"Who gave me this?" he shouted in English. He held it overhead, reining his horse in a circle, spurring toward the quintain. "Who gives me a sword nought worth ambsace?" With a violent sweep he brought it flat against the stout practice post.

The blade broke, the sundered half flying through the air to land with a skidding puff of dust.

"Witness this, that I was goaded into combat by no will of my own, and given that to fighten with." He glared around at the staring faces. "I am in health and whole today-if I die afore I prove my truth against Navona's slander, then I pray you, for your honor, to search into the cause." He threw away the broken hilt and turned his mount toward the gate. "I ne do nought fight with a foul nithing."

They jeered; he supposed it was at him, until he reached the rail and they started to duck under it and run into the lists. His challenger did not make it to the gate, surrounded by an angry swarm. They pulled him from his horse, tearing his helmet and weapon away the better to beat him.

Ruck watched for a moment, with a habitual urge to stop the disorder. He was not certain that the man had been behind the flawed sword. But there were boys taking hold of Hawk's bridle, excited squires and pages escorting him out the gate. He remembered that foreign voice and deliberate spit, and turned his back.

He realized that the bull-shouldered squire who had given him the warning was walking beside him, hand on his stirrup.

When he dismounted, the man took his shield and helmet with a seasoned efficiency.

"Who does thou serve?" Ruck asked in English.

He made a smart bow. "My good lord Sir Henry of Grazely died at Pentecost, may Lord Jesus grant him grace. I be withouten place since."

Ruck frowned. "Who spake thee as my friend?"

"Ne do I not know, sir, but will I try out the creature and find him, an you liketh." He looked at Ruck with a sober expression that did not quite disguise the glint of hope. "John Marking is my name. My lady Grazely will write a letter to attest me, should it fall out that you be in need of a humble squire, G.o.d save you, sire."

"Then let her write anon," Ruck said, and handed John his gloves.

At the archbishop's pleasure, Ruck knelt with his canon in the inner closet where the prelate was lodged at Windsor. He listened to the canon review his case, as he had listened to it laid before priest and archdeacon and bishop. When the clerk had finished, the archbishop sat in silence for a few moments, and then said he wished to speak to Ruck alone.

"Sit there." The prelate waved him to a bench, holding the papers, all in Latin, and spreading them out on the table before him. "This is not a cause in which I would intervene," the prelate said, "but that since I came here I have heard of nothing but the marvelous case of this unknown knight, who would have it that he's married to the Countess of Bowland- who would have it that he's not."

Ruck said nothing. He sat straight, looking at the archbishop's peaked and embellished mitre that he'd taken off and set upon the table. The churchman sorted through papers.

"You press your cause ardently, with nothing to make proof," he murmured, reading. "But of course, I'm told that the widow is an heiress of great fortune."

"Your grace," Ruck said, "I do not want her fortune, nor will have it."

The prelate ran his finger across a line. "I see that you have so testified, that you quit all right in her estate. And yet such a marriage cannot be a disadvantage to you, for you have no property or place that you name. Sir who? Of where? What county?"

"Honorable father-I am under solemn vow, that I will not undertake my right name before the world until I prove worthy. But I have written it, and lies it sealed there." He nodded toward the parchments on the table. "The Duke of Lancaster is my liege lord. Six gentlemen and knights of good character vouch upon me, that I am no felon nor outlaw, but a true Christian man ready to keep the peace."

The archbishop made an irritated flick of his hand. "The Lord would be better pleased if young knights were not so hasty to swear such extravagant and profitless vows. But you must keep to your sworn word. Still-this want of conformity and open truth seems sufficient to arouse suspicion that you make your claim with worldly and wicked motive." '

"My lord, I make claim for cause the Princess Melanthe is my wife, before G.o.d, and no other man may marry her while I live."

The archbishop tapped on the papers. Strong light shafted across the table from a lancet window, making a long shadow from his finger. "You testify that the Princess Melanthe took you to husband by your right name and knows your place."

"Yea, my lord. She lay at my hold, from February to May."

The churchman frowned at him thoughtfully. "Say me, in your own words, what pa.s.sed."

Ruck had told the story often now; he related everything from his dismissal by Lancaster to the bed at Torbec. The archbishop did not break in to question him as the others had. He simply listened, shifting the papers on occasion. At the end he said, "My son, I fear that you have been wiled by a wicked and lewd woman. If those at Torbec could have testified to witness of the vows, the case might be different. I do not say that you have lied, but you have no proof."

"If I do not lie, then she is my wife," Ruck said. "She cannot marry another."

