Ruck found his tired spirits lifting. He was clearly incontinent, or like to be if he thought on his wife at any length at all, and the very notion of begetting a child on her sent him into a hot ardor of perfectly sinless passion. Not excessive ardor—but iwysse, if he waited too long, he judged his soul would be in certain danger.

He pushed away from the wall, finding a new vigor in the gloom.

* * *

Melanthe refused to allow herself to hesitate as she opened the door. When she had returned from the mews, a girl had been waiting with the message that Sir Ruadrik asked Princess Melanthe to honor his unworthiness by her presence in his chamber—courteously worded as a request, it was true, but still her hand had lacked a little steadiness as she coaxed Gryngolet onto her perch.

She entered the lord's chamber expecting to be confronted by all three of them, including the two Williams, for it was always the way with favorites that they wished to be present when their rivals were diminished. But Ruck was alone. He rose from a chair as she closed the door behind her.

"My lady," he said, "I would have you eat now."

He placed the chair by the chimney corner, where a white linen cloth lay over the table, already laden with a meal. In his black weeds he was tall and formidable, the green of his eyes intensified by the night-hue of his clothes and hair. A fire crackled actively, warming the chamber, and fresh-cut boughs of pine drove out the stale atmosphere with their fresh scent. In the late afternoon a candle gave the table extra light.

She was hungry indeed, but the flutter of dread in her stomach made the food unsavory. She released the pin on her cloak, and tossed it over a chest. "What did they sayen of me?" she asked haughtily, meeting the matter on head so that she might gain the upper hand by surprise.

He looked up at her. "Say of you?"

She washed her hands in a basin beside the door. "I warn thee, sir—is a poor master who is ruled by his servants. But of course, they will say thee otherwise, that to be ruled by a wife is worse."

He gazed at her, a shadow of a frown between his brows. She paced to the table and sat down, scowling at a dish of wheaten frumenty, well aware that he stood close behind her.

From the edge of her eye she could see his arm, the velvet rich with light and shadow on the black curve of his sleeve.

She took two swallows of the frumenty, which was nearly cold and only barely palatable, before her throat closed and she could not eat more. She put down the spoon. "I ne cannot eat, ere I hear thy decision."

"My lady," he said, "what decision?"

"Wilt thou send me hence?"

He walked away. Melanthe slid a look after him. He stood at the window, his back to her. "Send you hence?" he demanded harshly. "A'plight, then why haf I troubled to bringen you here, in the stead of drowning you like a kitten in a bag, for to spare myseluen the toil? If that be the decision you would hear—nill I take you hence, nay, nor any here show you the way. In good time, when augurs it safe enow, then will I see you to your hold. Henceforth until then, thou moste biden here, though it displease."

She bent her head, clasping her fingers tight together. "Nay—I will not displease. I can maken myself pleasant to them. It is the easiest thing possible. I cannot thank them for their injury to thee and thy rightful estate, but I am thy wife, and n'would not have discord sown between us, for it bodes not well in the house." She took up the spoon again abruptly, plunging it into the pottage. "And such is a humble speech as I am not accustomed to making, in troth, but I love thee, even if I do not adore thy churls."

She forced herself to eat, sitting on the edge of the chair with her back straight.

From the window he spoke hesitantly. "It is nought that ye will to go?"

She did not care to admit the depth of her desire to stay. Lightly she said, "Wysse, ne do I languish for the back of a horse again soon."

The floorboards creaked beneath the carpets. He came behind her. "Haply is rest and a soft bed you desire, my lady, after your meal."

If some mannered gallant had said such to her, she would have known how to understand it. But she heard naught beyond his careful courtesy in his voice, though again he stood very near her as he took up a napkin and poured hot ale from the hob. He set the kettle back.

"Thou hast not fulfilled thy own repose," she said, watching steam rise from the gold chalice and vanish against the background of patterned silk on the wall.

"Nay," he murmured, still close behind her. "Nay, lady."

He offered no dalliance, and her court wit deserted her. All the words that came into her head seemed green and foolish. He sat on his heels beside her chair and served her a roasted apple. She ate a few bites. He did not rise, but remained there like a man at ease.

