A shadow of pique crossed her features. But she stepped back, taking a bite with a crunch of white teeth. "The Princess Melanthe," she said airily. "You know her?"

"I know her," he said.

"Ah. Then you know to accept no apples of love from that one. She poisoned her own husband."

Ruck stiffened. "Madam—it were better that thou spake truth on thy tongue."

"Oh, I speak true enough." She licked a drop of juice from the apple. "Ask it of anyone. She was put to trial for the deed."

He scowled at her for a moment, and then held out his hand to Pierre for his tunic. His squire caught the mantle as Ruck shrugged it off and pulled the green wool over his head. A few more gentlewomen hovered outside.

"She is a sorceress," his blonde temptress said, and looked to the others. "Is she not?"

"That gyrfalcon," another offered. "The bird is her familiar. Never has she flown it in the light of day."

"She bewitched the magistrate to release her—"

"She took her own brother for a lover—"

"Yea, and murdered him with that very dagger at her waist; whilst he was a guest in her husband's house."

"And now on her way to gorge on his birthright! But no Christian knight will escort her hence, for fear of his soul."

"Nay," Ruck objected, "she is a princess."

"A witch! Sir Jean will say you!" Feminine hands urged a knight forward from where he'd been lingering at the edge of the group, trying to woo one of the gentlewomen.

Pierre helped Ruck into his surcoat, smoothing down the cloth-of-silver. Ruck stood facing the other man, his jaw rigid. "Have a care," he said. "The chatter of the women is naught. On behalf of my sworn lady, sir, I will not take thy words so lightly."

"You have sworn to her?" the blonde asked, stepping back.

"Yea. I am her man."

"For the tourney," the other knight said. "My lord the duke will abide no more." He gave Ruck a shrewd grin. "It was a bold stroke you took. He's angry now, but he'll value you to show him at his finest on the morrow."

"I am her man," Ruck repeated.

Sir Jean looked at him. "Nay, you don't mean to be serious in this?"

Ruck stared back, eyes level, showing nothing. "I am sworn to her. I am honored with her gift. I fight for the Princess Melanthe."

The spectators began to depart, withdrawing with sidelong glances and murmurs among them. Ruck threw his mantle round his shoulders and stabbed the pin of his silver brooch through the cloth. When he looked up, he and Pierre were alone in the buttery.

The mute squire elevated his eyebrows expressively. He dug in his apron and held out a leather-bagged amulet.

"She is not a witch," Ruck snapped.

Pierre crossed himself and mimicked a priest blessing the charm.

"Curse thee! She is my lady!"

Pierre ducked and genuflected. With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, he tucked his saint's tooth away.

TWO

"Tell me," Melanthe said lightly in Italian. "I can see thou art full of thine own shrewdness."

Allegreto Navona rested against the curve of the spiraling stairwell, his arms crossed, grinning down at her from two steps above. The last thin light fell between them from an arrowslit. "The green man is invincible, my lady," he whispered, leaning as near as he dared while she had Gryngolet on her fist. "Your fine Duke of Lancaster will have his tail feathers plucked tomorrow."

"Will he? After they have sent half their knighthood against my poor—champion?" She made a short laugh. "So I suppose I must title him."

"Nay, you miscalculate your knight, lady. They have another name for him here. They call him after some barbarian tale from the north—Berserka, or some such." He gave an elegant shudder. "I'm told it is the north-name of a savage in bear-coats. A warrior who would as soon kill as breathe."

"Berserker," Melanthe said, gazing at Allegreto thoughtfully. "Thou hast busy ears, to know so much of him. Where didst thou find this great warrior?"

"Why, in the stable, my lady, braiding his green destrier's green mane with silver, in preparation to fight in the hastilude tomorrow. A most pure and courteous knight, well-liked by common men-at-arms. He keeps to himself and the footsoldiers and the chapel, and has no traffic with ladies. But when they ordered him to play your unicorn because of his color...I thought to take him aside, Your Highness, and tell him of your wishes."

"My wishes." She lifted her eyebrows.

"You wished to bestow your tournament favor on him, lady." Allegreto smiled angelically. "Did you not? But he would have none of it, I fear—until I walked with him past the hall. I caused him to look upon you, lady...and sweet Mary, I only wish you might have seen his face."

