For My Lady's Heart

  The hall seethed with torch shadows and confusion. She tried to stop a servant, but none would mind her, and the ladies were screaming and pressing around, pushing for the door. She was carried with them out into the bailey, where the low clouds reflected light onto a chain of men passing buckets.

  No flames showed, only a black boil of smoke pouring from the base of the farthest tower. Even as she watched from the hall steps, it began to dissipate, and then vanished, carried away into the night. A hail began at that end of the bailey, a cheer that rolled toward the hall. The bucket chain began to break and scatter into knots of men.

  Cara drew a deep breath. It appeared to be quenched. She almost turned to go in, but a figure caught her eye, a gleam of bright hair among the men. He carried two buckets in one hand, striding out from the crowd. She watched him turn and shout at a page, and trade the empty buckets for a torch.

  The brand lit Guy's face, showing him smoke-blackened and his shirt stuffed hastily into his breeches. A sudden cough racked him; he bent over, holding the torch awkwardly as he choked.

  Cara forgot her undress and cold feet. She ran down the steps and grabbed up a bucket that still had water in it. She came to him as he straightened up, still spluttering.

  "Drink, sir." She set the bucket on the ground and reached for his torch.

  He looked down at her blankly. For an instant she feared that he had already forgotten her, but then his gaze cleared and his open grin dawned. "Thank you," he croaked, and squatted beside the bucket, scooping water into his hands. He drank deeply, then splashed it on his face and stood, wiping his arm across his eyes.

  Cara smiled at the wild smear of blacking that he made. "Your bath is wasted, sir, I fear."

  He rose, making a small bow. "Ah, but I did delight in it," he said hoarsely, "and that's not wasted, good lady." He looked beyond her, lifting his hand in salute to another smoke-blackened man passing.

  His companion stopped. "They say there was a poor devil in there, by Christ," he said.

  "'Fore God." Guy blew air through his teeth and made the cross. "He's passed to his reward, may the good Lord save his soul. I know not what was in that cellar, but it burned like the flames of Hell."

  "It's where they keep the oils," the other man said. "Good fortune that the stock was low—here, ma'am!"

  Cara had dropped the torch. She could not get her breath.

  "My lady." Guy's face swam in front of her. "For love—John!"

  She did not swoon. A horrible shaking fit possessed her. She felt she must scream, but she could not scream. Her knees were sinking beneath her. Before she reached the ground she felt herself lifted up.

  "We shouldn't have spoken of it in front of her." She heard Guy's voice, but she couldn't command words. He carried her into the hall, and next she knew the ladies were crowded around him and hart's horn and vinegar thrust into her face as he set her down.

  "No—" She pushed them feebly away. "I'm well. I only—lost my breath."

  Guy knelt beside her, looking up into her face with a frown of innocent concern, black streaked all across his nose and temple. Cara clutched his hand. She swallowed, trying to command herself. But when she lifted her head, she lost all mastery.

  Beyond him, past the ladies in nightgowns and the men in shirts, above the curious faces and tumult, Allegreto stood on the dais, dressed in gold and fire.

  He was utterly still, watching her, the only silent figure in the commotion.

  She moaned, shaking her head. Guy pressed her hand and patted it. He asked her something, but she did not hear. She pulled away and stumbled from the bench. Guy called after her, but she couldn't stop; she had to run, turning and twisting blindly, like a doe trying to find some break in the deerpark wall.

  TWENTY

  There were traps set all over Wolfscar. They were feminine traps, light and easy to escape, but no man tried too hard. On the day after Easter, with Lent past and Ruck's grievous interdict lifted, the sport of Hock Monday became an occasion for high glee.

  Ruck found himself hocked at the door to the great hall, barred by a rope from passing until he paid a groat to the mirthful women who stopped his way. His was an easy escape—the other men were bound hand and foot, voicing loud protest, struggling at their fetters, refusing to pay and altogether making the most of their imprisonment while it lasted.

  Having bought his freedom, he reached the gatehouse and crossed the bridge safely. Crocus bloomed alongside the road, saffron yellow. Alone but for the grazing animals, with the shouts and song left behind him, he walked beside the furrowed and readied fields, his breath frosting in clear air.

