"Ruadrik."

"Ruadrik, then." Allegreto made a courteous bow. "Lord Ruadrik of Wolfscar."

His voice echoed in the old brewery, calling from all sides, whispering back from the high slits of light made in the shape of holy crosses. Ruck had shouted until his voice was nearly gone, but if anyone passed outside those windows, they did not come into his prison.

She had done this. Allegreto made no secret of it. Ruck was to be kept here until she was gone from England, and if he followed her, he would die by some means just as unclean and secret as her sleeping poison, but lethal this time.

His last lesson. If he did not appear to have learned it, then he did not leave this place.

Allegreto sat on the far edge of the huge round well, his legs dangling in it. He pilled one of Ruck's oranges and tossed the rind. Ruck heard it strike the water with a faint plop. A queer imprisonment, this, with food befitting a banquet table—or a princess—fruit and almonds, fresh cheese and white bread. The brewery was ancient, but his bonds were new and strong, the anchor sunk deep into the wall.

Ruck cursed his own witlessness. To suppose that she ever meant him well, to trust Allegreto for one instant—old Sir Harold had never been so mad and simple as Ruck when he had thought he'd won.

He remembered her face in that brief moment of his victory. Smiling at him. In the death-dreams, it was that expectant smile that had tortured him worse than demons.

Allegreto sucked the juice from a segment of orange and spit the seed away. "She told me why she let you live," he said. "She said you prayed too much, and would haunt her to tedium if she killed you."

"Tell her I'll haunt her into Hell itself if she marries Navona."

"Then prepare your howls and shrieks, for that's what she's going to do, green man."

"Ruadrik."

"Ruadrik. Late of Wolfscar."

With a light move Allegreto stood up, pitching the last of his fruit into the well. He came around to Ruck's side to draw water. The splash echoed, a memory of dreams, scraping and sloshing as Allegreto hauled the bucket up by hand and set it within Ruck's reach.

The youth sprang up the stairs three at a time. At the door he paused. "I leave you to ponder—will I return, or will I not? Her mind is much occupied with her wedding. She might forget you entirely, green man."

"Ruadrik," Ruck said.

"Did I tell you this was a walled park, my lord Ruadrik? Nothing but deer for two miles in all directions. And the river. I think you should shout, and hope they hear you on the river. Enlarge your skill at haunting." He gave Ruck a charming smile. "Verily, a place like this needs a ghost."

The door boomed shut behind him. Thin crosses of light angled down, illuminating the stone floor, vanishing into the enormous well.

* * *

Cara kept herself in the background while Gian visited them. She was hopeless at concealing things. She could never have contended so coolly as her mistress did with him, insisting that they set forth at once for Italy against his new determination that they marry here in England.

"These fools make a martyr of the fellow," Gian said. "There are a thousand candles for him after just a week—next we'll have a miracle, and his fingerbones sold in the market square."

"All the more reason to depart." Princess Melanthe gestured at a platter. "Look, there's a fresh salmon, the best of the year, they say. I could almost be pleased that it's a fish day."

"No, we'll not flee from deluded rabble. We've only to wait a little time for the banns, and then a feast to make them forget their saintly Ruadrik ever crawled out of whatever wolf's cave he inhabited. I prefer it, my lady."

"Gian, this business has disturbed your wit. So you're not popular here. You're foreign. What matters? Let us go home and leave this unpleasantness."

"You've been in no such hurry. Why so anxious to leave, my love?"

"Perhaps I don't care for the ugly looks I receive when I go out," she said sharply.

"Peasants," he said. "If anyone dares insult you, tell me."

"I'd rather not wait until it happens. I am telling you now, I wish to leave as soon as we may. If you love me, you will agree."

He set down his wine. "That, my dear one, is a device you'll do well not to invoke too often."

"This fish needs spicing." Princess Melanthe examined the platter with a frown. "Cara, send to the kitchen—a fried parsley, I think. My deepest pardon, Gian, I can't say why the herbs were forgotten."

Gladly Cara left the chamber. She sent a page with the parsley, and did not return herself, for it was certain that Gian in this difficult mood might take any unholy notion into his head. With one of the laundry maids for chaperon, Cara slipped out into the yard instead, passing under the gate to the stables.