She felt herself strangely daunted by him, overpowered by his greater size, the black line of his legs, the heavy square links of the belt that hung at his hips. He wore it as if it had no weight at all, though each joint, ornate and thick, studded with the silvery sable of marcasite crystals, would have balanced a cobblestone on the measuring scale. But in his velvet he moved effortlessly. When she glanced at him, his eyes were on her, his lashes showing very dark, his face somber, almost severe. As if he had forgotten himself by kneeling there, he rose instantly, drawing away.

Melanthe was not certain of whether he had made an invitation to share the bed or not. She ate slowly, delaying the end of her clear reason for being there in his chamber. As she sipped at the honeyed ale, she felt a miserable excitement, doubtful of what he wished. He said nothing to woo or dismiss her. She did not know if he was angry with her still. In this mute courtesy he could hide anything. She did not want to sleep alone, away from him.

At last she set down the chalice. "I will leave thee respite then, to take thy rest as thou art due."

She rose. With her eyes downcast she went to him and put her hands upon his shoulders. She reached on her toes and touched her lips to each cheek, lightly, taking a mannerly leave as if he were an honored guest or close kin. "Give thee good eve, sweet knight," she murmured.

He stood still, only turning his face slightly, returning pressure in response to each kiss. She let her hands slip down his arms. His palms turned up; he caught her fingers for an instant—and then let them slide through his.

She turned swiftly, taking up her cloak as she went to the door. At that moment she would gladly have given up all of her noble estate and forgone the cold and private luxury of the ladies' chamber. At least she did not intend to sleep with the dust: she would rouse out these useless minstrels for a fire and proper comfort, be they pleased by it or not. By hap she could find a maid or two among the women, to make the bower clean without moving any item from its sacred place, and then invite him there on the morrow, when he might be—

"Melanthe."

She halted with her hand on the door hasp. He had never before called her by her name.

He stood, all black, his legs set apart as if someone might come at him with a sword. "Art thou sore weary?" He made a trifling motion of his hand. "I ne am nought one to sleepen in the light of day."

Pleasure and relief soared through her. "Nay, how is this?" She crossed the carpet to him and lifted her hand to his forehead. "Dost thou go sick? I have seen thee snore with some success in daylight ere now."

"I n'would nought have thee depart so soon, if it please thee."

"Please me?" She let her hand slip down and sighed. "What—forfeit a cold chimney and empty bower, only to suit thy liking? Verily, thou art a tyrant, husband."

He caught her waist, holding her between his hands. She had been wary of mirrors, and compliments, but in his face as he looked down at her what she saw was desire, open and vehement, unembellished.

"Wilt thou have me?" he asked softly.

Almost, he frightened her, in the lightness of his hands and the calmness of his voice. He was like Gryngolet when she hunted, a silent rage, hushed violence, riding currents beyond knowing.

"Yea," she said. "Gladly."

His hold tightened a little. "Then I would hear—how I can best please you."

She rested her hands on his arms uncertainly. "I am pleased with thee," she said.

His jaw was tense. "On hap I am nought gentle enow, or skilled enow, or—what would delight thee."

All of her experience was in denying men. For delight she knew naught beyond kisses, and lying beneath him as she had done. There was more to it, experience and skill, as he said, and a new fear sprang alive in her, that he would expect her to know such things.

She made a small lift of her shoulders, feigning sport. "Thou moste guess what delights me."

He looked down upon her. He lifted his hand and drew his thumb across her mouth. His green eyes showed a new light, a trace of amusement. "Then I shall take experiment of thee, lady. Happens I haf made me a modest study of wicked delectation."

She murmured, "I thought thee chaste, monkish man."

"Yea, I haf been." He closed his eyes and bent to her, kissing the side of her mouth. "But no monk am I in my head, God grant me pardon," he whispered. His body drew closer, velvet and taut elegance. "My confessor has chastised me oft, and bade me study on my sins at length. And so, lady"—he kissed her, the hunger in it sinking down through her like a comet falling—"I have studied."