"Melanthe! Thou took me for thy husband, and yet could not say me?"
"He would slay thee."
Ruck made a furious turn. "And so that he mote nought, thou left me, and went to him to be his wife?"
"He would slay thee."
"His wife!"
She gathered her knees up against her. "Foolish simple! Ye know naught of it. He would slay thee."
"Yea, and so would I choose to be slain than to see thee in his bed, but I think me that I would nought die so tame!"
"I did not bed him, ne would have. I was for a nunnery instead, so thou moste be easy on that point."
Ruck shook his head in disbelief. "Thy brain is full of butterflies! A nunnery, by God, when thou hadst only to say me of thy need. Is my place to protect and defend thee, Melanthe; is my honor."
She sprang to her bare feet. "Yea, thy honor! And where is honor when the bane finds thy lips? I have said thee why I did it. I would do it once again, and lie and cheat and steal the same, so be it, to save thee."
Carefully he set his clay tankard on a chest. "Then I haf no place with thee, by thy own word." He lifted his sword belt, girding it. "I take Desmond to Wolfscar, and thence to my duty to Lancaster."
"Lancaster! Thou art not his, but mine. He will not abide thee."
"For the ill way things go in Aquitaine, he mote needen seasoned men. A lord will forgive much to a captain of experience."
"Nay!" she said sharply. "Thou shalt not go away from me!"
"In this, my lady, thou does not command me."
"Thou art my husband. I will have thee at my side."
He buckled the belt. "Lady, is a lapdog thou wouldst have at thy side. I will buy one for thee at the marketplace."
"Ruck!" Her frantic voice made him pause at the door. She stood with the mirror clutched to her breast.
He waited. For an instant she seemed to cast for words, her lips parted, her eyes darting over the room, but then on an indrawn breath she pressed her lips together and stared at him royally.
"Nay, thou dost not go away to France, sir. I so command!’
"My lady, I have been your liege man. Now ye hatz made me your husband, and named me so to the world. It is I, lady, could command thee if I willed, and no man would say me nay."
Her brows lifted. "Shall it be war between us then, monk-man, for who commands? ’Ware thee my force in that battle."
He put his hand on the door, to yank it open, and then dropped the hasp. He turned on her. "I doubt nought that I should beware the force of thy guile! Well do I know the depth of it—much time had I to ponder in thy prison!" He shook his head with a harsh laugh. "I am no match for thee, faithly. Thou couldst skulk and slink to Lancaster, and poison me in his ear, so that I mote nought go to France. Thou couldst take Wolfscar from me if it pleased thee, so that I haf no thing of my own. I doubt nought thou couldst command me, and hem me, and keep me by thy side. Thou does value thy falcon better, for you set her free and trust her to return to thee, though it be e’ery time a peril. Thou might mew her in the dark for e’ermore, to keep her. But I see thy face when she flies, and thy joy and wonder when she comes." He shook his head again. "Nay, lady, there is no war between us. What use a war with a dead man? For ne could I live mewed up at thy pleasure, nor e’er love thee again as I do now, in free heart and devotion."
She pressed her palms over the mirror, holding it to her mouth. Then she turned to the window. "Gryngolet comes to the meat upon the lure—not for love."
Her shoulders and arms were pulled tightly inward as she held the mirror against her. Her smoke-black hair cascaded down her back. The colored window light turned bright white at her smock, drawing a fine outline of her body within.
"Happen I am a man, and not a falcon," he said gruffly.
"Ah. Then I cannot tempt thee with a chicken’s wing."
"Nay, my lady."
She sighed. She sat down on the window seat, frowning down at the carved mirror back.
"Wilt thou nought look into thine own glass," he said softly, "and see what I would return to?"
Her body stiffened. She squeezed her eyes shut, averting her face a little. "What if I am not there?"
"How couldst thou nought be there?"
"Haps I am a witch, with no reflection."
"Times there be that I think thee a witch in troth, my lady."
"Why?" She gave him a quick glance. Her eyes had an uneasy vividness, that imperfect blue smudged to violet.
"By cause I love thee when I would rather strangle thee."
