Shadowheart

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

  "We moten 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 will go alone. After Hocktide, to ascertain what is in the world. A day or twain, peraventure, to discover if plague still imperils."

  She curled the rope about her hand, crushing the flower in it. "Thy talk annoys me," she said. She cast the blossom away and rose. "Come, I would have luf-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. "Nay, my lord!" He opened his mouth, as if to go on, and then remembered himself. He went to his knee. "My lord, I have been at work on the green wood."

  Maintaining the frith 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.

  "Rise," he said. "Stay with me whilst I break fast. I be gone for scouting outermere 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 afore—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, watz no woman to binden me up on Monday. And yesterday, when were the men’s turn—and I be six and ten this year, so I am to join in—I ne could nought—you nill haf counted, but I can tellen for you, my lord, that all the women are taken, and Jack Haliday so jealous of his wife that he shouted at me ere I put a rope about her, my lord, which I ne would nought ha’ 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.

  "Didst thou bring a mount?" Ruck asked.

  Desmond glanced at him warily.

  "I am in hopes that thou didst. 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. "Ye will taken me?" He threw himself down at Ruck’s feet. "Grant merci, my lord! Grant merci! 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 frithwood. Ruck listened, half inclined to his old jealousy of the minstrel wit to hear it. Full grown, he had 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 had 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 had 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.

  They skirted high above the abbey works, descending by steeper slopes to the land beyond what the abbey claimed, passing by stages out of the forest. At first the clearings were small and overgrown, no more than a little pasture for the horses loosed to breed, then better kept, with a meager space for winter oats hacked out of the trees by some poor cotter, gradually increasing in size and density, until suddenly the woods were coppice instead of trees, and the lowland fields lay ahead of them. Desmond had long since ceased his humming and appeared willing enough to wait at the last white water ford.

  Ruck 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. There had been one raid by Scots reivers, but the worst trouble was between the abbey and some knight who sent his men in livery to seize supplies on purpose to gall and vex the abbot. The shepherd was like to think these hot-spurred nobles were a worse plague than Scots or pestilence, either.

  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 had 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 shall go to London," Desmond announced.

  "Mary, ’tis a sore journey only for a maid," Ruck said.

  "How far?"

  "Weeks, an thou walks—which thou wilt, as Little Abbot does nought accompany thee."

  "Ne would my lord haf me go," Desmond surmised gloomily. "Ne’er will I go nowhere."

  Ruck smiled. "Ne’er. I forbid it."

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

  "Ne’er, that is, but for the journey I command thee," Ruck said idly, "with the man I send to my lady’s castle, to fetch back her guard."

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

  "Yea."

  "When, my lord?" he demanded. "How far be it? And who wends 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 enow when we return," he said finally. "I charge Bassinger to go."

  "Uncle Bass?" Desmond cried. "But he’ll ne’er stir himseluen!"

  "Will he or nill he," Ruck said. "None other but myseluen knows the road as he."

  "Were 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. Nill nought he riden 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 be caused to taken up thy slack, and that be full enow."

  Desmond scowled. "Will Foolet."

  "Will is afraid and afeared to go out of the valley, as thou knows well. Take thy satisfaction that I allow thee leave, ’ere I regret it."

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

  * * *

  Little Abbot announced their arrival by planting 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 fighten?"

  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 will accounten themseluen well, if they do." He turned away. "Dame Fortune likes thee, Desmond—e’ery 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 walmed.

  "Were I thee," Ruck said under his breath, "I would 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.

  "Is this the king of lovers whom I met this morn? Hie, tumble thee hence to the tavern door," he said, "three springs off thy hands, if thou canst."

  Desmond threw his leg over Abbot’s back and hit the ground. He bounded off his feet onto his hands, flipping backward, a green-and-yellow wheel across the grass, five handsprings and a midair tumble at the finish before he came up flushed, sent a glare at Ruck, and stalked into the tavern without even glancing at the girls.

  They were openmouthed with astonishment. A few of the guards shouted and clapped. Ruck raised his hand to them and gave the maids a light courtesy. He tied his beasts, then carried Desmond’s gittern into the tavern.

  * * *

  Desmond had fallen in love. It was his misfortune that his choice was the comely redheaded maid who served the shoemaker’s wife and traveled with the rest of the pilgrims in the abbey’s party. Ruck, sipping ale in a corner well removed from the white-robed clerks traveling with their abbot’s goods, foresaw lengthy pining over doomed love as the harvest of this day.

  It was hopeless to try to direct the youth’s attention to the nut-brown daughters of the village. They were shy; Desmond was shy; it had taken the city maid’s coaxing smile to cajole him into performing, and then she had chosen a love song and added her clear untrained voice to his—and Ruck saw himself fifteen years past, beguiled past all wit.

  "Come, ye will wenden with us?" the shoemaker was saying to him as Desmond sat down on the bench beside his love, having just proven he could stand upon his hands to the count of fifty. "Your boy’s good—ne do I doubt me you can play the better, my man, and it’s a weary mile to York."

  "York?" Desmond said between pants, before Ruck could deny that they wished to travel. "How far is it, sir?"

  Ruck gave him a quelling look. Desmond hid his face in an ale tankard while the redhead smiled benignly at him.

