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.