"But—haps I am a witch. Haps I am no one. Haps the Devil came and took me while I slept. I dreamed it once, that he took me, and left naught but a thing fashioned of lies, to seem like me." She gripped the mirror. In a small voice she said, "Ruck. Wilt thou look into it, and see if I am there?"
He went to her and knelt beside her, taking the glass from her nerveless fingers. It was a perfect mirror, the size of his spread hand, flashing light from the transparent surface. On the back an ivory lady gave her heart to a vain-looking knight. Ruck saw his own face as he turned the glass, a brief glimpse of jaw and nose and the golden buttons down his surcoat.
"Wait!" She stopped him as he rotated the mirror. "Wait— I am not ready." She pressed her eyes shut. Her face was taut, her hair in wild curls about her pallid cheeks. She held his hands still for a long moment. "All right," she said weakly, loosing him. "Now. Look. What dost thou see?"
He did not even glance at the mirror.
"Sharp wit," he said. "Valor past any man I know. Foolish japery and tricks worse than a child. Lickerous lust, hair like midwinter night. A proud and haught chin, a mouth for noble-talking—that does kiss sufficiently, in faith, and slays me with a smile. Guile and dreaming. A princess. A wench. An uncouth runisch girl. My wife. I see you, Melanthe. Ne do I need a glass."
"Look in the mirror!"
"Luflych." He wrapped his hand about her tight fist. "I see the same there." .
She gave a rasping breath of relief, without opening her eyes. "Thou art certain? My face is there? Thou dost not say me false?"
"I fear for my life do I e’er say thee false, my lady."
"Oh, I am lost! I need thee to sayen me true. I need thee to say me what I should be. All is changed, and I know not what I am."
"Then will we keepen watch and see. And if ye be someone new each morn, Melanthe-—God knows thou art still my sovereign lady. Nought will I be at thy side in e’ery moment, but in spirit always, and return to thee with my whole heart, to see what bemazement thou wilt work upon me next."
Her hand turned upright beneath his, clinging. "I pray thee. Ne do I command thee, but I pray thee—do not go to France and leave me. Not—so soon. I would not maken thee my lap-dog, but—" She moistened her lips. "Verily, I know naught of sheep. And I have thousands, so says my seneschal. Haps I will require thy good advice."
"I am a master of sheep, my lady. E’en to shearing them, if I mote. I know some of oats and other corns, and how to instruct the bailiffs. The garrisons and men-at-arms I can command to good effect, and o’erlook castles and crenellations for what repairs and enlargements may be required."
Her hand eased, but still she kept her eyes closed. "All this? Thou art supreme in merits."
"I haf thought me a little o’er what my service could be."
"And what is left to me, but breeding?"
"Iwysse, I think of it each time we keep company, that we may not sin."
"Monk-man!"
"There be chambers at Wolfscar in need of dusting. I wen well how my lady wench likes to sweepen a hearth."
"Wench?" she uttered dangerously.
He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. "If Your Highness finds time heavy between thy lazy sleeps—I be nought much hand at Latin, my lady, nor lawyers and court dealings such as a great estate mote always have."
She opened her eyes, looking out the window. "All these plans and devises! Methinks thou art a great trumpery, who never meant for
a moment to go back to chevauchee in France!"
"If thou hatz truer need of my service," he said with dignity, "then shall I nought, lest our king commands me."
She put her hand on his, preventing the mirror from moving. Her face diverted, she looked warily from the corner of her eyes. With a cautious move she shifted the mirror in his hand, turning it slightly toward her.
"Look into it, my lady," he said. "I ne haf nought lied to thee."
She turned it all the way, staring down into the glass. Her brows rose in outrage. "Why—I am not comely! I am not!" She slapped the mirror facedown. "I knew it was all dishonest dwele, these songs and praises to my beauty. Wysse, when is a rich woman plain?"
Ruck smiled at her. "Art nought comelych? Is my fortune to be blind, then."
"Pah!" She reached out, catching him off balance with a hard shove at his shoulder. He fell back off his heels, sitting down with a grunt on the bare stone. "Any woman would look comely to thee, monk-man, after ten and three years of chastity!"
