For My Lady's Heart (29 page)

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As Sir Ruck made farewells in the yard, standing beside Hawk and speaking
a courteous word to each of the men, Melanthe lingered on the steps to the
hall porch. She carried Gryngolet in the bundled cloak—feeling too
noticeable to stand beside Ruck amid the company of guests and servants.

She did not care for these knights, if knights they could be called.
Ruffians, more like, playing at fine manners. One of them stood near,
attempting to lovetalk her, but Melanthe ignored him haughtily. He was a
good-looking wretch who clearly fancied himself with the ladies, his
chestnut hair curled and his doublet padded out like a pouting pigeon. She
would have eaten him alive in Italy, led him on and made such a mock of him
that he could not have shown his face in public after, but now she wished
only to be gone.

He came up onto the porch, disposing himself so that he showed a fine
length of hose and slender leg. “My heart was full broke,” he said, “that
thou didst not come down to the hall yesterday, lovely. And now thou art on
thy way.”

Melanthe gave him a look of disdain. She would not retreat a step, lest
he think he had success at stalking her.

He moved about behind, into the shadow of the porch. “A kiss to God-speed
thee, sweetheart.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Look, he’s not
watching.”

“Thy swaddling drags, infant.”

His hand dropped away. She took the moment to move out of the cover, but
before she could advance, he gripped her arm. It was the one on which she
held Gryngolet; she stopped, unable to jerk free without risking the falcon.
In the moment of her hesitation, he hauled her up into the porch and pressed
her back to the wall, holding her shoulders.

“Scream if thou wilt,” he said. “It is fifteen to one against him.” He
grinned in the half-light. “Haps I’ll give thee a better parting gift than a
kiss, my duck, here and now.”

Her free hand was already on her dagger. She saw a figure behind him, but
Melanthe made a cut just to instruct the fellow. He jumped back with a
shriek into Sir Ruck’s arms.

“Thy duck renays thy gift, infant,” she said coldly.

He was bleeding from a light slash across his upper thigh. Sir Ruck
scowled fiercely, gripping the man, but the corners of his mouth would not
quite turn downward.

“Vicious bitch!” Her bleeding gallant made a lunge toward her, but could
not free himself.

“Give thanks that I ne did not prune thee entire,” she said, and swept
away, off the porch.

“Bitch!” A scuffle sounded behind her. “Thieving, whoring bitch—stop her!
Henry! There’s something in that bundle!”

Melanthe halted. They stood about her, some grinning, some grim. Henry
looked at her and then up at the porch. “In the bundle? Nay, sir—is this how
you return my hospitality? To steal from me?”

Sir Ruck let go of his prisoner and strode down the steps. “Ne would I.
Only the food ye ha’e offered us freely do we take, and God give you grace
for it. Naught that she carries belongs to thee, in faith.”

“Let us see it then.”

“I will tell you what she holds,” Ruck said. “It is a falcon that I
recovered in the forest. We take her to her rightful owner.”

“A falcon!” Clearly they had had no such notion. Henry looked about him
and then insisted, “Nay, I will see it.”

Melanthe glanced at Sir Ruck. He nodded at her. “Uncover her, then.”

She was wary of this, but saw no choice. Gently she lifted the folds of
the mantle, allowing Gryngolet’s hooded head to appear. She kept the wool
draped over the rest of her, hoping that would be enough. It was a plain
white hunting hood, adorned only with some silver leaf and green and white
plumes. She did not allow the snowy feathers of the gyrfalcon’s shoulders to
show.

A ripple of regard passed through the company. Gryngolet turned her head,
opening her beak to the cold air.

“What, a falcon peregrine, by Christ? Why did ye not say? We would have
put her in the mews last night. Who owns her?”

“A lord of the midlands,” Ruck said shortly. “I durst nought mix her with
other birds, sir, if it offend you nought.”

Henry shrugged. “Our hawks are in health,” he said with a little
indignation.

“She n’is nought mine,” he said. “I mote take extraordinary care.”

“Yea, there will be a reward in this—” Henry paused. He grinned. “Whose
is she?”

The light of greed in his eyes was unmistakable. Ruck walked to his
destrier’s head, taking the reins. “Come,” he said to Melanthe. “Sir, I
recovered the falcon, and such reward as there might be, though I think it
be little enow but a few shillings and thanks, belongs to me.”

“Is she the king’s?” Henry demanded. “Hold the horse, Tom!”

“Nought the king’s, nay.”