In the late evening light Guy curried Gian's horse himself. Cara stood in the shadow, too shy to approach him. She admired his hair, golden in the last sun rays, and twisted her skirt and the present she'd brought together in her hands. She was glad he'd stayed with the princess. She hoped that he'd made his choice to be near her, though it might equally well be only because the princess could reward him generously.

He reached, sweeping his comb down the rouncy's smooth gray haunch. All of her heart seemed to run out after him, just watching his sure and simple motions, the shape of his hand, and the breadth of his back.

One of his grooms said a soft word, and all the men looked at Cara and the laundress. Guy straightened, turning. When he saw her, his face grew pleased, but he immediately looked down at the currycomb in his hand as if it held some vital mystery.

It was the first time she'd approached him in public since their private speaking. His men grinned, and one of them pitched a pebble at Guy. It bounced off his shoulder. He lifted his hand and brushed at his sleeve absently.

Cara handed her present to the laundress. It was a silk lace. The maid went up to Guy and held it out to him. "From Donna Cara," she said simply. Cara thought she might have had the wit to embellish a little, but she was English.

He looked about at the men instead of at Cara. She held her breath, worried at the solemn set of his mouth. But then he reached out and took the lace, holding it between his hands. Amid whistles and mockery, he grinned at her.

Suddenly one of the grooms came under the gate and snatched her about the waist. He pulled her back. Cara gave a shriek, resisting him, but it wasn't a very serious abduction, for Guy chased him off with a few hard cuffs and caught her back against his chest. He smoothed her hair and went down on his knee before her, pulling his good white gloves from his sleeve.

"Donna Cara," he said, "I give you these on condition that you will marry me. Will you agree?"

She felt everyone in the yard looking at her. One of Gian's men called to her in Italian not to be a fool, offering himself as a better choice. She gave him a glare and took the gloves. "Yes, sir. I agree."

Amid the clapping, Gian's men made ugly mutters. A sudden scuffle erupted, the English grooms converging, but as Cara gripped Guy's arm, a boy came running from the house.

"Make ready! My lord departs!"

Instantly the fight dissolved. Guy shouted for the saddles, hastening to the gray rouncy. The meal could not possibly be over. Cara feared that Gian and her mistress must have come to open battle. She caught the laundress's hand to run with her toward the kitchens, but already Gian appeared at the door, walking with such long and angry strides that his white cloak flared out in spite of its heavy embroidery and gold bosses.

He came under the gate, passing Cara without a glance. Then to her horror, he halted, looking back at her.

With a slight move of his hand, he made his men go past. The yard was full of confusion. Cara looked desperately for Guy, but he was swinging one of the elaborate saddles onto a horse's back. And as she looked, she knew Gian saw her look, and cursed her own weakness.

He smiled at her in a kind way and stood beside her as if he'd suddenly become patient with waiting. "Donna Cara. It's a pleasant evening to be abroad in the air, is it not?"

She made a slight courtesy, all she could manage on her weak knees. "Yes, my lord."

"A pleasant evening for lovers. But where is Allegreto?"

A flash of utter terror swept over her. She dropped her eyes. "I don't know! I don't know, my lord."

She shouldn't have repeated herself. She should have said it with more surprise. She did not know. Why should she know?

"Why should I know, my lord?" She spoke it aloud, an attempt at the cool tone Princess Melanthe would use.

"Indeed," Gian mused, "why should you?"

His thoughtful tone dismayed her. She made another courtesy, afraid to look up at him.

"He's been a little absent of late," he said softly. "He told me that he had a lover. I had thought—but you'll forgive me, Donna Cara, if I offend your modesty—I was so dull as to suppose it must be you."

She didn't know what to do. She never knew what to do. All she could think was that she should never have let him trap her.

"Ah—but this is your young man, is it not?" Gian asked in French as Guy led up his rouncy. When Cara answered nothing, her tongue frozen, Gian said to him, "My compliments to you. A fair and chaste maiden for a bride."

"Thank you, my lord." Guy bowed deeply. "Donna Cara does me great honor."