  He stooped and probed in the mud with a stick, pleased with the results of the new draining ditches. The mill needed repair, but the mill always needed repair. They had pressed the oxen to plow near four virgates of land, even reclaiming some that had gone to brambles.

  He sat on his heels, looking out over the valley and the high slopes. Protection and boundary, the purple-green walls. So easy to forget the world beyond them. He stared at the long morning shadow of the castle across the fields, the dark ripples of turrets and chimneys on red soil.

  For weeks they had lived as man and wife, lived as if nothing existed beyond Wolfscar. Not once had she said that the time neared for leaving.

  He flipped a clod of mud from the end of the stick. It fell with a plop. He flipped another, watching it hit the ground, thinking of why she would not want to go, why she would sojourn here so long without even desiring to send word of herself to her home. There were dangers, yes; always peril—but he'd never thought she would stay so long.

  He should speak, he knew, though it was easy to bide silent. Easy to stay his tongue, hard to find the moment. He'd never been so loath to think beyond the thorn-wood.

  A chimney shadow took on life as someone came up the road behind him. He didn't rise, but flipped mud from his stick, waiting for Will to discuss the seed corn.

  Instead a rope dropped over his shoulders. A tug pulled him off his feet. With a startled flail and exclamation, he overturned onto his back in the cold grass.

  "I have you!" Melanthe said.

  She fell on her knees, pinning the rope down with her hands next to his shoulders. He lay looking at her upside down.

  "How much?" he asked.

  "All your land and chattels, knight, should you hope to rise again."

  "I paid the others but a groat."

  "Ha," she said, "I make no such paltry bargains."

  He pulled her down and kissed her, holding her head between his hands. "All is yours, brazen wench," he said against her lips. "'Beware you what I levy on the morrow, when will be the men's turn."

  "You must catch me first."

  He rolled over and sat up, casting the rope about her. "Lucky I have you already."

  She squealed and wriggled like a village girl. "You traitor! Never!" Their frosted breaths mingled in the sun as he held the cord against her struggles. She tried to push him away, laughing. "No trumping wretch shall cheat me of my lands!"

  He stilled, standing on his knees, looking into her eyes. "Melanthe," he said soberly, "don't accuse me of it, even in jest."

  Her hands lightened on his shoulders. Then she gave him a push. "Whence this gravity, monk-man? You'll be sorry to fatigue me with earnest speech."

  "No, my lady, I've bided silent too long." Ruck let the rope fall. He stood up and walked a step away. "I let bliss conquer my wit. You can't linger here lost for ever more."

  He looked back at her. She sat on her knees, holding the rope across her lap, staring down at it. On her hair she wore the golden net. From her shoulders a mink-lined cloak of amber flowed carelessly onto the muddy grass. He did not recognize it; she must have found it among the fabrics and chests that filled abandoned wardrobes all over the castle, more richness than Ruck had ever been able to use. And yet a hundred times more wealth belonged to her beyond the mountains.

  "My lady—if it be our marriage that checks you f
rom returning—I ask no open espousal of you. For as long as you will, it shall be secret and private between us."

  "Is this repentance," she asked lightly, "that you'd conceal our vows?"

  "Not repentance, never mine. But I think me the world will look harsh upon your folly, and therefore you tarry here for fear of consequences. I didn't wed you to obtain your fortune or place. I'm willing to bide without I am acknowledged to the world as your husband, till some fitting time as you choose. Be it long, even."

  "Such heavy thoughts!" She reached over and plucked a tiny snowblossom from the grass. "You do weary me."

  "We must set our faces to this, and take you to your rightful place."

  "The plague," she said. "We dare not venture out."

  He shook his head. "I'll go alone. After Hocktide, to ascertain what is in the world. A day or two, perhaps, to discover if plague still imperils."

  She curled the rope about her hand, crushing the flower in it. "Your talk annoys me," she said. She cast the blossom away and rose. "Come, I'll have love-laughing, and not leaving."

