Shadowheart

  Ruck looked at Desmond, so unfamiliar and familiar in his finery.

  "He rides the fourth in line," John said under the rising sound of halloes and grumbles, "the first in the white surcoats. Young and comely."

  "No—" As the company halted, Ruck’s gaze shifted from scarlet Desmond to the first rider in the milk-white livery of the Italian. It was Allegreto. "Not in white?"

  But at that moment Allegreto’s lazy glance passed along the crowd. He looked directly at Ruck. His dark eyes took note, expressionless. With a deliberate move he pulled his light sword from its sheath and examined the blade.

  Ruck found the area around himself opening. Someone pressed him forward from behind. The Flemish knight had dismounted; the space between them was suddenly empty—a confrontation, and the voices around rose in shouts of "Saint George! Saint George!"

  The champion was a tall man, younger than Ruck by years. He skimmed the cheering English with a smile of delight and made a bow that held just the right touch of mockery, as if they were hailing him. It brought the shouts to a peak.

  Ruck stood alone but for John. The Fleming examined him and then made a courteous nod. Ruck acknowledged it. He looked past the knight to where Melanthe sat her black palfrey. Though every eye in the courtyard was fixed on him and the man he would fight, she dismounted as if neither of them existed.

  Her path lay away from Ruck. Her Italian lover took her arm, showing only a slight hesitation in his walk as he led her toward the great double tower entrance of the royal lodgings. The Flemish knight saluted Ruck and turned to follow.

  Ruck had been prepared for their first encounter by the ford, armored in hate and determination. He had wanted witnesses. This time he wanted witness as he would have wanted staring eyes on him while a lion tore his heart from his chest.

  She denied him. To his face, to the church, before the court. And Desmond—who did not look at Ruck, who did not pause or speak—Desmond saw it, and that was worst of all.

  * * *

  "The madman haunts me," Melanthe murmured, before Gian could mention it.

  He smiled, patting her arm. "Put him from your mind."

  She paused in the echoing gate passage, lowering her voice below the sound of talk and movement, speaking Italian. "Indeed, Gian, I pray you not to have him killed before this cursed duel! Or after, if you please, for they’ll never let you leave this misbegotten country then!"

  "You upset yourself for no cause, sweet." His eyes went briefly to Allegreto. "Put your faith in me, and say no more."

  "Gian! You don’t understand the English! If he dies by any way but in this combat, you’ll not go unscathed. Let the lawyers pay him off. Or the—"

  "I’ve told you not to speak of him." His fingers closed cruelly on her arm. He made her walk slowly on.

  "I only—"

  "My dear princess, if you add another word, I shall be forced to think you plead for his life because you love the poor devil."

  She bore his painful grip without wincing. "My dear Gian," she said, "if you do not heed me, I shall be forced to think you are a great fool."

  "Shall you?" He slanted a look down at her. "But in truth, Melanthe—I don’t think I am."

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Inside the tent the sound of the spectators was a steady mutter embroidered by music, the king’s favorite airs. John knelt at Ruck’s feet, fastening on spurs. His green plate was polished and restored, the dents beaten smooth and the silver bosses renewed.

  Ruck wore her colors, but he went to the fight not knowing her. She was the argent and green of Monteverde, or the red and gold of Bowland. She was his murderess, or she was trying to save him. She kept Wolfscar a secret to preserve it, or to discount him as a nameless adventurer. She had sent Allegreto with the warnings, or her lapdog betrayed her.

  He didn’t know if she wished for Ruck to win and free her, or if she hoped that he would die and free her. He did not know.

  But he shook his head to clear away fantasy. He knew. If she wanted him, all she had to do was speak what was true.

  The flap of the tent flashed open, and Allegreto stepped inside, dragging the silk fully closed. "I’ve only a moment," he said quietly. "My father must not smell me here. The Fleming has been told that you cannot withstand blows to the head. Beware your helmet."

  John instantly snatched up the bascinet helm. It glowed with the new burnish as he turned it over in his hands. Nothing showed on the surface. He lifted the aventail to examine the staples and then smoothed his hand over the outside curve.

