She was the only woman he had ever lain with in his life—and she had been dead for thirteen years, ashes and charred bone.
He heard the sound he made, a meaningless dry moan like a man at the last reach of his strength. He should weep. But lament choked in his throat. He could only lie and hold his hands to his head as if he could imprison the melee of thoughts there, his muscles straining with each indrawn breath.
"I can't remember her face!" he cried. "Oh, sweet Mary save me, I can only see you."
"Shhh." She put her finger to his lips. "Hush." She rubbed the side of his face in a quiet cadence, a firm chafing pressure. "That is not marvelous. Indeed, I'm here with you, best-loved. It's no more than that."
He reached up and caught her arms. "Do not stray out from my shield, my lady," he said fiercely. He pulled her down against him. "Leave me not."
"Never," she said. "If it be within my power, never."
Her breath stirred lightly on his face. She lay half atop him, the wool of her gown spread over his leg and thigh. He held her there.
"Nor will I leave you." He bound her wrists in both his hands. "Never, lady, lest you send me from you."
The rise and fall of his chest lifted her, so close she was. Though he could barely see her as but a blacker shadow on blackness, he felt her weight, her hushed submission to his grasp. Her loose hair fell down between them, as if she were a maid. As if she were his wife.
"Lady," he whispered, "God shield me, I have thoughts in my head that are very madness."
"What is your true name and place?" she asked softly.
A distant part of him seemed to know what came to him, what gift of unthinkable value, but his tongue felt near too numb to form the words. "Ruadrik," he said in a dry throat. "Wolfscar."
His hands where they gripped her arms were trembling. Only her steadiness held him motionless.
"Sir Ruadrik of Wolfscar," she said, "here I take you, if you will it, as my husband, to have and to hold, at bed and at board, for better for worse, in sickness and health, until death us depart, and of this I give you my faith. Do you will it?"
Only a little shiver beneath his hands and a break in her final question gave a hint that she was not calm.
"My lady, it is madness."
Her body tightened in his arms. "Do you will it?"
He stared up into the dark at her, bereft of words.
"Do you believe it's no bargain for me?" she asked in a voice spun as fragile as glass. "I told you what I would give to be wife to you. Do you will it?"
"Lady—have a care of your words, and make game of me not, for I have the will in my heart to answer you in truth."
"In truth have I spoken. Here and now I take you, Ruadrik of Wolfscar, as my wedded husband, if you will have me."
He turned his right hand, lacing his fingers into hers. "Lady Melanthe—Princess—" His voice failed as the immensity of it overcame him. He swallowed. "Princess of Monteverde, Countess of Bowland—my lady—I humbly take you—take you—ah, God forgive me, but I take you with my whole heart, though I be not worthy, I take you as my wedded wife to have and to hold, for fairer or fouler, in sickness and in health—for my life so long as I shall have it. Thereto I plight you my troth." He closed his fist hard over her fingers. "I have no ring. By my right hand I wed you, and by my right hand I honor you with the whole of my gold and silver, and by my right hand I endow you with all that is mine."
For a long moment neither of them moved or spoke. Beyond the heavy curtains there was a faint sigh of coals falling in upon themselves.
"I don't have flowers, or a garland to kiss you through," he murmured, cupping her face. He leaned up and pressed his lips softly against hers. At first she seemed frozen, cool as marble, and a bolt of apprehension passed through his heart, for fear that she had done it all as a mocking jest—but then she gave a low whimper and kissed him in return, hard and ruthless, as her kisses were wont to be. She put her arms about his shoulders and held to him tightly, her face pressed into his throat.
He lay gazing upward, full of bliss and horror. The world seemed to go in a slow spin about him. He didn't know if it was drink or amazement.
Then he embraced her and rolled her onto her back, overlying her, using his hands to master the awkward tangle of her skirts, his rigid tarse to search out her place urgently. He mounted her, sinking inside with a groan like a beast. A fearsome ache of pleasure shot from his belly through his limbs. It drowned his senses; from a distance he felt her clutch at him, heard her swift breath—but with all the strength in him he couldn't stop to satisfy her. With a violent thrust he spilled his seed in her womb.
He used and possessed her to bind his right, before God, sealing her beyond resort or recourse as his wife. And when it was finished, he laid his face against her breast and wept for Isabelle, for joy, and for mortal dread of what they had just done.
FOURTEEN
She held him as he grieved, and lay waking long after the shudders of rough sobs had passed through him. He wept like a man who had lost child and kin and future. And then he slept profoundly, weight upon her such that she could hardly breathe, but she never ceased stroking her fingers through his hair.
She was jealous of his silly and dangerous wife, that he mourned her so. And yet Melanthe thought that it was his lost years and distorted vision that he mourned—pure and gentle nun that he had seemed to make the woman out for be. Melanthe remembered a shrieking and offensive female, full of herself and her prophecy, and a part of her longed to recall it to him in forceful detail. But she thought, with a little wonder at herself, that she didn't care so much for her own discontent, if to undeceive him would cause him further pain.
