The castle gates opened slowly amid noise and disordered motion. He yelled another order, and the men-at-arms began to move, stabbing into the crowd ahead of them. In the light of the torches her cavalcade pushed through the mob, encapsuled by pikesmen. The throng in the street could not seem to decide if they wished to cheer or resist, swarming back and forth in ill-tempered confusion, fighting one another, staggering back from the pikes, waving their own weapons in wild and abortive threats to their neighbors.

Her palfrey danced along beside the war-horse, taking hopping, frightened steps, half rearing as a man fell between the pikes and sprawled in front of her. Melanthe gave the horse a quick spur, and it sprang off its haunches, coming down on the other side of the prone figure. The palfrey kicked out as it landed, but Melanthe did not turn to see if the blow struck. Allegreto's horse crowded behind her; the gate was overhead at last—and they were through, passing into the inner courtyard. The gates boomed closed behind them, shutting out a rising roar.

Her knight dismounted and came to her, offering his knee and arm. Melanthe took his hand for support. Hers was shaking past her ability to control it. As her feet touched the ground, she said, "Thou tarried long in coming. I'm nigh frozen through."

She did not wish him to think that she shivered from fear. Nor did she thank him. She felt too grateful; she felt as if she would have liked to stand very close to him, he seemed so sure and sound, like the enclosing walls of the keep, a circle of sanctuary in the disorder. For that she gave him a sweeping glance of disdain and started to turn away.

"My lady," he said, "his lordship the duke sends greeting and message, and desires to know that your hunting was well."

Melanthe looked back at him: "Well enough," she said. "Two ducks. I will dispatch them to the kitchens. There is a message?"

"Yea, my lady." He looked at her with an expression as opaque as a falcon's steady cold stare. "I am to escort you hence without delay. We leave at dawn, upon the tide."

"Ah." She smiled at him, because he expected her to be shocked. "We are cast out? Crude—but what does an Englishman know of subtlety? Indeed, this is excellent news. Thou shalt make all preparations for our departure to England and attend my chamber at two hours before daybreak."

His face was grim. He bent his head in silent assent.

"The duke has denied you, then?" she asked lightly. Melanthe held out her hands in the flicker of torches. "Green Sire, swear troth to me now as liege, and I will love thee better."

His mouth grew harder, as if she offended him. "My lady, I was sworn to your service long since. Your man I am, now and forever." He held her eyes steadily. "As for love—I need no more of such love as my lady's grace has shown me."

Melanthe raised her chin and shifted her look past him. Allegreto stood there, watching with a smirk.

She bestowed a brilliant smile upon her courtier and lowered her hands. "Allegreto. Come, my dear—" She shivered again, turning, pulling her cloak up to her chin. "I want my sheets well warmed tonight."

* * *

The boats rode the current and the outgoing tide downriver, their oars shipped and silent. As the banks of the Garonne slipped away, ever wider, a cold sun rose behind Ruck's little fleet, sucking the wind up the estuary off the sea. It was not to his taste, but he'd reckoned it his duty to sail aboard Princess Melanthe's vessel himself.

He had worked with her steward all night to organize their departure. When he had seen the painted whirlicote Princess Melanthe was to inhabit on the land journey, he'd found that he had to use the duke's patent to commandeer an extra ship only to convey the leather-covered, four-wheeled house and the five horses necessary to draw it.

Ruck had full believed that he would spend hours waiting on his liege lady's convenience, as she did not seem the sort to bestir herself to undue exertion, but Princess Melanthe's attendants outshone even the men-at-arms in their packing and loading efficiency. There was no scurrying back to fetch a lost comb or another pillow. Not one lady slipped away to linger in farewell with some brokenhearted lover. Ruck suspected that they feared their mistress too well to delay her.

The duke had come to see them off as he'd promised, making a great false show of giving the kiss of peace and offering cordial farewells. Ruck had found himself the object of more courtesy from his liege in the cold dawn of his departure than he had received in the whole sum of his years in service to Lancaster. The audience was small, only a few beggars and merchants, and a soldier or two woken from sleeping on the docks, but by noontide the story would have spread throughout the city to gentles and commoners alike: the Green Sire had left Aquitaine in Princess Melanthe's service, alive and without duress. No threat to Lancaster's command, no martyr to his pride—no spark to set rebellion alight.

