Melanthe made no move to disengage herself. It was a game of hints and inklings between her and the Riata’s man—a language of act and counteract. He moved closer, warning her, reminding her of her agreement with Riata and her peril if she thought to wed any man, especially such a one as Lancaster.
She merely looked at the duke’s fingers entwined with hers on the white cloth, refusing to show fear. Her heart was beating too hard, but she held to her aloof composure, asking Lancaster for a loaf of trimmed white bread from the golden platter just set down before them, so that he must let go her hand to serve her properly.
When she looked up, she saw the Riata lingered in a closer place even though the duke had released her. Truly, Lancaster’s hopes must be crushed, or she would not see the light of another morning.
Noble stewards clustered and moved around the dais, attending the duke and his guests, trimming bread, carving quail: knives and poison and color— she could not keep them all in her eye at once, as adept as she had made herself at such things. The Riata could kill her just as well before the entire hall as in some dark passage. It was too dangerous and open a position. She had tried to avoid it, but Lancaster’s ambitions had overwhelmed her subtleties. She must sit at his high table and deny him to his face.
She had misjudged. These reckless English—she saw that she had been too accustomed to the feints and lethal shadows of the Italian courts to recall the power of plain English boldness. She would be fortunate to find her way to her chambers alive in this castle of unfamiliar corners and hidden places.
Only ill luck had brought her here at all on her way home to England. She’d foreseen this disaster with Lancaster well enough to avoid the place by intention, but still had not cared to chance her French welcome and take the most northern route. She’d skirted Bordeaux, choosing the road to Limoges—only to meet the English army there, just done with razing the town to ashes.
Lancaster wielded his courtesy with the same skill he handled a sword. She must not rush on her way home to Bowland, he had insisted graciously—there was to be a New Year’s tournament—she must come to Bordeaux and honor him with her presence at the celebration. He had the ear of his father the king, he’d told her with his elegant hungry smile. He would write his recommendation that Princess Melanthe be put in possession of her English inheritance immediately and without prejudice. That he might, if he chose, equally well jeopardize her prospects with King Edward needed no such blunt hinting.
Wherefore, she was here. And Lancaster continued on his fatal determination, courting her through the service of the cheeses and meats. She lost sight of the Riata, and then found him again, closer.
The moment approached. Lancaster would ask for her favor to carry in the tournament tomorrow. He’d already told her that he would fight within the lists. In this public place, damn the man, Lancaster would beg her for a certain token of her regard and force her to a public answer.
There was no eluding it, no hope that he would not. His intention toward her was in his every compliment and sidelong glance. She’d thought of becoming faint and retiring, but that could only put the thing off until tomorrow— another night on guard against the Riata—and set off a round of further solicitude from the duke.
Beyond that, the Princess Melanthe did not become faint. It was a weakness. Melanthe did not choose to show weakness.
She would end with Lancaster a powerful enemy, his lands bordering hers in bitterness instead of friendship. A man such as he would not soon forget a woman’s public refusal. Among these northerners, chivalry and honor counted for all...but the Riata must be shown that she would not have the duke, and must be shown it soon and well.
She suffered Lancaster’s attentions to grow more and more direct. She began to encourage him, though he needed no encouragement from her to lead himself to his own humiliation. He plucked a sweetmeat in the shape of a rosebud and offered it to her with a glance more of affection than desire. Melanthe looked at him smiling softly upon her and felt a twinge of regret for his spare, comely figure—for women’s fancies—things she had heard about him, of the love he bore still for his first wife, things that could not now nor ever be between her and a man.
In exchange for her life—his pride. It seemed a fair enough bargain to Melanthe.
She regretted him, but she was ruthless, laughing at his wit, complimenting his banquet. It was no sweet love that drove Lancaster now, but ambition and a man’s lust. She could not save him if he would not save himself.
