he?"

  "He fell in the river! I ran, but he'll be here any moment!"

  Allegreto stood with his eyes on the door. "Mary, oh, Mary—save me."

  "The key!" Ruck slammed his arm against the chains. "Dost thou have it?"

  The youth was so gone in terror that he stared at Ruck without comprehension for an instant before he looked down and fumbled the key from his soaked wallet. His hands, dripping and white, were shaking hard enough that he could not get the iron in the lock.

  "Keep thy head, whelp," Ruck said, gripping the boy's arm
.

  Allegreto nodded wordlessly. He stabbed at the lock twice, and at last got it free. Ruck pulled the key from his fingers and opened the boot himself.

  "Give me thy sword." Ruck reached to Allegreto's belt and swept the light weapon from its sheath. He made for the door, threw off the bar, and flung it open without caring what was behind it. Released from seven nights and a hellish death chained in this pit, he was willing to slay anyone to get out of it, and more than pleased to make Gian Navona the first.

  * * *

  All three of them saw it at once, in the reeds at the edge of the current. Donna Cara made a garbled sound.

  "I heard him behind me." Her voice was shaking. "I didn't stop."

  Allegreto said nothing. He stood for an instant, and then threw down his dagger, plunging into reeds and water up to his waist. He caught the white cape and pulled frantically.

  It was too late. Ruck crossed himself and helped haul the body up onto the shore. The pale velvet dragged in the grass, heavy with golden coins and besants. Allegreto dropped to his knees. He clutched his father's hand and squeezed it convulsively between both of his.

  Navona's half-closed eyes stared at nothing. Ruck was still full of battle blood, his teeth clenched as if he would swing a sword at the enemy at any instant.

  "Take Cara away," Allegreto said. "You must go, both of you."

  Ruck hesitated, scowling down at the body. He knelt and pushed the man over on his side, with a thought to pressing the water from his lungs. But there was no motion, no struggle or life beneath his hands.

  "Go to the princess, before she leaves." Allegreto's head was bent, his voice muffled. "Go to your Englishman."

  Donna Cara plucked at Ruck's shoulder. "Let us go, sir," she whispered. "Please. I'll show you where your horse and gear are hid."

  Too sudden it was, too brief and effortless a thing to embrace. The river lapped softly at Navona's feet, glittering in sun and shadow between the reeds. Ruck thought of the black well behind him, and looked at Allegreto's wet hair, and marked the cross on himself again.

  "Go!" Allegreto looked up fiercely, his eyes drowning. "Leave me with him."

  * * *

  Melanthe stood in the screen passage of the near-empty house. "My books?"

  Old Sodorini pulled at his sleeves gravely. "On your own bark, your grace, but not where you may reach them. I am sure, your grace, if we only had another week—"

  "Thou dost not have another week. Nor another day."

  Sodorini clung to the notion that he was directing the move instead of his nephew, but Melanthe had been no such fool as to suppose that he could have the household packed and leaving on close notice. The hall was already cleared and the chests aboard only because his nephew, who had been displaced from his position as steward for the journey to Bowland, was back in authority. But Old Sodorini was loath to give up his moment of glory.

  "I fear for the hurried way things have been packed," he said ominously. "My lady's grace will find nothing at her convenience."

  She ignored this gloomy warning. "Has Dan Gian arrived yet?"

  "The boats and baggage are here, and the lower servants. His grace has not come with his men."

  Late sun through the open front door made Melanthe's shadow a long distorted shape. "Hold all of my people at readiness on the dock. As soon as I am changed, we depart. Dan Gian's servants may do as they please, but I will not wait for him past the time that I set. I wish to be at London by midnight. I will want a supper on the boat. See to it." She almost ordered that Cara attend her, but remembered that the girl would already be off with her beloved Englishman. "Send Lisa to me."

  She left him, climbing the stairs to her solar. The bareness of the house did not sadden her—she was glad enough to leave Merlesden. She had no childhood memories of the place; it had merely been convenient while the court was at Windsor, and full in its way of Gian's presence.

  But her steps were slow on the stairs. Leaving here, she broke the final thread. There would be London and Dover and then the sea, but it was here that the end came.

  She passed under the arched door. The last chest lay open for her to change into traveling gear. The great bed was dismantled and gone, the stone walls bare of tapestries and the floor of carpets. Colored light poured in the oriel windows, green and gold and red and blue, intense with sunset.

  A shadow stepped into it. She started. "Gian!"

  But he was too tall, too broad in the shoulders. He was all black against the light but for the hard curve of his cheek and the red and blue hues on his shoulders.

  Melanthe turned and slammed the door, barring it. She pressed her back against the wood. Lisa's knock came, and her perplexed call, muted through the door.