  With a sudden exclamation he seized his dagger, slashed through the padded lining, and scored the inner surface. "God’s death." He held out the blade. "Look at this, my lord."

  Dark bluish shavings lay curled on the shining surface. Ruck knocked them into his palm. "Lead."

  John clouted the helm with the hilt of his sword. It cut a dent in steel too soft to withstand even a one-hand blow. He tore the leather out and explored the interior with his fingertips. "There." He pointed inside. "You can feel the place, my lord."

  The patch had been made with masterly skill, sheathed on the outside by a thin skin of finer metal. The flaw was invisible, but rubbing his fingers over the inner and outer surfaces at once, Ruck could detect the faint difference in the finish at the edges of the place, and the slight hollow in the thickness.

  It was too late to fit another bascinet. "I’ll have to use the great helm and a mail coif," he said.

  "My lord!" John stood up. "This is too much. Lay it before the marshal!"

  "No," Ruck said softly. He looked to Allegreto. The youth tilted his head, a smile on his mouth that never reached his black eyes. "Why do you aid me?"

  Allegreto put his fingers around the tent pole. He examined the ruby ring he wore. "You were kind to me once." He shrugged, with a short laugh. "I remember it."

  "Who tries to kill me?"

  "If you will make mischief—many people."

  "Your mistress?" Ruck’s voice was strained.

  Allegreto lifted his brows. "Show a little wit, green man."

  Ruck felt a tightness leave his muscles that he had not known was there. "Then it’s she who sent you."

  "Must someone send me?" Allegreto made a smirk. "I come for love of you, Green Sire. How else?" He swung about the pole and paused. "Be wary," he murmured, and vanished outside.

  * * *

  The sound shivered Ruck’s head: pain first, a bright arc through his brain, and then his ears aching in the peal of metal. Each time he took a stroke, the clang stopped in his ear, building pressure, until the roar of the crowd and even the blows grew distant. He could only hear himself panting, sucking hot air through the helm; he could only see black and his opponent through the eyeslits and feel the violent swacks when he could not parry them.

  In spite of the padding his great helm shifted whenever a blow caught it, obscuring his vision for an instant. The Fleming didn’t take advantage; he flailed over and over at Ruck’s head and only shifted a few times to any other assault. The strong onslaught left the man’s body undefended on the side opposite his shield, but he rained blows so swiftly that Ruck was too occupied with deflecting them to attack.

  If the helm hadn’t blinded him, Ruck would already have cut under this crude beating and had the man on the ground. But he dared not leave his head unprotected long enough to strike, for fear the helm would be knocked askew too far to seat again and screen his sight entirely.

  He defended with shield and sword, watching the Fleming’s arm strokes. He squinted through the slit, blinking back the sting of sweat. Stepping backward, he let the champion have control of the rhythm, retreating slowly from the blows. Through the dint and clang, the dim shouts of the spectators rose to passion as he gave way.

  The Fleming heard them, too: he renewed the vigor of his onset, faster and harder. Ruck parried in his attacker’s cadence, falling back. Inside his brain, with the ringing clash, he sang a song of war that Bassinger had taught him, the swords
tolling each note. The Fleming pealed the steady motet; Ruck answered in even time.

  Then he took up the hocket—a hitch in the rhythm, counterpoint as he dropped the parry and swung his blade in attack.

  Brilliant pain flashed in his ear, a tumble of light as the inevitable strike came. His sword bit, silence to him amid the belling in his head, but he felt the jolt and pause in his arm, swung through and past it, blind entirely. The Fleming missed his note, but Ruck sent the sword back in treble, up and up, a half breath off the beat, a full double-handed swing overhead and down.

  He killed the man. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it: an instant of impact as his sword cleaved steel—and the collapse, a dull chime of metal falling to the ground.

  He stood in sweltering darkness, gasping with exertion, the skewed slash of eyeslit a white radiance above his line of sight, the cheek padding pressed painfully against his nose. It gave him a horrible moment of helplessness, his ears ringing and his eyes blind, without defense.

  Then John was there, divesting him of the helm. It didn’t come off easily, beaten and wedged as it was. Ruck could barely hear; he couldn’t tell if the roar in his ears was the crowd or his head. As the helm fell, the warm summer air felt like a blessed rush of coolness on his face.

