With an unmusical sound, the metallic note of armor, he came to his feet. She extended her free hand. Without raising his eyes to hers, he moved near and went down again on one leg to offer his knee as a pillion stone. Melanthe stepped from the saddle to the ground, lightly touching his bare hand for an instant before Cara hurried up to offer her support.
The knight rose. Melanthe soothed Gryngolet with one finger as he caught his horse away from his hunchbacked servant. Cara melted back from close range when the knight led the huge destrier toward them, its caparison of emerald silk and dragonflies rippling at the hem as the war-horse moved.
Having prompted this little play herself, Melanthe saw with wry relief that the twisted unicorn’s horn, a yard long, had been replaced by a less threatening pointed cone upon the stallion’s faceplate. The destrier’s eyes were hidden behind steel blinders. It blew softly and chewed at the bit as the knight attached a silver cord to the bridle, presenting the lead to her with another bow of courtesy.
She had not really expected to be left holding this enormous beast herself, but the broken-backed squire moved away to help his master with pulling the helm and aventail over the knight’s head, quickly smoothing any crimp out of the mailed links that fell over his shoulders. Melanthe realized with some surprise that he seemed to have no other servant. He pushed up the visor with his fist, keeping a cautious eye on his horse as he pulled on his gauntlets.
The uneasy moment passed without incident. He caught up the looping reins, holding them together at the stallion’s shoulder as he stood by the stirrup. His plated gauntlets were so thick that his fingers seemed set in their half curl, clumsy and skillful at once.
For the first time he looked directly at Melanthe. He said nothing, but there was a level strength in him, something quiet and open, without evasion. He seemed to wait, without expectation, with immeasurable steady patience in his green eyes. As impenetrable and beckoning as the silent shadows of a forest, and yet flickering with hints of secret animation: with its own mysterious life and will.
Unexpectedly Melanthe found she had no ready word, no deceptive smile to return. She felt—as if she had been falling...and under his calm regard found herself caught up from the endless drop and placed on solid ground.
The horse threw its head, ringing bells. She shifted her look, the first to break away, and nodded to the knight.
He turned to mount. His squire took hold of the reins below the bit, steadying the destrier. From the block her champion swung up into the tourney saddle, adjusting his body against the high curve of the cantle. The little squire brought the lance. With a move that held the grace of countless repetitions, the hunchback swung the heavy spear aloft in an arc. The weapon slapped into the knight’s waiting hand, slipped down against his open palm, and couched in the rest. At the spear point the bells of Gryngolet’s jesses rang their hunter’s music.
He took up his shield with the image of the hooded falcon upon it and looked down upon Melanthe. Sunlight caught the large emerald at the base of his green plumes.
"Say me thy right name," she said in English, in a low voice.
She heard herself ask it, heard the intensity of her own voice—standing amid the crowd of onlookers, not even knowing herself why she should care to know.
His armor masked him now; all she saw was his shadowed face within the helm and visor. She thought he would not answer—he had sworn to be nameless, and yet there was no smell of subterfuge about him: an impossible contrast, new to her and unsettling in its strangeness. She felt a bizarre rush of shyness to have pressed him, and turned her face downward.
"Ruck," he said.
She looked up, uncertain of the English word.
"As the black ravens call," he murmured in his own language. His mouth lifted with a half-smile. "Ruck, my lady. Be nought such a fair name, as yours, but runisch."
There was no presumption, no bold arts of love or offers of certain delight. Only that half-smile, rare and sweet, and vanished in a moment—but Melanthe saw then in him what Allegreto had claimed to see: a man’s hunger beneath the reserve.
He sat mounted with his shield and lance, a warrior geared for combat. An uncouth runisch name he might bear, but his armored figure aroused a thought in her that was stunning in its novelty.
She was no longer married. She might take a friend—a lover—if she pleased.
