The falcon dropped playfully toward the toll and rolled out of her stoop halfway, dancing upward over the hall roof. She circled the yard, ringing up to a higher pitch before she stooped again. Henry threw down the lure as she came.

Ruck still held Melanthe in a death grip. Gryngolet dived on the downed lure and made a cut at it, leash and all, then passed right on over the gatehouse. She soared, silent without her bells. She was in one of her mirthful moods, twisting and pumping lazily, looking back at them as if in jest.

Henry whistled frantically, swinging the toll again. Melanthe's heart was in her mouth. She feared the garnish was of pork, a meat that Gryngolet loathed. With no bells to locate the falcon, the dangling leash was a death warrant for her if she escaped now—she would catch it in a tree and hang head downward until she died.

Gryngolet turned back. She almost came to light on the gatehouse, then changed her mind, nearly catching a loop of the leash on an empty banner pole. Curious of the whistling, the gyrfalcon sailed over them, looking for the other hunting birds that she would expect to see among the company—for Melanthe's usual call was no whistle, but her own voice.

The lure spun. Gryngolet trifled about it. She swung in dilatory circles just over their heads. After a few rings she began to ignore the lure and tighten her compass, centering on Melanthe.

Everyone in the yard stared in silence as the falcon swung about her, disdaining the meat, passing Melanthe's head so close she could feel the windy whisper. Sir Ruck kept her hand forced down.

"Princess!" It was the chestnut-haired gallant shouting. "Shut the gate! Look at it—Christ's rood, she's a princess!" He began to run for the passage. "That bird belongs to her!"

Ruck released her hand. Instantly Melanthe lifted it, calling Gryngolet urgently to her fist as he spurred the horse. There were men already running toward the gatehouse, Henry yelling frenzied commands, a sudden tumult, shouts of "Princess!" and "To ransom!"

Gryngolet came, landing just as the destrier lunged into motion. Melanthe grappled for the tangled leash; in the sudden thrust forward the gyrfalcon near fell backward, beating her wings, but her talons gripped and Melanthe swung her arm back to absorb the force.

A pair of men almost reached the gate too soon, but a blond youth in skin-toned hose collided with them, such a bumble that it was as if he'd intended it, sending them all sprawling to the ground only a foot from the horse's massive hooves. Hawk swept past them.

His hooves hit the bridge like the sound of boulders rolling, a pounding rumble and then the wind as he lengthened his stride to a gallop beyond the walls.

* * *

Sir Ruck guided the stallion out from among the trees into an abandoned charcoal burners' clearing. They had made haste some distance down the road from the manor of Torbec and finally slowed to a walk, allowing Melanthe a few moments to untangle the leash and jesses she'd been gripping and arrange herself and Gryngolet to more secure positions. When he'd turned the horse off the road, circling back through the forest, Melanthe had realized for the first time that they had been fleeing in the same direction they had first come to Torbec.

They had traveled without speaking. Melanthe did not know whether they passed near again to Torbec; the woods were thick and crossed by many paths. He had reined the horse sometimes left and sometimes right, halting now and then to shade his eyes and look up through the bare branches at the winter sun. His mantle was missing, dropped in the yard in the wrangling over Gryngolet, and the light gleamed on his shoulder harness, showing scratches and the arcs of cleaning scours in the green-tinged plate.

In the deserted clearing they dismounted. Gryngolet was flustered and hungry, and Melanthe felt likewise. Sir Ruck reached for the bag of foodstuffs. "Sit you, my lady, if you will, and take refreshment."

He nodded toward a thronelike seat that had been cut out of a tree stump. Melanthe perched Gryngolet there on the tall back of it, tying the leash to a heavy shoot that had sprouted from the old roots. He brought the bag and handed her a piece of rolled fustian.

"I did steal something of Henry after all," he said. "Two cockerels fresh from a hen's nest, for the bird."

Melanthe accepted the packet, drawing a deep breath. "Almost were we without need of food for her."

He shrugged. "With a choice betwixt the two of you to bringen out of there—" He hesitated. "In faith, I reckon that a wife warms me more pleasantly than a falcon, my lady."

Immediately he turned away, as if he shied from his brash speaking. He squatted down and held the food bag open, scowling into it.