  At his feet the Fleming champion lay in the trampled grass. His attendants and a physician clustered around him, but he was lifeless, his helm sundered through. Ruck stood straight. He lifted his bloodied sword and turned about to the stands. The constable and earl marshal sat beneath a canopy. A cross and Bible lay on the tapestry-covered table where Ruck and the Fleming had sworn their oaths. Beside them, on a slightly higher dais, sat King Edward himself, leaning forward, his face red with excitement, his long beard flowing down over his robes like a living and gleeful statue of Moses. The well-fed Lady Alice stood behind him, unashamed to have her hand on his shoulder.

  Ruck barely found enough breath to speak. "I wish to know—if I have done my duty—to my honor," he asked of the justices. His own voice sounded strange to him, muffled and remote. When the marshal answered that he had, it seemed that the man spoke from very far away.

  Ruck handed his sword to John and walked forward to the king. As he knelt, the block in his ear burst, and he could hear again.

  All was silence, but for his own heart and heavy breath, and the rustle of the pages of the open Bible. The crowd in the stand waited.

  "Rise, bold knight," the king declared in English. "You have defended your honor before our court of chivalry with skillful sword as proper." He chuckled. "A great dunt it was! A delight to see."

  Ruck stood up. He lifted his eyes. The king was grinning, a little childish as they all said of him, but still a royal presence. He stroked his beard, his smile fading as he looked down into Ruck’s face.

  "But why do you wear those colors?" the king asked on an aggrieved note. "We don’t like you to change, Ruck. Did we give you leave to change your arms?"

  He spoke the name without hesitation or title, as if he knew Ruck like an old friend. A faint murmur passed over the crowd. In his amazement Ruck could not find his tongue to answer,

  "Why does he wear green?" The king turned to Alice. "It should be azure ground, and the device a well huge werewolf painted in black. Where is our herald of arms?"

  While Ruck stood with his limbs and his speech beyond command, the herald came forward to wait on the king. The ladies in the stands craned over the railings, staring. People whispered and leaned near one another.

  "Lord Ruadrik of Wolfscar," the king said, waving at Ruck. "Tell his arms."

  The herald bowed. "Sire, the lord of Wolfscar of the County Palatine of Lancaster may bear him a blazon of bright azure, the device a werewolf of sheer sable within."

  "There, we are exact in our memory!" The king looked triumphantly at Ruck. "We command our subject Lord Ruadrik of Wolfscar to divest himself of these greens and bear his right device and colors."

  "Sire," the herald said softly, "Lord Ruadrik died in the year of the great pestilence, and all his household with him."

  "No." Ruck heard his own voice, still short of breath from his fight, but strong and clear. He fell on his knees before the dais. "Sire, I’ve sworn to conceal my name and place until I was proved worthy of it, but if God sees fit that Your Majesty knows me, by what grace or method I know not, then I avow that I’m in truth Ruadrik, son of Ruadrik of Wolfscar and my lady mother his wife Eleanor."

  The audience broke into a clamor. The king looked bewildered.

  "What proof have you of this, sir?" Lady Alice’s sharp voice cut through the noise.

  Ruck ignored her. She was the king’s mistress. He had heard that she would have profited greatly from Dan Gian’s betrothal bargains.

  "Sire," he said to the king, "my sovereign and beloved lord, gladly will I obey you and resume my own arms of Wolfscar from this day forward."

  The king nodded, his perplexity brightening to simple satisfaction. "We are pleased. Full often have we been glad to see your blazon spread in battle with our enemies. You may rise, our trusty and well-loved Ruck."

  Lady Alice put her hand on his arm and whispered into his ear. He frowned and shook his head as he listened to her. "No, my dear lady, we are not mistaken." He patted her hand. "The herald supports us. It is the azure-and-black wolf. Lord Ruadrik himself admits our verity."

  "Voire." Ruck stood with his smile breaking, impossible to restrain. The king had recognized him. Or mistaken him for his father, but that was no less a triumph, and an elation in itself, for he hadn’t known it possible. "Truly, sire, it is as you say." He felt sweat trickling down his temple and had to prevent himself from wiping it away.

