For My Lady's Heart by Laura Kinsale
Carefully he set his clay tankard on a chest. "Then I have no place with you, by your own word." He lifted his sword belt, girding it. "I take Desmond to Wolfscar, and thence to my duty to Lancaster."
"Lancaster! You're not his, but mine. He will not abide you."
"For the ill way things go in Aquitaine, he must need seasoned men. A lord will forgive much to a captain of experience."
"No!" she said sharply. "You shall not go away from me!"
"In this, my lady, you don't command me."
"You're my husband. I will have you at my side."
He buckled the belt. "Lady, it's a lapdog you'd have at your side. I'll buy one for you 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.
"No, you do not go away to France, sir. I so command!'
"My lady, I've been your liege man. Now you've made me your husband, and named me so to the world. It is I, lady, could command you 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? Beware you 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 don't doubt that I should beware! Well do I know the depth of your guile—I had plenty of time to ponder in your prison!" He shook his head with a harsh laugh. "I'm no match for you, faithly. You could skulk and slink to Lancaster, and poison me in his ear, so that I might not go to France. You could take Wolfscar from me if it pleased you, so that I have nothing of my own. I don't doubt you could command me, and hem me, and keep me by your side. You value your falcon better, for you set her free and trust her to return to you, though it be every time a peril. You might mew her in the dark for evermore, to keep her. But I see your face when she flies, and your joy and wonder when she comes." He shook his head again. "No, lady, there's no war between us. What use a war with a dead man? For I can't live mewed up at your pleasure, nor ever love you 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.
"Happens I am a man, and not a falcon," he said gruffly.
She sighed. She sat down on the window seat, frowning down at the carved mirror back.
"Will you not look into your 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'm not there?"
"How could you not be there?"
"Perhaps I am a witch, with no reflection."
"Times there be that I think you a witch in truth, my lady."
"Why?" She gave him a quick glance. Her eyes had an uneasy vividness, that imperfect blue smudged to violet.
"Because I love you when I would rather strangle you."
"But—perhaps I am a witch. Perhaps I'm no one. Maybe the Devil came and took me while I slept. I dreamed it once, that he took me, and left nothing but a thing fashioned of lies, to seem like me." She gripped the mirror. In a small voice she said, "Ruck. Will you 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'm 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 do you see?"
He didn't even glance at the mirror.
"Sharp wit," he said. "Valor past any man I know. Foolish japery and tricks worse than a child. Delicious lust, hair like midwinter night. A proud and haughty 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 rough girl. My wife. I see you, Melanthe. I don't 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. "You're certain? My face is there? You don't say me false?"
"I fear for my life do I ever say you false, my lady."
"Oh, I am lost! I need you to tell me the truth. I need you to tell me what I should be. All is changed, and I know not what I am."
"Then will we keep watch and see. And if you be someone new each morn, Melanthe—God knows you're still my sovereign lady. I won't be at your side in every moment, but in spirit always, and return to you with my whole heart, to see what bemazement you'll work upon me next."
Her hand turned upright beneath his, clinging. "I pray you. I don't command you, but I pray you—do not go to France and leave me. Not—so soon. I wouldn't make you my lap-dog, but—" She moistened her lips. "Truly, I know nothing of sheep. And I have thousands, so says my seneschal. Perhaps I'll require your good advice."
"I'm a master of sheep, my lady. Even to shearing them, if I must. 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 overlook castles and crenellations for what repairs and enlargements may be required."
Her hand eased, but still she kept her eyes closed. "All this? You're supreme in merits."
"I've thought me a little over what my service could be."
"And what is left to me, but breeding?"
"Of course. 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 know well how my lady wench likes to sweep a hearth."
"Wench?" she uttered dangerously.
He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. "If Your Highness finds time heavy between your lazy sleeps—I be not much hand at Latin, my lady, nor lawyers and court dealings such as a great estate must always have."
She opened her eyes, looking out the window. "All these plans and devises! Methinks you're a great trumpery, who never meant for a moment to go back to chevauchee in France!"
"If you have truer need of my service," he said with dignity, "then I won't, unless 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 haven't lied to you."
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 falsehood, these songs and praises to my beauty. Indeed, when is a rich woman plain?"
Ruck smiled at her. "Are you not beautiful? It's 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 beautiful to you, 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 cloth was to make a coverlet for an infant's cradle—n
She lifted her head, taking a deep breath after bending over the labor. 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've had a great adventure, coming through the snow! Dan Allegreto's horse fell in a drift! Will we live here? It's so cold! Dan Allegreto says that I'll 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, your 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.
"No," 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 couldn't 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, you'll catch your 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.
Laura Kinsale, For My Lady's Heart