"What was in his face?" she asked sharply.

Allegreto leaned his head back against the curving wall. "Indifference. And then—" He paused. "But what does my lady's grace care of his thoughts? He is only an English barbarian."

She stroked Gryngolet's breast. The gyrfalcon's talons relaxed and tightened on the gauntlet. Allegreto did not change his lazy stance, but he moved a half-step upward.

"Indifference, my lady," he said more respectfully, "until he had a fair sight of you. And then he became just such a witless lover as we needed to dissuade your duke, though he veiled it well."

"Thou promised him no promises," she said coldly.

"Lady, the sight of you is promise enough for a man," Allegreto murmured. "I made none, but I cannot vouch for what blissful hopes he might have in his own mind."

She regarded him for a long moment. He was young and beautiful, dark as a demon and as sweetly formed as the Devil could make him. Gryngolet roused her feathers, pure ruthless white. He glanced at the gyrfalcon for the barest instant. Allegreto dreaded naught on earth but three things: the falcon, the plague, and his father. Gryngolet was Melanthe's one true shield against him, for she had no mastery of the plague—and none over Gian Navona, for a certainty.

Prince Ligurio of Monteverde had been dead three months, but for years before he drew his last breath, Melanthe had upheld her husband's place and powers. As he declined into illness and vulnerability, she had defended him by the methods he had taught her himself. He it was who had schooled her to guard her back, who had been her father from the age of twelve when a terrified child had left England to wed a man thirty years her senior; he who had ordered her to deal with the Riata, to tantalize Gian Navona—because the triangle would always hold, there would always be the houses of Riata and Navona and Monteverde like wolves prowling about the same quarry.

Now Prince Ligurio was gone. The triangle of power fell in upon itself, leaving Melanthe between the wolves and the fortune of Monteverde.

She relinquished it to them. She did not want Monteverde, but to yield her claim was as perilous as to contend for it. Like a fox making for a safe earth, she must dodge and deceive and look always behind her as she escaped.

She had bargained with Riata—safe passage to a nunnery in England, in exchange for her quitclaim to Monteverde. She had bargained with Allegreto's father: she had smiled at Gian Navona and promised to be his wife, gladly—so gladly that she would even travel to England first, to confirm her inheritance there, that she might bring that prize, too, with her to their marriage bed.

Promise and promise and promise. They were made to betray, in layer upon layer of deception.

She kept only one, if she died for it. To herself. She was going home—to England and to Bowland. The fox escaped to earth.

"I am displeased with thy interference," she said to Allegreto. "Thou dost not understand the English. If thou thought to discourage the duke by such a challenge—it has done no more than place him so that he must prove his devotion, and now tomorrow I must spurn him yet again."

"I know aught of these boorish English manners, my lady," he said with light malice, "if a man must thrust his attention upon a lady without her encouragement."

"Save thy indignation for a fool who meddles in his mistress's business. I had my own intent with regard to Lancaster."

Allegreto merely grinned at the rebuke. "Not to take him in marriage, lady, so I hope."

"If he will not bring himself to the point and ask, I cannot take him, can I?"

"He will," Allegreto said. He made a mock bow. "But my lady's grace would not break my father's loving heart that has bided so long in silent hope."

Melanthe returned his salute with an affectionate smile. "I will not have Lancaster at any price—but Allegreto, my love—when next thou dost write to thy father, tell Gian that in truth, thou art such a tender gentle boy, there are moments I should rather take thee to husband in his stead."

Allegreto's face did not change. He maintained the pleasant curve of his lips, his dark eyes fathomless. "I would not be so foolish, my lady. That price has indeed been paid already."

Melanthe turned her face. She shamed herself even to taunt Allegreto with it. What Gian Navona had taken of his bastard son, to be certain that Allegreto would sleep chastely in Melanthe's bedchamber, was beyond cost or pity.

"Let us go." She lifted her skirt, stepping upward, but he made a faint hiss of warning and raised his forefinger. Instead of waiting for her to pass, he turned, going lightly up ahead of her, his yellow-and-blue slippers silent on the stone stairs.