  "Your prize," the king said, looking about him. A man came from among the attendants, offering the king a wallet of coins. "How much?" the king whispered audibly as the attendant bowed at his knee.

  The man murmured. King Edward frowned and nodded, beckoning Ruck to approach.

  "One hundred mark," he declared.

  Ruck stepped onto the dais and bent knee, his armor clunking loudly as it hit the wooden platform. He accepted the modest purse and rose at the king’s command. Edward stood up with him.

  "A dear fight! God and Saint George!" The king clouted Ruck’s face between his palms and kissed him on the mouth.

  Then he fumbled at the golden clasp on his robes and pressed the jeweled pin into Ruck’s glove. "And here—a small love-gift, for your service at Nottingham."

  Ruck lowered his eyes, shaking his head at the mention of Nottingham and the king’s love. "Sire, I can’t accept this. My father it was who climbed from the cellars with you and the others, sire, at Nottingham Castle. Not yet was I even born upon earth that day."

  The king held the clasp, blinking down at it. He rubbed his thumb across the gold. "Not born, by God," he muttered. "Not born." He gave a deep sigh. "Aye, it is long ago now." He looked up, his eyes vague. "You were not born?"

  "No, sire. Was my father who was with you, sire."

  The king seemed to grow shamefast. "Ah. Your father. Who is he?"

  "Ruadrik of Wolfscar, sire. You called him Ruck, as I am called, too."

  "His son!" A pleased smile grew on the king’s face. "But how much you’re like him, in your face, and your uncouth northern tongue! Remember when we—" Then he shook his head. "But he’s dead. All of them dead, Montagu and Bury—the best of men." He suddenly took Ruck’s face between his hard old hands again, the clasp pressing into Ruck’s cheek. "The most remembrance that I have shall be upon you, and on your needs. Keep this, I command you."

  He pushed the clasp into Ruck’s hands and strode from the dais before Ruck could even say his thanks. Alice and the royal attendants hurried after—he might be wavering in his mind, but the king’s body was in no wise impaired.

  Ruck made a belated bow. He stepped down from the dais. In a maze of joy he walked toward John and the gate as noble spectators flooded down from the stands, crowding about him offering comp
liments and cheer. John gave him a towel to dry himself. Someone thrust a cool goblet into his hand. He glanced and saw it was Allegreto, with a triumphant grin and wink—Ruck’s dark and strange savior, her envoy.

  Beyond the crowd around him, a chariot was drawn up beside the lists. Ruck stopped, lifting the goblet to his mouth. She was still there, beside her treacherous lover—watching him with a faint smile. He drank, washing exertion and passion down his dry throat in one great swallow, taking boldness in with the wine. He started toward her, to demand that she come to him, his wife, the wine a bitter sourness on his tongue.

  Her smile widened. She touched Navona’s arm and nodded toward Ruck.

  The moment that she did it, the cold enveloped him. His fingers numbed, his feet and his legs. As he took a step, his knee collapsed, cold rising to his waist, poisonous cold.

  The wine killed him. He felt it stop his heart. Like a murderous hand, it strangled his throat. His lungs froze; his limbs seized.

  His mind failed him. He felt himself die, the ground hurling upward to meet him.

  * * *

  Princess Melanthe sat on the window seat. She leaned her elbow on a pillow, looking out an open glass, staring down into the garden. Cara stood in attendance, gazing at the painted window glass where two angels held the message "Love God and dread shame."

  "My dear one," Gian said, bending before the princess, "I beg your pardon for my delay." When she only lifted her hand for a kiss without turning from the window, he left her in the sunset glare and went to pour himself wine. "But it was entertaining, you may be certain."

  "What have they decided?" Princess Melanthe asked idly.

  He set down the brass ewer. "For two hours they debated over whether this green fellow had upheld his word after all. It turned on a fine point, my dear. A fine point. Did he leave the lists before he died or after? Had it been after, the case might have been different." He put on a mock solemn face, imitating a justice. "For then no one could assert that he had been killed by the Fleming, without a mark on him. But he was still in the lists when he expired, so it could be argued that the Fleming killed him with one of those blows to the head, but the effect was belated. You’ll delight in the verdict, my love."