In the same moment that she thought it, she knew the impossibility. Nothing had changed. Gian Navona had grown smoothly savage over the years of waiting for his prize. He tolerated no gallant by her—any man who could not be discouraged in his attentions would meet his fate by some insidious means, so subtle that only gossip and evil tales followed Melanthe. So subtle that she had learned to befriend no one and smiled upon no man, cold as winter now in her heart.
She turned that icy disfavor upon the knight, so that any who watched could see her do it. "I care naught for thy runisch font-name," she said, as if he’d been too dull to understand her. "What is thy court, knight?"
He showed no reaction but a turn of his thick gauntlet, gathering the reins. "My court is yours, my lady," he said in French. "And his who rules the palatine of Lancaster."
"If thou love me as thy liege," she said, "for today thy court is mine alone." She stared at him, to be certain that he took her meaning, a long moment with everything she knew of command in her eyes.
"Yea, then," he said slowly. "Yours only, my lady."
THREE
They called him by this north-name of bersaka with good reason. Melanthe was accustomed to games of combat, the innumerable hastiludes and tournaments and spectacles she had attended, celebrating every occasion from weddings to foreign embassies. A plaisance—pleasantries, as Lancaster had promised. But with his blunted tournament weapons, her Green Knight fought as if he meant to kill.
Melanthe had led him last into the lists, holding back until two lines had formed: opposing ranks of destriers and knights, their banners waving gently over the fantastical crests of staghorns and griffons and outlandish beasts, as if each man vied to display a deeper nightmare than the next atop his helm. Down the open space between she led her Green Sire, halting at the center to the sound of scattered cool applause. The moment she had released his horse, a pair of pages in Lancaster’s livery hurried up to her, catching her by the hand and escorting her to a place upon the escafaut below Prince Edward on his red-draped couch and dais. She curtsied deeply to the prince and princess, then took her seat next to the duke’s empty chair.
There was to be no old-fashioned melee. At the stout gate into the tilting ground, a monument of red stone held the insignia of the defenders. As each knight had ridden past in the procession, he had struck the shield of his choice to issue his challenge—and the green shield emblazoned with a silver falcon bore so many sword and lance wounds of challenge that the wood showed through the paint. Not every knight had touched it; many had raised their weapons and brought them down as if they would hit the falcon, then at the last instant held back, bowing deliberately toward Lancaster, and struck some other arms.
But even so, there were no less than a score of rivals beyond the duke himself who had signaled a wish to fight for Melanthe’s favor. The trumpets sounded, clearing the lists of all but Lancaster’s swarm of attendants and her champion with his single man. As the Green Sire reined his destrier into position, the jeers began. They would not sneer openly at Melanthe, but her champion was fair game, it seemed.
The entire crowd burst into frenzied acclaim for Lancaster as the duke rode forward into place, surrounded by his squires and grooms. The Green Sire made no sign of noticing either applause or taunts; he rested his lance on the ground and slipped Gryngolet’s jesses from the tip. The marshal of the lists accepted responsibility for Melanthe’s prize, riding back to the escafaut. As he handed her the jesses, both combatants lifted their lances in salute.
Melanthe bowed to her champion, ignoring Lancaster.
The trumpets clarioned. The
lances swung downward. Both horses roused; the Green Knight’s half reared and came down squarely as Lancaster’s was already trotting forward. The green destrier sprang off its haunches into a gallop. Lancaster’s bay mount hit its stride, rolling the sound of hoof-beats over the stands and the crowd.
An instant before impact, the Green Knight threw his shield away. The crowd roared, obscuring the sound as the lances hit. Lancaster’s bounced upward, flying free and solid into the air along with the shattered splinters of his opponent’s weapon. The Green Sire pulled up at the far end of the list, carrying half of a demolished tournament spear in one hand.
Tossing away his shield was the entire extent of his consideration for his prince. In five more courses he broke five lances on the duke, and took off Lancaster’s helm on the sixth—whereupon the marshal threw down his white arrow to end the match. To Melanthe’s displeasure, Lancaster accepted this without demur, not even demanding to go on to the foot combat.
Amid a murmur that spoke faintly of disfavor from the crowd, the duke saluted Melanthe and his brother and left the lists with his retinue.