  With her hands about his arms, she pulled him to a fierce kiss, drowning why and wherefore and reason. She could make him forget time and sense. She could make him forget his own name.

  * * *

  On the Wednesday after Hocktide, Ruck came upon Desmond far up the mountainside, plucking doleful tunes on a gittern and staring at the blank wall of mist that shrouded the hills. Although in his gloom the boy appeared not to notice Ruck, he was situated where he could be sighted easily from the trail, a brooding figure in yellow and green like a forlorn elf-prince of the wood. Since it was well known that Ruck intended to make scout-watch outside the valley today, he viewed this melancholy vision with a dry smile, understanding it to be a request for audience. Ruck had a fair guess as to what matter troubled Desmond. Maidens.

  He tied the bay mare and hiked up the rocks, coming to where the youth sat cross-legged on a ledge. Desmond made a creditable start of surprise, striking an off-note.

  Ruck leaned against the ledge. "Lost lamb?"

  Desmond jumped down from his perch. "No, my lord!" He opened his mouth, as if to go on, and then remembered himself. He went to his knee. "My lord, I've been at work on the green wood."

  Maintaining the plessis barrier as an impenetrable tangle required constant labor, uncounted twigs staked down or coupled to their neighbors, logs felled and sharp-needled leaves and thorns encouraged. It gave an excuse to be outside the valley and past the tarn, as Desmond was. Ruck made no comment on the boy's lack of industry at this worthy labor, but loosened his wallet.

  "Sit with me while I breakfast," he said. "I be gone for scouting outside today."

  "Is it so, my lord?" Desmond said, just as if this were fresh news. He climbed back onto the ledge and sat with his legs dangling while Ruck shared out oatcakes and small ale. They ate and drank in silence. The mist drifted past, dewing the rocks with black tear streaks.

  "My lord," Desmond said suddenly, "yesterday, and the day before—Hock Monday, you know—"

  He broke off. Ruck took a swig of ale, not looking at the boy as he struggled with his words.

  "My lord, there was no woman to bind me up on Monday. And yesterday, when it were the men's turn—and I be sixteen this year, so I'm to join in—I couldn't—you'll not have counted, but I can tell for you, my lord, that all the women are taken, and Jack Haliday so jealous of his wife that he shouted at me before I put a rope about her, my lord, which I wouldn't have ventured but she's my sister's friend, and twenty and one, with three bairns!" His voice rose, throbbing with his sense of the injustice of this event. "My lord, I—"

  He seemed to get tangled in the tail of his sentence again. Ruck finished his oatcake, brushing the crumbs from his palms. He leaned his elbows back on the ledge, waiting.

  "There are no maids, my lord!"

  The despairing exclamation rang back off the rocks. Desmond flung a stone. He hurled another pebble after the first.

  Ruck watched them take the leaf tips off a holly branch. Desmond had impressive aim.

  "They're all too young, or too old," the boy muttered.

  "Did you bring a mount?" Ruck asked.

  Desmond glanced at him warily.

  "I'm in hopes that you did. I be loath for the mare to carry us double down and back."

  The boy stared at him, then leapt off the ledge with a whoop. "You'll take me?" He threw himself down at Ruck's feet. "Thank you, my lord! Thank you! I brought Little Abbot to ride, and plenty of food, for chance!"

  * * *

  Desmond was by no means the first youth to venture out of Wolfscar with maidens on his mind. He followed Ruck's mare on the little white-footed ass, kicking to keep up, and carried on a flow of fine talk and song about love all the way down through the thorn-wood. Ruck listened, half inclined to his old jealousy of the minstrel wit to hear it. Full grown, he'd never been so confident and easy as this unfledged orator was at sixteen. The first time Ruck had come down from the mountains himself, he'd been too shamefast to make a bow to a female, far less sing of love.

  But Desmond lost a little of his boldness after they'd dropped below the mists and come into where the dark woods thinned. The air held a heavy scent of smoke, the mark of the charcoal-burners who worked the abbey's iron ore, and a sign, Ruck hoped, that no pestilence interrupted ordinary labor.

