"Ne haf I recourse to harlots." He withdrew his hand, staring down at the silken carpet between them. "I wit it from confession."

"Confession!"

"Yea, lady."

She sat up. "Priests I know who are full of impurity, but I did not think they taught it in the church."

"They ask—" He plucked at the nap of the carpet and looked up at her sideways. "Do they nought ask questions of you, my lady?"

"Iwysse. Have I been idle, or proud, and suchlike?"

"No more than that?"

She hugged her knees. "Envious? Angry? Grasping? Gluttonous?" she recited, and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. "Had I one would clatter and carp that I adorned myself too fine, until I wearied of it, and had him disappointed and another in his place."

"Oh," he muttered. He picked at the motley silk.

"They inquire of thee else?"

He scowled. "Yea. Of my lust." He spread his fingers, rubbing them back and forth over the nap. "They ask, haf I nought engaged in lecherous touches and embraces—and when I say I haf nought, asks the confessor in another way, haf I nought touched a woman on her breasts, or her body. And neither does he trust me no more than you, my lady, when I say him nay, and asks again, as if I had said yea, then did I nought touch her womb-gate and her merkin? And did I nought kiss her there and on her teats, for to make her lewd? And did I nought mount her unnaturally, as the beasts couple, or let her mount onto me? And did I nought do it on a holy day?" He made a snort of misery. "And then do I think of little else, I say you my lady, when I go out, but what I might do if I had me a wife and might usen her."

"Avoi," she said softly, but he could hear mirth in her voice.

His jaw hardened. "So, if ye believe me—ne did I nought learn vice from harlots."

"Haps thou couldst teach them!" she suggested.

He lay back with a deep sigh, stuffing a cushion under his neck and clasping his hands behind his head. She regarded him, and then reached up and touched his bent knee.

"It is because they take measure of thy form and vigor, and cannot conceive that a man like thee would be continent. So did that priest reckon me for excess in adornment."

He had not been perfectly continent, but he was not going to tell her more of the grinding inquisitions he received on the matter, not when the worst crime she was required to acknowledge appeared to be excess adornment.

"Is true, then," she asked, "that those things be not sin in marriage?"

"Some say yea, and some nay." He remained staring between his knees.

"Thou hast studied much on this matter?"

He nodded.

She rocked back on her hips and laughed. "Forsooth, we shall send thee to confession full oft, monk man, for thy further instruction!"

He let his gaze wander up to the window, to the chimney— to her, as she sat curled with the warm firelight on the curve of her back. He smiled slowly. "As God and my liege lady command me."

EIGHTEEN

The first thing Melanthe knew was the roar of a voice and the chime of rings sliding as the bedcurtains swept open and gray light poured over her. "Baseborn whore!"

A monstrous black outline flashed, and something came hurtling at her. Through the blankets a blow smashed into her neck and shoulder.

The black flashed again. She heard a shout, the thing came at her, and suddenly another weight bore down atop her, between her and the assault. A sound like an ax on wood cracked through her head. The weight on her jerked, and jerked again under another hit. Through a daze she realized that it was Ruck above her, his body pressing her down as someone beat him, raining blows on his naked back.

"She is dead!" the voice bellowed. "Get off the strumpet, ye idle whoreson! I haf slayed her!"

With each blow Ruck's body jarred, and his breath made a low sharp grind. But he held, shielding her, his arm locked over her face while the shocks hit him and the bed, wild strikes sometimes high on his shoulders and sometimes low, sending quakes of violence through to her legs.

"High morn is it!" their attacker howled. "Rise, boy, or look ye to losen your hide! Thy commoner is killed; base whore thou took to wive, and I'll slay her bastards to clean the nest! She was unworthy of you! Adaw, the swords await." His weapon cracked down again. "Up! Will ye jape a bloody corpse? Get up!"

The hits had lost a little of their energy. Ruck lifted himself. He raised his arm; she saw a grizzled man beside the bed—the descending wooden sword whacked into the palm of Ruck's hand. He held the weapon off and jerked it from their assailant's double grip.