  "Ah, ten days, or twelve, peraventure. Little enow on the way, in troth, naught but Lonsdale and Bowland, and Ripon—but such lone places welcomen minstrel folk, for ’tis little oft they’re seen."

  Ruck turned to him in new interest. "Ye came that way?"

  "Yea, and will return by it, for with this guard we have no fear of reivers, God be thanked."

  "How fare the roads?" he asked, but missed the shoemaker’s answer, for Desmond had suddenly choked on his ale and begun twitching his head in a strange manner.

  He was looking fixedly at Ruck. After a moment he stood up, bowing frantically. "My lor—sir! Sir, mote I speaken you, sir!"

  Ruck thought he must be ill, he seemed so agitated. He pushed back the bench and followed the boy hastily outside.

  "My lord!" Desmond turned just beyond the door and dragged Ruck behind the horses. "My lord! Bowland!" He had no appearance of sickness. He was bouncing on his heels, his face radiant. "Bowland! Is my lady’s hold, is nought?" he demanded.

  "Yea, I know it."

  "My lord, I can go! I can go with them anon!"

  Ruck released a heavy breath. He shook his head. "Nay, Desmond, I want Bassinger—"

  "My lord! Only consider! The Scots raid, and Uncle Bass ne ha’nought seen the road for years! Haps is all changed, if e’er he knew it! These folk haf just come o’er from York— they’ll nought be lost nor stray out of the way."

  Ruck started to refuse again, but Desmond went down on his knee.

  "My lord, I beg you! When will another armed company be that way? Will ye senden Uncle Bass and me alone?"

  The pleading made no impression on Ruck, but the thought of Bassinger and Desmond traveling alone across the barren reiver country was enough to arrest him. When he looked about the green, he saw that the guard had been divided and an evening watch posted. The men off duty did not idle in the tavern, but went about business with their horses and armor, efficient and experienced in their moves.

  Desmond was gazing up at him in the late evening light, full of desperate hope and excitement. Ruck leaned against the wall and frowned, calculating. There was the chance that Desmond in his lovesotted state would not stop at Bowland, but trail behind the object of his heart all the way to York. Ruck suspected, though, that this redheaded maid would grow bored with a rustic swain long before York, and probably before they reached Bowland. She had the look of experience on her—a lesson that might not be a bad one for a boy who had seen nothing of the world.

  But it was just that greenness that made him loath to send Desmond. If it had been any older man of his hold, he would not have hesitated. The advantages were obvious, and just as Desmond stated. It would not be soon that a stout armed party would wend from here direct toward Bowland.

  "My lord," Desmond said, "if you think I’m too young—’tis said you ne had no more than five and ten when you first went out! And I am older."

  Ruck nodded, barely hearing him. In his heart he was glad that Melanthe was not here now, for he could hardly have demanded that she stay in Wolfscar with such a favorable company to conduct her.

  It was that thought that decided him. He was delaying; if he did not send to Bowland now, he would go back and find another reason to delay; Bassinger would protest his rheum, the planting would need management, the weather would be untoward—he could find a thousand reasons, and they were all shirking and tarrying to avoid what must be done.

  He took Desmond by the shoulder and hauled him behind the granary. "If I say thee yea, Desmond," he hissed through his teeth, "and thou fails by some idle chance, or for this maid or another—I shall profane thy name with my last breath, does thou comprehend me?"

  Desmond’s face lost a little of its zeal. He stood soberly and nodded.

  "Ne art nought t
o letten two things pass thy lips, to no creature man nor woman. Thou art nought to sayen whence thou came, ne the name of Wolfscar. Nor aught of my marriage to my lady. Swear to it."

  "Nay, my lord. I swear by my father’s soul, my lord, ne will I speak of Wolfscar nor whence I come, nor aught of my lord and my lady’s marriage."

  Ruck pulled the top buttons of his cote open and searched beneath his shirt. "Now listen, and learn thy message. Her lady’s grace is safe and free from harm or restraint. Ere Whitsunday, a guard and company with all things suitable to her estate is to comen to the city of Lancaster and await her there. This is her free wish and command, as attested by her chattel here sent." He held out the leather bag that he wore. "Lay this about thy neck, and guard it. Will prove thee from the princess. Say me the message."

  Desmond repeated it instantly by heart, well-trained in minstrel’s learning. Ruck gave him the whole contents of his wallet, silver enough to tide him there and back, and saw the leather bag stowed safely about the boy’s neck.

  He felt a terrible misgiving as Desmond tucked his green scarf back into place. "Stray nought out from the party," he said. "Keep thee with the shoemaker if there be fighting. Ne do nought think thou canst aid in any combat."

  "Nay, my lord."

  "When thou returns, signal from the tarn. Ne do nought come farther. I will meeten thee."

  "Yea, my lord."

  "Desmond, this red-haired maid—"

  Desmond lifted his eyes, so innocent of all love’s dangers that Ruck only sighed and shook his shoulder.

  "Ne do nought fail me," he said. "Do nought fail."

  "Nill I, my lord!" Desmond said fiercely. "Ne for no maid nor any other thing!"

  Ruck stood back. "Then fare thee well, as God please."