Lying with him seemed enough. It was entirely new to her, so different was he from Ligurio, and from Allegreto's lithe and constant tension that had haunted all her nights. Ligurio had been gentler, without urgency, courteous in his dealing with her. She suspected now that he had already been ill when he had consummated their marriage, coming to her bed for the first time on her sixteenth birthday, and seldom enough in the year after, until he hadn't come at all.
She felt now as she thought other women must, with her lover sprawled warm and heavy upon her in trusting insensibility. Where Allegreto had the supple light shape of a beardless youth, Ruadrik's arms and shoulders were solid, hard-muscled, his cheek prickly on her bared breast and his leg a dense weight across her thigh. Even to bed, Allegreto wore hose stuffed to make him appear full intact and more; Sir Ruadrik lay with the broad expanse of his back naked to the night air, quite undeniably whole and male, having wept and gone to sleep still filling her, sliding gradually free until she felt the strange touch of his parts, heated between their bodies, a feather brush now where he had been stiff, a gentle pressure instead of invasion.
She ran her fingers down his body and then pressed her arms lightly around him. She hoped his man's sperm engendered a child in her already; and let the king...
God shield them, let the king and the court not know until she had time to consider. Never until this extraordinary hour had it come into her mind to make a secret marriage, and to such a man as this. It was incredible. She would have scorned to ashes the witlessness of any other woman who was so foolhardy besotted of a lover as to put her possessions in such peril.
Neither crown nor church would dispute her right to marry—but to wed without the king's permission, to carry her vassal lands with her to a man without her liege lord's approval—that was another offense entirely. Not a jury in the land would uphold her claim to such a thing. She might find herself a poor goodwife in truth for this night's work.
And yet she cared nothing. If she could have him lie over her all the nights of her life, if she could bear his children—she would sweep the hearth herself if she must.
But she wound her fingers through his hair and considered. It was perhaps not so impossible a thing that she had done. The old king, besotted himself, might be persuaded to smile upon her, a weak-willed
and love-smitten female. It wasn't a match that would threaten any royal power or prerogative. Indeed there were advantages. She hadn't thought of marrying because she had never thought she would care to marry again. Certainly she'd never had the uncouth thought she would marry beneath herself, or relinquish her lawful right to refuse any man below her station.
But now that she gave her attention to the matter, she saw that to make a humble marriage was not an ill solution. She would have a man's protection, and the crown would have the certainty that she could not join her property to another great domain that might threaten the throne. Wherever this place of his might be, this Wolfscar, she had never heard of it. Another Torbec, no doubt, some remote and paltry manor he would be glad to forget.
And there was Gian...but Allegreto was dead, and Gian had lost his ability to daunt her, so far away he was. She'd left him with the smiling promise that she would return to him with control of her English possessions and income, for the greater glory of Monteverde. It would take him a long time to fathom that she didn't intend to come back, if he fathomed it at all. Every man had one blindness, Ligurio had taught her, no matter how clever he might be. Gian's was Monteverde. When he learned where her quitclaim had gone, he could turn his obsession to a new center and leave her in peace to marry whom she pleased.
Not that he was like to leave her entirely in peace, but his reach wasn't long enough to be fearsome here. And he was not a man who wasted his energy in any task, including revenge, that didn't move him toward his goal.
Yes, a mere goodwife of far distant England, quitted of all claim to Monteverde, was of little interest to Gian Navona. And the king was pliable, his favorites unprincipled and open to bribe.
Melanthe smiled, smoothing her husband's unruly hair. She toyed with one lock that would not lie straight, curling and uncurling it about her forefinger as she fell into sleep.
* * *
In the frigid dawn light of the stables, Ruck saw to Hawk's keep, giving the horse-groom twopence for his work. The man had cleaned Hawk's harness, for which Ruck was grateful—between his headache and his gritty eyes and the uneasiness of his belly, it was all he could do to examine the gear. Bending to pick up the destrier's hooves was beyond his power without feeling as if his stomach would bolt.
He would have thought the past night a dream, but for the way he felt this morning. Sometimes he still thought he must have imagined it in a drunken haze, but it had been no fantasy that he'd woken this morning with the Princess Melanthe's hair spread across his arm and her body curled into his embrace.
He walked back into the yard, holding his cold fingers stuffed under his arms, and stood staring up at the window of the room where they had slept. Where she slumbered still, languid and warm as he'd left the bed.
When he had married Isabelle, everything about his wedding had been open and public. But he knew this second one to be as binding. He'd heard of men divorced from a wife when another woman had sworn to earlier vows spoken rightly, witnessed or no, whether it be in a tavern or under a tree or in bed.
It was a true thing, sealing them until death.
He had meant it to be.
This morning, feeling stuporous and ill, he could not believe he'd possessed the boldness. He pushed his hair back with cold-clumsy fingers, wondering if she would laugh at him now, and say that she had slipped in some stipulation that he hadn't heard—she married him if he would bring her the Holy Grail, or some such thing as peasants said to one another when they were playing May games.
It didn't matter, he thought sullenly. He had spent thirteen years as one half of a marriage—if he was to spend the remainder of his life the same, what of it?
He nodded to one of the young hedge knights who crossed the yard yawning and carrying a mug of ale. The fellow gave Ruck a grin and a shove on the shoulder as he passed. "Long night in the lists?"
