He came up onto the porch, disposing himself so that he showed a fine length of hose and slender leg. "My heart was full broke," he said, "that thou didst not come down to the hall yesterday, lovely. And now thou art on thy way."

Melanthe gave him a look of disdain. She would not retreat a step, lest he think he had success at stalking her.

He moved about behind, into the shadow of the porch. "A kiss to God-speed thee, sweetheart." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "Look, he's not watching."

"Thy swaddling drags, infant."

His hand dropped away. She took the moment to move out of the cover, but before she could advance, he gripped her arm. It was the one on which she held Gryngolet; she stopped, unable to jerk free without risking the falcon. In the moment of her hesitation, he hauled her up into the porch and pressed her back to the wall, holding her shoulders.

"Scream if thou wilt," he said. "It is fifteen to one against him." He grinned in the half-light. "Haps I'll give thee a better parting gift than a kiss, my duck, here and now."

Her free hand was already on her dagger. She saw a figure behind him, but Melanthe made a cut just to instruct the fellow. He jumped back with a shriek into Sir Ruck's arms.

"Thy duck renays thy gift, infant," she said coldly.

He was bleeding from a light slash across his upper thigh. Sir Ruck scowled fiercely, gripping the man, but the corners of his mouth would not quite turn downward.

"Vicious bitch!" Her bleeding gallant made a lunge toward her, but could not free himself.

"Give thanks that I ne did not prune thee entire," she said, and swept away, off the porch.

"Bitch!" A scuffle sounded behind her. "Thieving, whoring bitch—stop her! Henry! There's something in that bundle!"

Melanthe halted. They stood about her, some grinning, some grim. Henry looked at her and then up at the porch. "In the bundle? Nay, sir—is this how you return my hospitality? To steal from me?"

Sir Ruck let go of his prisoner and strode down the steps. "Ne would I. Only the food ye ha'e offered us freely do we take, and God give you grace for it. Naught that she carries belongs to thee, in faith."

"Let us see it then."

"I will tell you what she holds," Ruck said. "It is a falcon that I recovered in the forest. We take her to her rightful owner."

"A falcon!" Clearly they had had no such notion. Henry looked about him and then insisted, "Nay, I will see it."

Melanthe glanced at Sir Ruck. He nodded at her. "Uncover her, then."

She was wary of this, but saw no choice. Gently she lifted the folds of the mantle, allowing Gryngolet's hooded head to appear. She kept the wool draped over the rest of her, hoping that would be enough. It was a plain white hunting hood, adorned only with some silver leaf and green and white plumes. She did not allow the snowy feathers of the gyrfalcon's shoulders to show.

A ripple of regard passed through the company. Gryngolet turned her head, opening her beak to the cold air.

"What, a falcon peregrine, by Christ? Why did ye not say? We would have put her in the mews last night. Who owns her?"

"A lord of the midlands," Ruck said shortly. "I durst nought mix her with other birds, sir, if it offend you nought."

Henry shrugged. "Our hawks are in health," he said with a little indignation.

"She n'is nought mine," he said. "I mote take extraordinary care."

"Yea, there will be a reward in this—" Henry paused, He grinned. "Whose is she?"

The light of greed in his eyes was unmistakable. Ruck walked to his destrier's head, taking the reins. "Come," he said to Melanthe. "Sir, I recovered the falcon, and such reward as there might be, though I think it be little enow but a few shillings and thanks, belongs to me."

"Is she the king's?" Henry demanded. "Hold the horse, Tom!"

"Nought the king's, nay."

Sir Ruck caught Melanthe at the waist and lifted her, but Henry lunged forward, pulling him backward off balance. Melanthe's feet hit the ground; she stumbled for balance, clutching Gryngolet to her breast.

Henry grabbed her arm. "I'll see the varvels for myself," he snapped.

Melanthe held the gyrfalcon close. "Here—" She flicked the wool mantle back from her wrist, revealing Gryngolet's jesses dangling from within her closed gauntlet. "Canst thou read, my prince?"

Henry cast her a bristling glance and caught the leash, holding it out to peer closely at the flat rings of the varvels where her name was engraved. Like the hood, they were extras for the field that she carried in her hawking bag, made of silver but unadorned.

"Is in Latin. Pri—ah...Mont—verd?" He dropped the jesses. "Never have I heard tell of the man. Where dwells he?" Before anyone could answer, he grabbed a jess again and reexamined it. "Princ—i—pissa? Is he a prince, by God?"