Sir Ruck caught Melanthe at the waist and lifted her, but Henry lunged
forward, pulling him backward off balance. Melanthe’s feet hit the ground;
she stumbled for balance, clutching Gryngolet to her breast.

Henry grabbed her arm. “I’ll see the varvels for myself,” he snapped.

Melanthe held the gyrfalcon close. “Here—” She flicked the wool mantle
back from her wrist, revealing Gryngolet’s jesses dangling from within her
closed gauntlet. “Canst thou read, my prince?”

Henry cast her a bristling glance and caught the leash, holding it out to
peer closely at the flat rings of the varvels where her name was engraved.
Like the hood, they were extras for the field that she carried in her
hawking bag, made of silver but unadorned.

“Is in Latin. Pri—ah . .. Mont—verd?” He dropped the jesses. “Never have
I heard tell of the man. Where dwells he?” Before anyone could answer, he
grabbed a jess again and reexamined it. “Princ—i—pissa? Is he a prince, by
God?”

“A princess,” said the bleeding gallant. “A foreigner.”

Henry scowled. “Foreign.”

“Let me see.” Her troublesome lecher moved closer, taking up the jesses.
He examined them both. “ ‘Bow’—the leash has rubbed the letters. ‘Count—of
Bow and—’”

“Give me the bird, wench, and mount.” Ruck held out his thickly gloved
fist. “Ne do nought stond there, as if thou be rooted to the ground.”

“Hold!” Henry gripped his wrist. “Ye’ve had my hospitality, ye and your
leman, green fellow, without e’en the courtesy of your name. Do ye deny me a
small token of your, thanks?”

Ruck tore his hand from the other man’s grasp. “If it is the falcon you
desire, n’is nought mine to give.”

Henry smiled. “Only let me carry it. A prince’s falcon. When will I have
such a chance?”

Sir Ruck stared for a moment at him, and then looked at Melanthe. “Let
him carry it, then.”

She drew in her breath, standing still.

“Give me the leash, wench, and mount,” Ruck snapped. “Do as I say!”

She let the folded leash drop from her lower fingers, gathering it
untidily in her fist.

“Bring me my glove!” Henry ordered. “All haste!” A servant ran. “Strike
the hood. Let me see her.”

Melanthe glanced at Ruck, feeling her heartbeat rise. “I know not how.”

“Nay, I’ve had nonsense enow of thee,” he said as he moved close. He drew
the braces open himself, took the plumes between his fingers and lifted the
hood. He reached to slip the wool from Gryngolet’s shoulders, but now that
the gyrfalcon could see, her patience reached its limit. She screamed,
lifting her wings. Without thinking, Melanthe let the mantle drop, fearing
she would bate and tangle in it, breaking feathers.

Gryngolet’s white plumage glowed, marked only by the dark, shining fury
in her eyes as she rowed the air, shrieking her displeasure with this place
and her treatment.

In the astounded silence her shrilling was the only sound. Even the loose
dogs stopped and looked up. Sir Ruck was the single human who moved, closing
his hands about Gryngolet’s body the moment that she folded her wings.

“Mount!” he said through his teeth as the gyrfalcon shrieked again. He
lifted her from Melanthe’s fist.

He was looking at Melanthe as vehemently as the trapped falcon stared at
her tormentors. A boy ran up with Lord Henry’s glove and bag. Melanthe held
to Gryngolet’s tangled leash, and let go. She gave Ruck a beseeching look,
not to lose her dearest treasure.

But he only glared at her and jerked his head toward the destrier.

“A white gyr,” Henry breathed reverently, pulling on his gauntlet. “Pure
white, by all that’s holy!” He took the jesses and wadded leash as Sir Ruck
set the falcon upon his hand. “Ah ... depardeu, she is glorious.”

“I haf heard the penalty for theft of such,” Sir Ruck said. “An ounce of
flesh cut from the thief’s breast and fed to the bird.” He put his hands at
Melanthe’s waist and lifted her up onto the pillion.

“Nay, do you think I mean to stealen her?” Henry asked with a false and
sweet indignation. He reached to untangle the leash, but Gryngolet bit
wildly at him, almost bating off his fist. He jerked his hand away with a
curse.

Sir Ruck was still looking up, scowling intently. Melanthe shifted her
leg across the horse and sat astride.

“I think you too wise a man, my lord,” he said, mounting up before her
and glancing down at Henry. “Now ye hatz carried her, we will take her back
to her true owner.”