As he prepared their shared trencher with his own hands, she glimpsed a slim figure in blue-and-yellow hose in the throng below. Allegreto Navona lounged at the edge of the hall, near the great hearth, his black hair and bright hues almost blending into the shapes and figures in the huge tapestry on the wall behind him. The youth was looking toward the dais. As Melanthe accepted the duke’s tidbit, Allegreto smiled directly at her.
It was his sweet smirk; charming and sly. She stared at him a moment.
He had succeeded at something. She looked again quickly for the assassin wearing her own green-and-silver livery—there he was, the one Riata watchdog she knew of certainly, still holding checked, still only observing from a distance—Allegreto had not slain or expelled him. Which didn’t mean that the youth hadn’t bloodied his hands in some other way.
She was torn between anger and relief. She had her own agreement with the Riata. In spite of the unceasing threat of the watchers they had placed on her, she wanted no Riata lives spent, not now. But she could not disclose that to a son of the house of Navona. She only gave him a brief look, reserving her pleasure. He made a face of mock disappointment, then lifted his chin in silent mirth. A pair of servants bore huge platters past him. When they had moved beyond, he was gone.
The trumpets sounded.
Melanthe looked up in startlement. They couldn’t yet herald the last course. Over the hum of gossip and feasting came the shouts of men outside the hall. Her hand dropped instinctively to her dagger as the clatter of iron hooves rang against the walls. People gasped; servers scattered out of the great entry doors, spilling platters of sweets and pies. Melanthe reached for Gryngolet’s leash.
An apparition burst into the hall. A green-armored knight on a green horse hurdled the stairs, galloping up the center aisle, the ring of hooves suddenly muffled by the woven rushes, so that the pair seemed to fly above the earth as ladies screamed and dogs scrambled beneath the tables.
Nothing hampered his drive to the high dais. Not a single knight rose to his lord’s defense. Melanthe found herself on her feet alone, gripping her small dagger as Gryngolet roused her feathers and spread her wings in wild alarm.
The horse reached the dais and whirled, half rearing, showing emerald hooves and green legs, the twisting silver horn on its forehead slashing upward. The destrier’s braided mane flew out like dyed silk as light sent green reflections from the lustrous armor. Silver bells chimed and jangled from the bridle and caparisons. At the peak of the knight’s closed helm flourished a crest of verdant feathers, bound by silver at the base, set with an emerald that sent one bright green flash into her eyes before he brought the horse to a standstill.
The knight was on a level with her, the eye slits in his visor dark with the daunting inhumanity that was the life and power of his kind. The destrier’s heavy breath seemed to belong to both of them. He held the reins with gloves of green worked in silver—on his shield the only emblem was a hooded hawk, silver on green. All over the horse’s caparisons embroidered dragonflies mingled with flowers and birds: silver and green entirely.
Melanthe’s hand relaxed slightly on the dagger as she realized that this was not immediate attack. She felt the sudden exposure of standing alone, but it was too late to sit down and hide her reaction. Everyone stared, and after their first startlement, no one appeared dismayed. At the edge of her vision, she could see the duke grinning.
"My lady," Lancaster said into the utter stillness. "Your unicorn comes."
"My liege lady." The knight’s voice sounded hollow and harsh from within the helmet. He made a bow in the saddle. The horse danced. "My dread lord."
"Trusty and well-beloved knight." The duke acknowledged him with a lazy nod. "My lady, we call him the Green Sire who rides your unicorn. I fear he will not grace us with his true name."
"Liege lord of my life," the knight said, "I have made a vow."
"Yes, I remember. Not until you’re proved worthy, was it? At least remove your helm. It alarms the ladies, as you can see." He made a slight gesture toward Melanthe.
The green knight hesitated. Then he seized his helmet and pulled it off his head. The feathers fluttered as he held it under his arm. Melanthe glanced at the emerald that adorned the crest, and looked into his face.