The Green Sire was nothing to Lancaster, or to anyone else now.

Ruck drew in a slow breath and let it go. He had lost his prince and liege. He had loved a lady who did not exist—but she had seemed so real, he had spent so long devoted to her, that he felt as if death had claimed a piece of his heart.

He sat on deck atop the single high cabin in the stern, very aware of the princess below him. He wondered if she suffered from the seasickness, and had not sufficient imagination to picture such a thing.

Pierre huddled in the tip of the stern, snoring gently. The wind blew in Ruck's face. His men lined the deck, sitting in the protection of the gunwales. He reached over and plucked his flute from Pierre's capacious apron. The squire opened one eye, and then snugged into his cloak again.

In the early light Ruck began to play a sweet, mournful song of the Crusades, of a lover left behind to grief and worry. It seemed to him fit for the gray rise of dawn, slow and yearning, with the sway of the water and the glint of dull light on the helmets and crossbows. Fit for his mood: leaving nowhere, going nowhere.

Below him the curtain over the cabin door flicked. Ruck's note faltered for a bare instant, and then he lowered his eyes and went on playing. It was only her lapdog Allegreto, who climbed the short stairs with a crimson cloak wrapped tight around him. To Ruck's concealed surprise, the youth sat down on the deck at his feet, facing away from him into the wind.

"That is a love song, is it not?" the young courtier asked.

Ruck ignored him, enclosing himself in the melody.

Allegreto sat quietly for a few moments, and then sighed. He looked around at Ruck. "Hast thou ever been in love, Englishman?"

He asked it wearily, as if he were a century old. Ruck made no answer beyond his tune.

Allegreto smiled—an expression that was undeniably charming in spite of his blackened eye. He pushed the windblown dark hair from his forehead. "Of course. Thou hast as many years as my lady, and she knows more of love than Venus herself." He leaned back against the gunwale. "Thou knowest she has magic to keep herself always the same. Perhaps she's a thousand years old. Upon hap, if thou wouldst see her in a mirror, she would be no more than a skull, with black holes for eyes and nose."

Ruck lifted his brows skeptically, without losing the cadence of his notes.

Allegreto laughed. "Ah, thou art too astute for me. Thou dost not believe it." With an abrupt intensity he leaned nearer. "Thou wouldst not take her from me?"

Ruck's music wavered for a beat.

Allegreto closed his eyes tightly. "Thou hast—such as I cannot give her," he said in a lowered voice. "I am not so young as I appear."

It took Ruck's mind a long moment to construct that into meaning. He lowered the flute.

Allegreto pulled the red cloak up to his mouth and turned his head away. Ruck stared at the smooth wind-pinkened cheek.

"When I was ten and five," Allegreto said, muffled, as if in answer to a question. "She preferred me thus." He pulled the cloak closer and then glared over his shoulder. "But still I love her!" he exclaimed fiercely. "I can still love!"

Ruck gazed at him. He could think of nothing more to do than nod in the face of such awful devotion. Allegreto held his eyes for a long moment, and then put his head down in his arms. Amid his shock Ruck felt ashamed of himself. Whatever sacrifices he'd made in the name of his false lady, they had been honorable, and his own choice. He was a whole man. He wet his lips and picked up the flute again, taking refuge in the music.

He had played only a few notes when two sharp thumps came from the deck beneath their feet. Allegreto looked up.

"Oh." He turned to Ruck and smiled sweetly. "I forgot. I was to order thee to cease that dirge and play something more amusing."

FIVE

The old King of England was a haggard and drunken shadow of the tall warrior Melanthe remembered. Edward's regal progresses and tournaments lay as gemstones amid her childhood, all luster and polished steel and dazzling majesty: her father's red and gold glistening among the other colors, sparks flying from his helmet at a hard strike; her mother's fingers tightening for an instant over Melanthe's hand.

King Edward drank a long swallow of wine and handed the cup aside hastily, gesturing his servant behind his chair when Melanthe entered his royal bedchamber. The king's gray hair lay loose over the broad shoulders that once had borne armor, his mustaches flowing down into his long beard. He had the reddened nose and cheeks of too much drink, but he kept a regal posture in his chair.