She had not counted upon such a paltry showing. Not even the partisan onlookers could accuse her of withholding her favor from him without reason. But when he joined her upon the escafaut, he seemed unembarrassed—gay, rather, speaking favorably of his opponent’s skill to his brother Edward for a moment before he sat down beside Melanthe. The musicians behind them struck up warbling tunes.
"A fair fight, my lady," he said, "though your champion makes no fine distinction between battlefield and tourney. I only hope that he slays none of our guests."
She felt an irritated urge to rise to this bait. "He faced you without shield," she said shortly.
"Yea—so they told me, but indeed I did not know it until he took off my helm, or I should have done the same." He raised his hand for refreshment and took the cup his squire offered, drinking deeply. "Or mayhap not. Mary, I have no desire to be run through in a joust and buried in unconsecrated ground."
He laughed, but there was a glitter of deeper emotion in him. Melanthe watched him as he drained the wine, tossed the cup down, and turned back to the lists with relish. This was some artificial show—she felt it, studying his unabashed countenance. It was not over yet, not at all. Lancaster had no intention of concluding with such a poor display.
She turned a look of better humor upon him. "I will not believe you stand in such peril, sir. Come, you will fight again, will you not?"
The flicker of hesitation told her all that she need know. "Why—nay, madam. I will take my ease at your side, if you will be kind. Here, now comes your champion into the lists again."
A challenger, emblazoned in gold and black and crested by the gilt head of a leopard, was being led into position by two squires, while Melanthe’s knight circled his courser and backed it into place. He had resumed his fighting shield. The lances dipped; a gold-and-black squire shouted and stabbed a stick into the rump of the other horse. The animal jumped forward under the goad, galloping wildly, half shying as her champion’s stallion bore down upon it.
The green lance caught its target full in the chest. With a jerk he sailed from the saddle as the horse went down. They somersaulted in opposite directions, the destrier hauling itself upright in a flail of hooves and caparisons to trot intemperately about the list, evading attempts to capture it.
"Poorly mounted," Lancaster murmured dryly.
The gold challenger struggled to his feet, pulling off his helmet and demanding his ax. The Green Sire dismounted, changing to a bascinet helm and sending the visor down with a clamp as the hunchback led his mount away. The challenger came at him, swinging a long-handled ax. It whirred past his shoulder as he stepped aside; he lifted his weapon and took a single cut behind his opponent’s knees. The other man fell—and one more murderous strike, blade-on to his helmet, slicing an edge through the metal, was enough to make him shout pax. He was bleeding at the temple when his squire pulled off his helmet.
They did not proceed to the sword combat.
While the musicians played harmonious melodies and Melanthe sat calmly beside Lancaster, her champion smashed the pretensions of three more challengers. Two lances were shattered on him, but no contender fought as far as the swords, and one left the first course of axes with a broken hand.
Outside the lists, where common men-at-arms mingled with the squires and pages, there was a small but growing band of onlookers who met the Green Sire’s victories with a ragged volley of cheers. Melanthe made no sign herself, but a feeling of pleasant awe began to steal over her, watching him fight. Berserker, indeed. It only remained to see that Lancaster be fired to face her champion again.
Melanthe already suspected the duke’s intention. To allow a goodly number of challengers, wearing his rival down and painting him invincible at the same time...then perhaps a private visitation by some secret "friend," warning him of his prince’s displeasure and designed to shake his nerve...and somehow Lancaster, fresh from hours of relaxation in the stands, would find a reason to meet the Green Sire at the end of the day.
She could appreciate Lancaster’s design. It required a fine judgment—Melanthe smiled inwardly as he lifted a finger to communicate with the marshal of the lists, who instantly caused the heralding of a new set of combatants, allowing the Green Sire his first rest. It would not do to have him appear too easy—and just as vital to properly exhaust him before the coup de grace.
Melanthe prepared to ensure that the duke misjudged his moment.