Ruck caught his arm, took the mug, and drained it, ignoring the yelp of protest. He stood still, trying to decide if he would cast or not, concluded that he would not, and opened his eyes. He handed the mug back. "Thank you."
This one was not quite as old as his friends, sandy-haired and high-colored, wearing a doublet of surpassing shortness over flesh-toned hose. He gave a cheerful, wry shrug. "And welcome."
Ruck paused. He looked the young man in the eye. "Take heed," he said quietly. "Don't be here among this company when Sir Geoffrey returns."
The youngster gazed at him warily.
"There will be a fight." Ruck nodded toward the hall. "They will lose."
"What do you know of it?"
Ruck put the heels of his hands to his eyes, rubbing. "Enough."
"Are you from Sir Geoffrey?"
He dropped his hands and grimaced. "No. It's only free advice. My thanks to you for the ale."
He walked on, turning in to the door of the hall.
* * *
Melanthe was dressed in her own gown again. She was well-pleased to be departing this place, and worked to have what little there was to do in readiness before Ruck came back. Gryngolet had fouled the floor beneath the chair arm, but Melanthe obscured that by turning over the rush mat. No one seemed to be at the peeks this morning—all lying abed dissipated from drink, she supposed. She was surprised that Ruck had managed to rise and dress and leave the solar before she woke.
She wasn't concerned that he'd gone far, for his armor and sword remained. But the sun was well up and the yard full of servants' voices before he returned to their chamber.
As he came in, she looked up quickly, finding her heart abruptly in her throat. She had a smile ready, but he did not smile, or even look at her. He glanced toward the peekholes and then walked over to his armor and bent to pick up the plate.
A strange alarm possessed her. She looked at him with a feeling of having gone too fast. Was she married to this man—actually bound—united to him for all of the unknown future?
"We depart the moment you're ready, my lady," he said to the cuirass in his hands. There was no welcome or fondness in his voice, only a stiff and brooding subservience.
"Good morn," she said. "Husband."
He held the armor, his head bent. She could see color in his neck.
He lowered the cuirass. Quietly and fiercely, without lifting his eyes, he said, "Aye, husband. I swore not in jest, my lady, though you may regret it this morn."
She pressed her lips together. The fear rose higher in her, the realization that she had given him a power over her; that even if she should regret it, she could not undo it. Bone-deep, she felt the weakness he represented. She had made a vow to him. And worse, oh, worst of all—she had let herself love him.
He threw the armor down with a clash and a wordless curse. He turned his face from her, setting his arm against the bedpost.
"If I say to you"—Melanthe's voice was unsteady—"that I cherish and love you, but that I'm frightened at the weight of it—would you understand me?"
He leaned his forehead against the post. "Frightened!" he said with a muffled laugh. "I'm so seized with love that I've a mortal dread even to look at you."
She took a soft step toward him. "Dread of a mere wench...and your wife?"
He turned. Without lifting his head, he reached out and pulled her close to his chest. He held her tight. Melanthe leaned her head on his shoulder.
"I know not what we're to do," he muttered. "I know not what can come of this."
"Let us be gone from here in haste," she said.
He released her. "Yes, my lady. I've packed us food from the larder here—we'll make away and come to your hold at Bowland."
Melanthe didn't say that she would rather dwell alone with him in the forest for the rest of her life. He wouldn't understand her; he would think her reluctant because of him. She watched him as he donned his armor, helping him with the buckles and straps that he could not reach.
When he had his plate and mail upon him, she held up his surcoat. He stepped back, sliding his arms into the sleeve holes. Mela
nthe buttoned him down the front and then brushed the wrinkles out. It seemed a wifely thing to do.
* * *
As Sir Ruck made farewells in the yard, standing beside Hawk and speaking a courteous word to each of the men, Melanthe lingered on the steps to the hall porch. She carried Gryngolet in the bundled cloak—feeling too noticeable to stand beside Ruck amid the company of guests and servants.
She didn't care for these knights, if knights they could be called. Ruffians, more like, playing at fine manners. One of them stood near, attempting to lovetalk her, but Melanthe ignored him haughtily. He was a good-looking wretch who clearly fancied himself with the ladies, his chestnut hair curled and his doublet padded out like a pouting pigeon. She would have eaten him alive in Italy, led him on and made such a mock of him that he couldn't have shown his face in public after, but now she wished only to be gone.
He came up onto the porch, disposing himself so that he showed a fine length of hose and slender leg. "My heart was full broke," he said, "that you didn't come down to the hall yesterday, lovely. And now you're on your way."
Melanthe gave him a look of disdain. She would not retreat a step, lest he think he had success at stalking her.
He moved about behind, into the shadow of the porch. "A kiss to God-speed you, sweetheart." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Look, he's not watching."
"Your swaddling drags, infant."
His hand dropped away. She took the moment to move out of the cover, but before she could advance, he gripped her arm. It was the one on which she held Gryngolet; she stopped, unable to jerk free without risking the falcon. In the moment of her hesitation, he hauled her up into the porch and pressed her back to the wall, holding her shoulders.