Melanthe felt the touch of shyness, too. She laid one of the cockerels across her glove and offered it to Gryngolet, then sat down on the edge of the tree stump, taking refuge in a pragmatic tone. "We could have ransomed her back, if that little mar-hawk of a lord could have retained her long enough." She made herself look at him, though his head was still bent over the food. "Sir Ruadrik, I have been in consideration of our nuptial contract."

His hand arrested in his laying out of bread and cheese. Then he went on with the task, saying nothing. He rose and bent knee before her, offering food on a white cloth. Melanthe took it on her lap.

"There are many matters to be studied," she said. "My dower and thy courtesy, and—how best to reconcile the king that we have married without his license."

"My lady wife." He stood up. "I ne haf thought on naught else all this morn. If ye wish it—" He stared past her at the ground, his face grim and empty of emotion. "There was no witness on earth to our vows. Nill I nought hold you fast to your words, do you think on them today, that they were said in haste or to your harm. It is a poor cheap for thee, such a marriage. All the advantage be mine, though I seek it nought. I ask nothing of thy wealth; I will have none of it, and yet still I know that the king may in his anger strippen thee of what is rightfully thine. Therefore, I will release thee from any duty or avowel to me, if thou wish it so." He raised his eyes to meet hers, his jaw firm-set. "As for myseluen—if be so much as high treason that I haf married thee, then I will die for it, but ne'er will I forswear it."

"How then could I do less for thee?" she asked softly.

He turned away to the horse, removing its bit so it could graze. With his back to her he said, "God save us both."

"Amen," she said. "Have a little faith in my wits, too. I have me more than the king."

He remained gazing at the horse and then looked over his shoulder with a slight smile. "My lady, look what you come to—" He shook his head, opening his arms to take in the clearing. "A stump for a chair and me for a husband. There be peahens with greater wits than yours."

"A poor comment on the king," she said.

He turned, with a serious look. "When I haf my lady safe, I will go and supplicate of him at any price, that thou moste nought be disseized of thy possessions and title on account of me."

"Nay, leave the king to me." She frowned thoughtfully at the black mound of a decaying charcoal kiln. "I think His Majesty may be appeased, if the thing is laid before him deftly. And even should he not, or someone else make trouble—well, I have searched on the matter in my heart." She took a deep breath. "I have said that my estates are of no great concern to me. I will sweepen the hearth myself if I mote."

He laughed aloud, a sound that rang in the little clearing—the first time Melanthe had ever heard his uncontained amusement.

She turned in indignation. "Thinkest thee I would not?"

He was grinning at her. "I think me thou wouldst maffle the business right royally, madam,"

"Pah." She flicked her fingers and ate a bit of cheese. "How difficult can it be?"

He came to her and took her face between his bare hands. "Ye ne were born to sweepen a hearth. I'm nought so poor that my wife mote be a chare woman, but n'would I haf thy property reduced one shilling by cause of me."

"Think again on it. The favor of kings be not meanly bought. For such a crime as this, gifts and presents moten be spent to appease him." She lifted her brows. "Lest thou wouldst rather forswear this marriage thyself, so that I may keep all."

His gaze traced her face. "I have said that I will nought, for my life."

Melanthe dropped her gaze. "Speak not of such cost; I dislike it." She reached up and pulled him down toward her. "Enough of heavy words. Sit by me, beau knight, and let me feed thee milk and honey with my own fingers."

He sank down cross-legged beside the stump, leaning his shoulder on it. "Hard cheese and havercake, it looks to me."

"Ah, but I have said a great spell and turned it to honeycomb." She passed him down a lump of cheese and broken bread.

With his thumb he splintered a bite from the dry edge of the cheese and ate it. "Nay, hard and sour as e'er." He turned, stretching out a leg, his back against the tree. "This is poor witchcraft, wench." He laid his head against her hip. "I've seen better at the market fair."

"Dost thou know why I love thee?" she asked.

"In faith, I cannought believe that you do, far the less why."

She curled her forefinger in his hair and tugged. "By hap one day I shall tell thee."

He was silent. She felt him turn his head, and looked down. He was gazing toward the edge of the clearing.