She toyed with the jeweled jesses, turning a disinterested look on the new jousters. "Tell me of my champion," she said. "He is nameless in truth?"
"Nameless, yea, my lady. A nobody. He gives homage and claims our service, but brings no men of his own beyond that malformed squire."
"No lands, then? But such rich gear, and a great war-horse. He has won many prizes in tournament, I expect?"
The duke laughed. "Few enough, for I’ve better use for him in real fighting, but it is true that when he enters the lists, he prevails. I have sometimes sent him on a dragon hunt, for sport, but he brings me no prize yet."
"And still he has not proved himself worthy of his name?"
Lancaster turned his palm up casually. "The fortunes of war and dragons, my lady. All must await their great chance at honor, if it ever comes." He shrugged. "Haps he has no name. God only must know where he thieved his gear. It’s my thought that he’s naught but a freeman."
"A freeman!" Melanthe turned in amazement.
"Else why hide his lineage? That falcon device is recorded on no roll of rightful arms, so say the heralds. But the Green Sire has a talent to lead common soldiers. What men he commands, they come to love him, and the French dread his name. No great chivalry in that, but it is a useful art." He leaned back in his chair and smiled. "So we tolerate his odds and his unlawful device and green horse, Princess—and if he likes to call you his liege lady for a fantasy, then we will enjoy the game."
Melanthe swung the jesses lightly between her fingers, drawing them over the back of his hand. "A poor game to the present, my lord! Know you of no man strong enough to win my favor from this odd knight?"
Lancaster caught up the jesses and kissed them. The bells rang brightly. "I shall find one, Princess," he murmured. "Fear not for that."
Furious shouts drowned the music as a fistfight broke out between a foot soldier and a youth from the retinue of a defeated challenger. Lancaster watched until some of the guards had separated them, and then turned again to Melanthe. "Will you take wine, my lady? The dust rises."
At his words, Cara stood up from her stool behind, placing a tray between their chairs to offer the ewer and goblets. As the duke reached to pour, Melanthe sat back in her seat with a pert moue of impatience.
"Nay, sir, I shall not." She waved Cara away. "This sport is too tame. I vow by Saint John, my lord—nothing, food nor drink, shall pass my lips until a new champion wins my admiration."
He lifted his brows, his hand poised with the ewer. "So eager, my lady? The day is long, and the earth dry."
"So it is," she agreed. She trifled with the jesses, allowing the bells to tinkle. "But I am dauntless. Indeed, I challenge you to join me, and dedicate your comfort to this quest. Surely it is little enough to venture"—she glanced at him beneath her lashes—"as you do not bestir yourself to fight for my prize again."
Lancaster’s mouth showed a very faint tautening. She saw the struggle in him, pride against guile, but he smiled at last and nodded toward her. "As you will, my lady." He set down the ewer. "By Saint John, I vow it. No food or drink shall I take until you are satisfied with a new champion."
As the noon passed, Melanthe sat upon the escafaut, fanning herself conspicuously with a green plume. The day was clement enough that winter clothing weighed heavily; the duke in his blue-and-crimson houppelande was a little flushed at the neck, his crown resting on hair that curled damply, darkened against his temple. The Black Prince, fretful and complaining of his swollen joints, had retired with his wife, carried in his litter from the stands to the shade of a magnificent tent set a little back from the noise and dirt.
As each new course of jousting sent dust into the air, Melanthe covered her mouth with a scarf and coughed lightly to convey her discomfort. She looked with a great show of longing at a tray of lozenges and cream tarts that passed en route to some other guests. The duke made no such indication of interest, but she was pleased to note that he swallowed once after the wine had traversed their view.
The Green Sire was handily trouncing all comers. Melanthe sighed, watching a knight outfitted in a boar’s head helm pick himself up from a fall, the boar’s tusks smashed and drooping askew. "I weary of these trials," she said. "Has he some magic, or be your men all weak as willow wands?"
"No magic, my lady, but goodly strength and skill," Lancaster said. "He, too, is mine," he added in a cool reminder.