"I have seen her. I spoke to her right plainly, and put her in remembrance that her soul is at stake in this matter. She denies the words, and that you had company of each other, with great vehemence."

Ruck lifted his eyes in shock. He had not known she had already spoken her story.

But he did not trouble to repeat to the archbishop the foolish claim that she spoke under duress. Thrice in as many weeks Ruck had received warnings from his "friend"-and thrice had he lived to value them. He wrestled between believing that his wife was attempting to murder him and hoping that she was behind the warnings that spared him.

He shook his head. "My lord, she is my wife, and she cannot marry another. I do not lie in this, on my soul and any other oath required of me, though for saying it Dan Gian Navona accuses me of deceit and falsehood. I defend my words by arms against him, with leave of the king's justices in the court of chivalry, honorable father, if by G.o.d's will you accord."

The archbishop scratched his forehead and read the paper before him again. "He does not fight himself, but sends a champion."

"His ankle is broken, my lord."

The prelate gave a slight laugh. "I see. G.o.d in his wisdom prevents a direct meeting, that you may not be charged with a killing to clear your way to his betrothed."

"She is not his betrothed, but my wife, my lord."

"You are zealous," the archbishop said. "So too was the princess in her denial. But-if you speak true, then she married without the king's license and now has a great lord for a suitor. Many a man and woman, rightly wed, has made mock of their vows for less than this." He leaned back on the settle and rubbed his nose. "And when I asked of her where she lay for the months of February to May, in her impudence she told me she had spent the time so deep in prayer that she did not recall the place." He lifted his brows. "I be little convinced that such a female can benefit your spiritual welfare, my son in Christ."

Ruck knew that she could not. His spiritual welfare was in b.l.o.o.d.y shreds. But he bowed his head and said, "Good father, I wish to honor the bonds of holy matrimony."

He did not dare raise his eyes, for fear the man of G.o.d would see the depth and heat of gall in him. He listened to the scratch of the quill as the archbishop made a note in the margin of the doc.u.ment.

"I will forbid the banns and delay sitting of the canonical court on this matter until the outcome of the combat," the churchman said. "If G.o.d sends that you are successful in your defense against the charge of falsehood, then follows it that between you and Dan Gian, the weight of truth is yours. The court will take fitting account of the point. If you fail-and live, by G.o.d's mercy-then I forbid you as a proved deceiver to make further cause before the church. In absence of any earthly witness, let the Holy Spirit direct."

They left the archbishop's lodgings, Ruck's canon triumphant with success and John Marking striding ahead, clearing a path through the orderly confusion of the courtyard with oxlike resolution. Even John had to pause for a moment as the horns rang out and an opulent procession came through the gate.

Ruck felt his elation grow cold. Behind a scarlet vaunt-guard, Melanthe rode beside Navona, who did not appear much discommoded by his ankle. She was robed in red and gold; he all in white. A tall knight trailed them, armed and horsed and squired-the Flemish champion, without doubt, looking about himself with a keen interest.

The rest of their company came behind, faces shocking in their strange familiarity in this surrounding-Allegreto, the gentlewomen-and Desmond in the scarlet livery, wearing gloves in high summer and sitting a delicate palfrey with bored arrogance.

"There he is!" John suddenly leaned close to Ruck. "Your friend, my lord, who gave warning of the sword."

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

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

"Nay-" 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. "Nought in white?"

But at that moment Allegreto's lazy glance pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sage, lowering her voice below the sound of talk and movement, speaking Italian. "Avoi, 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 misbegot 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 do not 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 have 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 do not think I am."

Chapter 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 did not 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 full 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. 'Ware your bascinet."

John instantly s.n.a.t.c.hed up the 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. "G.o.d'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!"

"Nay," Ruck said softly. He looked to Allegreto. The youth tilted his head, a smile on his mouth that never reached his black eyes. "Why dost thou 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."

"Thy 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 thee."

"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 pierced breaths in 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 a.s.sault. 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 had not 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 pa.s.sion 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 Ba.s.singer 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 belting in his head, but he felt the jolt and pause in his arm, swung through and past it, blind entirely. The Fleming missed his motet note, but Ruck sent the hocket 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 could not see it, but he knew it: an instant of impact as his sword cleaved steel-and the collapse, a perception, and 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 did not come off easily, beaten and wedged as it was, but when Ruck bent over and let the squire give the steel a bang from behind, the helm loosened. Ruck could barely hear the hit; 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 gra.s.s. His attendants and a physician cl.u.s.tered 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, m.u.f.fled 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.