The lord of Torbec was still trying to straighten the leash. Unable to
risk his free hand near the bird, he opened his lower fingers to let the
tether fall free of its tangle. Melanthe saw him do it; she saw Gryngolet
bate again, thrusting off, her powerful wings scooping air—and the falcon
bounded free, tearing the twisted leash from his loose fingers and carrying
it away.

Henry clutched at thin air, as if he could grab her, but she was gone,
pumping up over the stables and the wall. “A lure!” he shouted. “Oh,
Christ—here—bring her in!”

A chorus of whistles and frantic shouts followed Gryngolet. Sir Ruck
reached back and grabbed Melanthe’s arm, gripping so tightly that a whimper
of pain escaped her instead of the cry to call the falcon home that sprang
to her throat.

“Please!” she hissed. Gryngolet had swung back, circling and playing in
lazy drifts over the yard, still gripping the tangle of leash, unaccustomed
to being flown from inside manor walls where dogs and people were milling in
confusion.

“Get back, give me room!” Henry held up a leather lure, with a hastily
attached garnish of meat from the mews. He shouted and whistled, whirling
the temptation overhead as the company scattered.

The falcon dropped playfully toward the toll and rolled out of her stoop
halfway, dancing upward over the hall roof. She circled the yard, ringing up
to a higher pitch before she stooped again. Henry threw down the lure as she
came.

Ruck still held Melanthe in a death grip. Gryngolet dived on the downed
lure and made a cut at it, leash and all, then passed right on over the
gatehouse. She soared, silent without her bells. She was in one of her
mirthful moods, twisting and pumping lazily, looking back at them as if in
jest.

Henry whistled frantically, swinging the toll again. Melanthe’s heart was
in her mouth. She feared the garnish was of pork, a meat that Gryngolet
loathed. With no bells to locate the falcon, the dangling leash was a death
warrant for her if she escaped now—she would catch it in a tree and hang
head downward until she died.

Gryngolet turned back. She almost came to light on the gatehouse, then
changed her mind, nearly catching a loop of the leash on an empty banner
pole. Curious of the whistling, the gyrfalcon sailed over them, looking for
the other hunting birds that she would expect to see among the company—for
Melanthe’s usual call was no whistle, but her own voice.

The lure spun. Gryngolet trifled about it. She swung in dilatory circles
just over their heads. After a few rings she began to ignore the lure and
tighten her compass, centering on Melanthe.

Everyone in the yard stared in silence as the falcon swung about her,
disdaining the meat, passing Melanthe’s head so close she could feel the
windy whisper. Sir Ruck kept her hand forced down.

“Princess!”
It was the chestnut-haired gallant shouting. “Shut
the gate! Look at it—Christ’s rood, she’s a princess!” He began to run for
the passage. “That bird belongs to
her!”

Ruck released her hand. Instantly Melanthe lifted it, calling Gryngolet
urgently to her fist as he spurred the horse. There were men already running
toward the gatehouse, Henry yelling frenzied commands, a sudden tumult,
shouts of
“Princess!”
and “To ransom!”

Gryngolet came, landing just as the destrier lunged into motion. Melanthe
grappled for the tangled leash; in the sudden thrust forward the gyrfalcon
near fell backward, beating her wings, but her talons gripped and Melanthe
swung her arm back to absorb the force.

A pair of men almost reached the gate too soon, but a blond youth in
skin-toned hose collided with them, such a bumble that it was as if he’d
intended it, sending them all sprawling to the ground only a foot from the
horse’s massive hooves. Hawk swept past them.

His hooves hit the bridge like the sound of boulders rolling, a pounding
rumble and then the wind as he lengthened his stride to a gallop beyond the
walls.

Sir Ruck guided the stallion out from among the trees into an abandoned
charcoal burners’ clearing. They had made haste some distance down the road
from the manor of Torbec and finally slowed to a walk, allowing Melanthe a
few moments to untangle the leash and jesses she’d been gripping and arrange
herself and Gryngolet to more secure positions. When he’d turned the horse
off the road, circling back through the forest, Melanthe had realized for
the first time that they had been fleeing in the same direction they had
first come to Torbec.

They had traveled without speaking. Melanthe did not know whether they
passed near again to Torbec; the woods were thick and crossed by many paths.
He had reined the horse sometimes left and sometimes right, halting now and
then to shade his eyes and look up through the bare branches at the winter
sun. His mantle was missing, dropped in the yard in the wrangling over
Gryngolet, and the light gleamed on his shoulder harness, showing scratches
and the arcs of cleaning scours in the green-tinged plate.