But he kept his eyes well cast down, focused on some spot below the table at Lancaster’s feet, showing mostly a head of black hair cut short and unruly. He was clean-shaven, with a strong jaw and strong features, sun- and battle-hardened in a way that was different from the men she was accustomed to—in the way of campaign and chevauchée, open-air knight errantry instead of close-handed duellum with wits and dagger. Melanthe had an abiding respect for any type of violence; this type had the benefit of a certain novelty. One could appreciate the theory of chivalrous knighthood...one could smile at the idea of a man who would not give his name until he was proven worthy.
Since she felt the urge to smile, she followed the primary rule of her existence and did not do it. Had she followed that principle a moment ago, stifling instinct, she would not now be standing in this foolish and conspicuous way, showing herself the only one who had been so affected by the sensational entrance.
"You desire a unicorn, and I give it to you," Lancaster said in high good humor. "The beast is yours to command, Princess."
The knight lifted his head slightly. His face was immobile. A faint tickle of significance stirred in Melanthe’s mind, a fleeting thought she could not catch. He was indeed a fine man, tall on his horse, strong of limb, his face that combination of beauty and roughness that provoked the ladies to sighs and the more elegant courtiers to spiteful remarks about vulgarity. The range of expression in the company behind him was of vast interest to Melanthe—and not least intriguing the green knight’s own taut countenance. He had a look of extremity on him, some emotion far more intense than mere playacting at marvels before a lady.
"What will you ask, my lady?" Lancaster inquired. "Will you send them to hunt dragons?"
The knight glanced at Melanthe for an instant, then away, as if the contact startled. His destrier shifted restlessly beneath him, its enameled hooves thumping on the braided rush. The bells jangled. With an abrupt move he yanked one glove from his hand and threw it down before the company. "A challenge!" he shouted. He turned about in the saddle, scanning the hall, rising in his stirrups. "For the honor of my lady, tomorrow I take all who come!"
Lancaster went stiff beside her. He stood up. "No," he snapped. "It’s not your place to defend Her Highness!"
The knight ignored his liege. "Is this the court of the Black Prince and Lancaster?" he shouted furiously. "Who will fight me for the honor of my lady?"
His voice echoed in the stunned silence of the hall. They stared at him as if he’d lost his senses. But comprehension burst upon Melanthe. This was the source of Allegreto’s mirthful satisfaction—he had created a chance for her.
"Cease your nonsense!" Lancaster growled in a low voice. "It does you no credit, sir!"
The green knight had dropped his veneer of submissive respect. His gaze hit Melanthe and skewed away again. He dismounted and went down on his knee before her in a chinking clash of mail. "My lady!" Over the edge of the table she could see that he held his bare hand against his heart, the plumed helmet thrust under his arm. "I beg you—give me something of your own, that I might carry the precious prize tomorrow and defend against all comers."
"You shall not do so!" the duke declared, his voice rising. "I carry Her Highness’s favor, impudent rogue!"
Melanthe seized her moment. She slanted him a cool look. "Think you so, my lord?" she asked softly.
Lancaster glanced at her, his face growing red. "I—" His jaw went taut. "I am at your service, if you will honor me," he said stiffly.
Melanthe smiled at him. She caught Gryngolet’s jesses and pulled the soft white calf’s leather loose from about the falcon’s legs, slipping her dagger inside to cut the bells and jesses free. Gryngolet’s varvels—two silver rings jeweled with emeralds and diamonds and engraved with Melanthe’s name—swung suspended from the ends. She slipped the bells from Milan onto the jesses, tying them so that they made a falcon’s music, one note striking high and one low, in the rich harmony that belonged to nothing else in heaven or earth.
Lancaster was watching her. She looked at him for a long, significant moment, then turned back to the knight who still knelt below her.
"Green Sire," she declared, "the most precious prize I possess on earth, I give you for a keepsake, to defend me for my honor on the morrow."
She tossed the jesses with their gems and bells onto the rush before him.
"I challenge for it!" Lancaster exclaimed instantly.
"And I, on my lord’s behalf!" A man stood up beyond him on the dais.
"And I!" They were seconded by two more, and then four, knights standing in the hall to shout their dares until the hammer-beams rang.