EPILOGUE
Cara sat in the solar, her toes by the fire and the cloth of gold spread over her lap as well as she could with the child so great in her. The ciclatoun was to make a coverlet for an infant’s cradle—none of hers, of course, but Lord Ruadrik’s gift for his lady’s churching, along with a robe of scarlet trimmed in ermine. He had left the fabrics at Savernake as he passed through just before Christmas, and bade her have them sent back to Wolfscar by Easter to be well in time.
She lifted her head, taking a deep breath after bending over the labor. She was flattered to have been chosen to embroider the gifts; Lord Ruadrik had taken special note of her work among Lady Melanthe’s apparel, and brought the fabric to her. She shoved herself to her feet, carrying the cloth to the cold window, where she could inspect the fine detail in what was left of the cloudy light.
She glanced out over the snowbound yard. The cloth fell from her fingers. "Elena!" she shrieked.
The door, the stairs, the way that was so slow in her cumbersome state vanished beneath her feet. She burst from the door onto the porch without even stopping for a cloak.
"Elena, Elena—"
Her sister was just dismounting, her small feet disappearing in the snow. Cara swept her up and buried her face in the thick woolens, panting with exertion.
"Here now!" Guy’s chiding voice barely reached her. She clutched at Elena as he lifted her away. "Inside." He hiked her sister in his arms, carrying her as Cara ran alongside, almost dancing in spite of her bulk. Elena was chattering in Italian; it sounded strange and wonderful to hear; Cara took in not a word of the childish talk, only heard the gay high voice and knew all was well, that Elena was whole and unhurt. She was weeping too hard to see more than Guy’s outline in the passage. Someone came in with them—a woman, a nurse; there were others in the yard; it was all confusion as Guy went back out to see to them, but Cara could only hold her sister tight.
"You’re so big!" Elena said, her dark blue eyes finally coming clear. "We have had a great adventure, coming through the snow! Dan Allegreto’s horse fell in a drift! Will we live here? It is so cold! Dan Allegreto says that I shall like it when I grow accustomed. I threw snow at him, but he said it didn’t hurt. When will the baby be born? Will I be its auntie?"
Cara’s hands loosened. "Allegreto?"
Guy came in the door, knocking snow from his boots. No one followed him but another duenna, an older lady who crossed the threshold with offended dignity as he held open the door.
"Donna Elena, thy decorum!" she snapped.
Elena stood straight in Cara’s arms, making a little courtesy. "Dan Allegreto says that if I wish to marry him," she confided to Cara, "I must learn to be a lady, for I am now a hoyden."
Cara stood straight, her heart thundering. "He is come?" she said to Guy in French.
"Nay," He shook his head. "This is all the party, but the guard that I sent to the stables."
"Oh, Dan Allegreto is here. He brought me to you," Elena said, slipping easily into French.
"The yard is empty," Guy said.
Elena pulled away. She ran to the door, pushing it open. Cara hurried after her as the little girl ran out into the snow without her cloak, calling.
Cara could not run so fast—her sister had raced across the yard and past the gate before Cara could prevent her. The duennas made shrill helpless cries after their charge, but it was only Guy and the porter who caught up with Elena after she crossed the bridge.
The little girl had already stopped. She stood gazing down the empty road. She put her hands about her mouth and cried, "Dan Allegreto!"
The name echoed back across the snowy fields. Two horses in the nearest pasture lifted shaggy heads.
"Oh," Elena said in a tiny voice. "He didn’t say goodbye to me."
"Elena, thou wilt catch thy death, standing in the snow." Cara spoke sharply. "Guy, she must go inside."
"Come then, little donna." Guy lifted her high in the air and set her on his shoulders. "Mama speaks, and we listen."
Elena made no protest, but she craned her head to see behind her until Guy had carried her through the gate. Cara watched them out of sight. She turned, looking down the road—waiting.
No one came. The tracks made a long thin shadow in the snow, vanishing out of sight where the horse pastures met the forest.