"A princess," said the bleeding gallant. "A foreigner."

Henry scowled. "Foreign."

"Let me see." Her troublesome lecher moved closer, taking up the jesses. He examined them both. " 'Bow'—the leash has rubbed the letters. 'Count—of Bow and—"

"Give me the bird, wench, and mount." Ruck held out his thickly gloved fist. "Ne do nought stond there, as if thou be rooted to the ground."

"Hold!" Henry gripped his wrist. "Ye've had my hospitality, ye and your leman, green fellow, without e'en the courtesy of your name. Do ye deny me a small token of your thanks?"

Ruck tore his hand from the other man's grasp. "If it is the falcon you desire, n'is nought mine to give."

Henry smiled. "Only let me carry it. A prince's falcon. When will I have such a chance?"

Sir Ruck stared for a moment at him, and then looked at Melanthe. "Let him carry it, then."

She drew in her breath, standing still.

"Give me the leash, wench, and mount," Ruck snapped. "Do as I say!"

She let the folded leash drop from her lower fingers, gathering it untidily in her fist.

"Bring me my glove!" Henry ordered. "All haste!" A servant ran. "Strike the hood. Let me see her."

Melanthe glanced at Ruck, feeling her heartbeat rise. "I know not how."

"Nay, I've had nonsense enow of thee," he said as he moved close. He drew the braces open himself, took the plumes between his fingers and lifted the hood. He reached to slip the wool from Gryngolet's shoulders, but now that the gyrfalcon could see, her patience reached its limit. She screamed, lifting her wings. Without thinking, Melanthe let the mantle drop, fearing she would bate and tangle in it, breaking feathers.

Gryngolet's white plumage glowed, marked only by the dark, shining fury in her eyes as she rowed the air, shrieking her displeasure with this place and her treatment.

In the astounded silence her shrilling was the only sound. Even the loose dogs stopped and looked up. Sir Ruck was the single human who moved, closing his hands about Gryngolet's body the moment that she folded her wings.

"Mount!" he said through his teeth as the gyrfalcon shrieked again. He lifted her from Melanthe's fist.

He was looking at Melanthe as vehemently as the trapped falcon stared at her tormentors. A boy ran up with Lord Henry's glove and bag. Melanthe held to Gryngolet's tangled leash, and let go. She gave Ruck a beseeching look, not to lose her dearest treasure.

But he only glared at her and jerked his head toward the destrier.

"A white gyr," Henry breathed reverently, pulling on his gauntlet. "Pure white, by all that's holy!" He took the jesses and wadded leash as Sir Ruck set the falcon upon his hand. "Ah...depardeu, she is glorious."

"I haf heard the penalty for theft of such," Sir Ruck said. "An ounce of flesh cut from the thief's breast and fed to the bird." He put his hands at Melanthe's waist and lifted her up onto the pillion.

"Nay, do you think I mean to stealen her?" Henry asked with a false and sweet indignation. He reached to untangle the leash, but Gryngolet bit wildly at him, almost bating off his fist. He jerked his hand away with a curse.

Sir Ruck was still looking up, scowling intently. Melanthe shifted her leg across the horse and sat astride.

"I think you too wise a man, my lord," he said, mounting up before her and glancing down at Henry. "Now ye hatz carried her, we will take her back to her true owner."

The lord of Torbec was still trying to straighten the leash. Unable to risk his free hand near the bird, he opened his lower fingers to let the tether fall free of its tangle. Melanthe saw him do it; she saw Gryngolet bate again, thrusting off, her powerful wings scooping air—and the falcon bounded free, tearing the twisted leash from his loose fingers and carrying it away.

Henry clutched at thin air, as if he could grab her, but she was gone, pumping up over the stables and the wall. "A lure!" he shouted. "Oh, Christ—here—bring her in!"

A chorus of whistles and frantic shouts followed Gryngolet. Sir Ruck reached back and grabbed Melanthe's arm, gripping so tightly that a whimper of pain escaped her instead of the cry to call the falcon home that sprang to her throat.

"Please!" she hissed. Gryngolet had swung back, circling and playing in lazy drifts over the yard, still gripping the tangle of leash, unaccustomed to being flown from inside manor walls where dogs and people were milling in confusion.

"Get back, give me room!" Henry held up a leather lure, with a hastily attached garnish of meat from the mews. He shouted and whistled, whirling the temptation overhead as the company scattered.