"Enough!" Lancaster lifted his arm. "It shall be arranged who will fight." He glared down at the green knight. "Rise, then, insolent fellow."
The knight came to his feet, his eyes downcast again. God only knew how Allegreto had threatened or enticed him to do this thing. The knight stood waiting with a stony stare at his lord’s feet, the light on his green armor sculpting broad curves at his shoulders, chasing silver arcs across his arm-plates. Lancaster could barely keep the fury from his face.
"A most marvelous unicorn," she said with amusement. "My lord’s grace is kind, to put him at my service."
Lancaster seemed to find some control of his emotion. He bowed to her, producing a smile that didn’t quite cover the grim set of his jaw. "I’d have counted it worth my life to serve you myself, my lady. But now I count it an honor to win your better regard by trial tomorrow, against this man I had thought under true oath to me."
The green knight looked up, his expression a fascinating play of yearning and pride, of checked temper. "My beloved lord, I wish with my whole heart to please you, but my lady commands me."
"You take too much credit upon yourself, knave!"
The knight glanced to Melanthe; his eyes as green as his armor, human now instead of hidden by steel and darkness. In his intense gaze there was an open dismay of his own defiance before his prince—he looked to her hoping for reprieve, asking her for release from what he had done.
She held him, denying it. Her answer was unrelenting silence.
The knight bowed his head. She could see the taut muscle in his bared neck. "Does my lord bid me serve his pleasure before my lady’s?" he asked in a low voice.
It was a futile attempt, hardly more than a strained whisper. Without an appeal from Melanthe herself, Lancaster would not withdraw—could not, not now, when he had agreed to fight.
"I don’t know where you come by this notion that Her Highness stoops to command such as you!" Lancaster snapped.
"From me, perhaps," Melanthe murmured.
The duke gave her a sullen small bow. "Then your wish is mine," he said curtly. "And my command, of course. This man shall ride for you on the morrow, my lady, against myself and all who challenge for your favor."
The green knight lifted chagrined eyes to Melanthe. Holding Gryngolet on her wrist, ignoring Lancaster, she gave her new champion a small smile and dropped a mocking bow of courtesy. "I look forward to such spectacle. Go now and refresh yourself, Green Sire. Attend me in chamber when dinner is done."
"
May God reward you, lady," he murmured mechanically, and stood. With an easy move that belied the weight of his armor, he remounted, reining the horse around and spurring it to a gallop. He parted the men-at-arms at the door, vanishing out of the hall with an echo of hooves and bells.
* * *
Of course she didn’t remember him.
Ruck tore the loaf of white bread and shed more crumbs onto his bare chest, causing mute Pierre to gesture and dust him urgently, but there was no time to sit down for a meal as his hunch-backed squire wished. His lady—his liege lady, the cherished queen of his heart—commanded him immediately after the dinner; and by the time he’d stabled Hawk, secured his mount’s armor and his own, harried Pierre, and sufficiently bullied and bribed the fourth chamberlain for a bath in the midst of a banquet, he could hear the higher note of the trumpets that signified the lord’s retirement from the hall.
A light-headed sickness hung in his throat. The dry bread seemed to choke him. It was almost too fantastical to believe that it was her; that she was here. He had never expected it. He hardly knew how to fathom the fact, or what he had just done for her.
Christ—Lancaster’s face—but Ruck could not bear to think of it.
"Hurry!" He knocked Pierre’s hand aside as the squire tried to wipe the shaving soap from him. The barber had been impossible to obtain at such a time. "My hose." He grabbed the towel, cleaned his jaw himself, and finished off the bread before Pierre had the green hose ready for him.
He didn’t think she remembered him. He couldn’t settle it in his mind. By her young courtier in the yellow-and-blue motley, she’d sent him a command to challenge for her. She had looked upon him in the hall with that cool authority...as if she knew his vow to her service—as if she expected it. He had a wild thought that she had known all there was to know of him since that day he’d first seen her, that his every move for thirteen years had somehow been open to her. Those eyes of hers, ’fore God!