  He was already certain that plague had spared the country before he spent a shilling to find out the news from a shepherd. What might have come to pass in the larger world, the man knew not, but a band of pilgrims had descended upon the abbey for Easter, and they seemed healthy enough to complain of bedbugs and the sour ale as they went through.

  Ruck looked past the shepherd's flock, where the hills opened to farm and pasture. There was no plague, and no reason to delay longer. If not for Desmond's hopes, he would have turned back here, for he knew what he'd come to discover.

  But the youth was waiting, having lost interest in love and conceived a lust for travel. He kicked Little Abbot along eagerly. The wider horizon had worked strongly on his mind, and he was full of questions about far places and cities Ruck had seen.

  "I'll go to London," Desmond announced.

  "Mary, it's a sore journey only for a maid," Ruck said.

  "How far?"

  "Weeks, if you walk—which you will, as Little Abbot does not accompany you."

  "My lord doesn't wish me to go," Desmond surmised gloomily. "Never will I go nowhere."

  Ruck smiled. "Never. I forbid it."

  The youth sighed. He squinted longingly at the distance and sighed again.

  "Never, that is, but for the journey I command you," Ruck said idly, "with the man I'll send to my lady's castle, to fetch back her guard."

  A grin broke over Desmond's face. "My lord! I may go?"

  "Yes."

  "When, my lord?" he demanded. "How far be it? And who goes with me?"

  A pair of cows lifted their heads as the mare passed. Their bells clanked roundly. Ruck watched them, weighing the matter in his mind.

  "Soon enough when we return," he said finally. "I charge Bassinger to go."

  "Uncle Bass?" Desmond cried. "But he'll never stir himself!"

  "Will he or won't he," Ruck said. "None other but myself knows the road as he."

  "It was a hundred years ago, my lord!" Desmond kicked the ass up even with him. "His knee will pain him. His back will ache upon the horse. He won't ride from the gatehouse as far as the sheepfold now, my lord! Send Tom with me, my lord."

  "Thomas plants. And Jack, and all able bodies. Someone will be caused to take up your slack, and that be enough."

  Desmond scowled. "Will Foolet."

  "Will is afraid to go out of the valley, as you know well. Take your satisfaction that I allow you leave, before I regret it."

  "Yes, my lord." The youth swiftly ceased his complaint. "So will I, my lord."

  * * *

  Little Abbot announced their arrival by plant
ing his hooves and braying lustily in spite of all a red-faced Desmond could do to whip him along. But the animal's voice was hardly noticeable amid the disorder and stir on the green. Horses tied too close nipped at one another or nosed hopefully in laden carts. Servants hustled packs and boxes. A pair of nuns stood together guarding their bags with the ferocity of wimpled mastiffs, while a stream of people passed in and out under the long pole and brush that marked the tavern.

  "Pilgrims," Ruck said, but it was an unusually large party, and even conducted by an armed guard. The carts were full of larder and wool. "They go out with the abbey's trade."

  Desmond was gazing at the soldiers, his eyes alight. "Will they have to fight?"

  Ruck took stock of the large guard. They were mounted all, and well turned out, holding patient watch while their charges refreshed themselves—the kind of escort he wanted for Melanthe. But they wore the abbey's livery, and he had no notion to ask for aid there. "They'll account themselves well, if they do." He turned away. "Dame Fortune likes you, Desmond—every maid in the country will be here for such sight."

  Even as he spoke, three girls hurried out of the inn and began rooting for something in a baggage cart. One of them cast a glance at Ruck and Desmond and instantly pulled her veil over her face, huddling into hisses and giggles with her companions. All three turned and stared.

  Desmond turned bright red. He was common enough in his green and yellow dags in Wolfscar, but here his vestment shouted amid the common grays and browns. Ruck could see him shrinking. Little Abbot chose that moment to lift his head and send forth another raucous bray.

  Desmond turned from red to white. He looked as if his stomach revolted.

  "Were I you," Ruck said under his breath, "I'd show them that I had a right to my minstrel's gear."

  But the youth seemed daunted into impotence. Ruck dismounted. He took hold of Abbot's halter.