  "I do not need thee!" Melanthe strove to keep her voice steady. "Go to the others. Wait at the wharf!"

  "Yea, my lady." The maid's voice was barely audible through the wood.

  Too late, Melanthe realized that she should have given some order that would keep Gian and everyone else from the house. But her mind seemed simple, her heart sending too much blood to her brain with wild beating.

  "Ye wends you anon," Ruck said.

  "A'plight, art thou to annoyen me yet, mad churl?" She thrust herself off the door, but stayed near it. "Go, ere I have thee arrested for trespass!"

  "My lady, ye stonds betwix me and the way."

  She could not let him leave—at any moment Gian would come. So close, she had been so close to drawing the danger safely off. Even now, if she could get Gian aboard the barks and on the river, if she could hold Ruck bound just long enough—

  "Ne would I leaven here by any way," he said. "I have come for you, wife."

  "Thou hast a wooden head."

  "So haf I said myseluen, as I lay in chains of your making, my lady."

  "Behoove thee to mark them well!" In her agitation she glared at him with real savagery. "I know not how thou art here, but by Christ's rood, I tire of thy impestering of me!"

  "And I tire of thy faithless deceits!" He walked nearer to her, out of the glare. His dress was nothing from a prison—he wore his black velvet, with the gold belt and marcasite, stones that were silver and pitch at once, like the face of water at night. "Where lies thy heart?"

  "I have no heart. Did I never say thee so?"

  "I had a message of thee, that thy great love, this Navona, had come to wed thee. Allegreto hatz poured news of it in my ears, how ye cherish his father and forget me for love of him. N'is nought thy heart?"

  She turned his words. "Hast thou slain Allegreto to get free?"

  "Nay, he is safe enow, but nought here to twisten and turnen for thee, my lady. Nor Navona to harbor thee."

  "Gian comes anon."

  His eyes flickered, as if he heard a sound behind her. Melanthe stiffened, gripping the door hasp, but there was nothing, no noise of feet on the stairs, no voices below.

  "Faithly, does he? Then my lady has only to wait. He will slay me, nill he nought?"

  "Slowly," she agreed. "With the greatest agony he can serve thee."

  He smiled slightly. "So would I serve him, if I could."

  She saw with despair that fear would not move him. He had no dismay of Gian, but she was possessed with dread of what would happen if Gian and his men found him here. It would be no quick poison this time. It would be torture, and she would have to watch.

  Melanthe tilted her head back against the door. She looked at him beneath her lashes. "Come, wilt thou be such a poor love-sotted wretch, to die for me?"

  "Yea," he said simply. "I would."

  "Fool!" She pressed against the door. She must have him out of here, away, and yet she could not think of how. "When I despise thee! Wilt thou torment me to my grave?"

  "To thy grave. Jouk and duck and tumble, and guile as thou wilt, I am still thy husband, Melanthe, and I will have thee."

  "Never did I wed thee, fool. How should I? It was a jape, an idle disport, monk-man, to make thee forfeit thy vaunted chastity!"


  His green eyes held steady. "Thou hatz as many deceits as a fox has turnings, my lady, but thou art well skewered on this jape of thine."

  She laughed. "I love another man. Thou art nothing to me."

  He took a step at that. She sought desperately for a way to turn it to advantage.

  "Melanthe—"

  "I loathe and scorn thee!"

  He lowered his hand. With a sharp turn he paced to the far end of the chamber, lost again in shadow. The rays of the sun were longer and lower. Gian must come, any moment he must come.

  "Ye ne'er told of Wolfscar to them," he said, his voice coming with a soft echo from the dark comer. "Why did ye nought, lady?"

  "Why?" She shrugged. "But why should I? Ne did I wish to make my lover jealous."

  She could not see him, but she sensed that she had found a chink. An inspiration came to her, if she only had time to employ it. She reached to her throat and released the catch on her silken mantle. It fell to the floor, and she kicked it from her.

  She stood in the light and stretched her arms luxuriously overhead. "But Gian is not here yet. Haps I will bedevil thy chastity one more time before I go."

  She turned, looking toward him, unable to see past the shafts of colored sunlight. He said nothing.

  With a wicked smile, she moved into the shadow. "One kiss," she murmured. "For farewell, monk-man."

  He caught her hand before her eyes adjusted, pulling her up against him. "Is this loathing and despite?" he asked low.

  She lifted her eyes, the sun-haze still in them, his face dim and veiled; his mouth on hers all feeling. He kissed her hard. She breathed him, familiar heat and plain scent, a man's unadorned skin and the taste of him on her tongue—memory and delight and pain. The last time. The last time his arm pressed her into his chest, the last time his fingers slid upward behind her throat, straining her closer still.