"God grant you mercy," Cara said. Cold tears spilled down her cheeks. "I’m sorry. Grant mercy. Thank you."
The snow chilled her feet. She stood with her arms hugged close to herself, stood until the cold went through her to her heart. When she realized she was shaking with it, she turned back, and left the empty road to night and frost.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Firstly, Suzanne Parnell, for "Fun with Middle English." Readers should know that there exists in the world a manuscript of this book in which all of the Middle English dialogue has been rendered accurate in both spelling and grammar, a labor of love for the language by Suzanne, which allowed me to water it down for modern consumption—and Suzanne, I wept for every "arn" and "ert" and "hopande" that wenten, forsooth, by cause our moder tonge mei maken swich luflych layes, and gets inside your head and sings. All errors introduced by editing are mine alone.
Secondly, "Tercel" on GEnie Pet-Net, and Don Roeber of Texas, for introducing me to falconry. Through the strange magic of computer networking, Tercel (not to be mistaken for a car) passed his love of hunting birds and this ancient sport—and more of his patience and sweetness of character than he knows—to me when I didn’t know a falcon from a hawk. Don generously answered my questions and loaned me books and gave me the opportunity to watch a real falcon on the hunt— and if it wasn’t the most perfect weather in the world, we got the mud part right, anyway. Next season—less fog, more ducks! All exaggerations and technical mistakes I may have made in creating my "superfalcon" once again are mine alone.
Thirdly, Mary Wilburn of the Zula Bryant Wylie Library, for ever-patient ordering of inter-library loans, and taking time out of her London trip to provide me help beyond the call of duty.
Fourthly, Commander Bill Ashmole and his wife, Joan, of Devon, who generously spent part of their holiday visiting English abbeys and priories under my orders—for showing Mother and Daddy the best of good times as usual. They always come home smiling.
Lastly, but never leastly, Mother and Daddy themselves. Braving the roundabouts and shipyards, and nearly sucked into the Liverpool tunnel, my father managed to locate Birkenhead Priory tucked among the drydock cranes, when even the fellows at the petrol station down the street didn’t know where it was. Another of the world’s small ironies: the little priory that lay deep in the wilderness of the Wirral some five hundred years ago—still used for worship, recently renovated as a pleasant, tree-shaded civic center for the city of Birkenhead—still difficult for the average pilgrim to reach. It takes a man of true determination like my father, and very glad to see him the priest was, for it seems they don’t get as many visitors as they
deserve down there in the midst of the Birkenhead shipyards where no one can find them.
In addition, the Hundred Years War gamers on GEnie, who not only provide some pretty slick role-playing in the fourteenth century, but helped me obtain my own copy of Froissart; the Oxford University Press, for publishing the Oxford English Dictionary on CD-ROM; and Travis, the only guy in the universe, as far as I know, who can successfully install an internal NEC-84 CD-ROM drive.
And finally, most of all, an unknown poet or poetess, for Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.
To each of you, my heartfelt thanks.
LK, 1993
GLOSSARY
I’ve provided this glossary in the new edition of For My Lady’s Heart as a small glimpse into the fascinating history of our language. Some of the words listed have other definitions, but here they are limited to the meanings I used in this book. I’ve given alternate spellings, for those who wish to investigate further in dictionaries, and a couple of grammar hints for those of you who like to go around talking to your friends like this. You know who you are!
Abbreviations: ME (Middle English); OE (Old English); OF (Old French); L (Latin)
aghlich (also awly; OE, ME)—Terrifying, dreadful
alaunt (OF)—A wolf-hound
ambs-ace (L, OF "both aces, double ace," the lowest possible throw at dice)—Worthlessness, nought, next to nothing.
a’plight (OE, "pledge")—In faith, truly, certainly, surely, in truth
austringer (OF)—A keeper of goshawks
aventail (OF, "air-hole")—The movable mouthpiece of a helmet
avoi (also avoy; OF, unknown origin)—General exclamation of surprise or fear
besant (also bezant; OF "Byzantium," where it was first minted)—A type of gold or silver coin; a gold button
caitiff (also caytif; OF)—A base, mean, despicable wretch