Ruck rolled away from her. He cast back the bedcurtains and rose, hurling the wooden sword. It struck the open door and woke a thunder of echoes in the spiraled stair beyond.

"Cease off!" Stride-legged and naked, his back reddened by beating, Ruck glared at the savage old man. "Keep ye, that ye trespass no further!"

The man didn't even glance at Ruck. "Stinking bitch-clout, does thou breathe still?" He came for Melanthe, gray and powerful, his beard an untamed mat. "Hey and ware, I'll soon strangle thee!"

Ruck sprang to prevent him, ramming him back, holding him with an arm across his chest. "Nay, sir, 'tis folly! Heed to me!"

"Heed ye!" The man fought, big and strong enough in spite of his years to force Ruck to arm's length, but none of his struggle could break him free. "Heed ye, ye pillock, whilst ye degrade your mother, God assoil her! Whilst corrupt your father's line with common blood!" He spat toward Melanthe.

"Enow! Cease off this blundering!" Ruck caught him by the shoulders. With a grunt of effort he forced the old man to his knees. "Abase you!"

The man made wild efforts to rise, but Ruck held him down. "I have no children," Ruck said fiercely. "Ye knows this. I haf said you many times. Now listen to me. Isabelle is dead years agone. My lady's grace is the Princess Melanthe, of Monteverde and Bowland. And my wife. I would you wist it clearly, and repeat my words, that I trow I may release you."

The old man ceased his combat. Melanthe clutched the sheet and her hand over her bruised shoulder. He turned pale, lifting his face to her. "Bowland?" he said, his voice suddenly atremble. "Lo, the daughter of Sir Richard?"

Ruck let him go. The old man's body shook. As he bowed down his head to his knees and began to weep, Ruck looked quickly toward Melanthe. "My lady—are ye hurt?"

Her arm throbbed, but the quilts had muffled the impact of the sword. She was more stunned than in pain. Wordlessly she shook her head. He turned, kneeling to embrace their groaning attacker, holding him tight, as if he were a child.

"Who is this?" Melanthe exclaimed.

"Sir Harold." He did not say more, but gently urged the other man up. "Come, ye mote depart anon, sir."

Sir Harold pulled himself away. "Sir Richard? You have wed Sir Richard, boy?"

Ruck touched his shoulder and indicated Melanthe. "His daughter," he murmured. "The countess."

The grizzled knight twisted and pulled at his hair, possessed with frantic mumbling. He seemed to lose his strength, falling with his forehead to the floor, begging mercy, muttering in confusion of her father and Bowland and killing. Melanthe watched Ruck try to coax him away with no success.

"Come forward, Sir Harold," she said curtly. "Now speak plain words as a good trusty knight, or take thyself off."

The sharp command seemed to reach his scattered wits. He stopped his moving and mumbling, and crept to the bedside, his scarred hands knotted together. He raised his face to her. "My noble lady's grace," he said, "I haf a demon!"

"Yea, that is clear to me, Sir Harold."

"My lady," he said hopelessly, "me thinks I mote slay myseluen, to kill it."

"Nay, thou wilt not. Nill I nor Lord Ruadrik give thee leave. 'Tis against God, Sir Harold. And would deprive my lord of his rights to aid and counsel of thee," She softened her voice. "When the demon tries to seize thee, thou moste remember to ask God for counsel and solace, for He comes to the aid of those who wish to do good and act faithfully."

The old man gazed at her, dawning adoration in his face. "Blessed be you, my lady. Oh, my lady, ye be the wisest and worthiest of the world's kind."

"This is not my wisdom, but my honored father's, God give his soul peace. I only mind thee of thy duty."

Sir Harold still wept, but he gave a little sigh. "Gentle lady, truly the Lord God blessed this house on the day your lady's grace wed my lord. It was the unworthy bitch-mare I designed to slay, to keepen clean my lord's noble blood."

"God has saved thee from that mortal sin," Melanthe said. "Take thy near escape to heart."

He bowed his head. "My lady."

"Lord Ruadrik will adjudge thy punishment for striking me, but if it be heavier than a day in the tumbrel, then I will try to intercede for thee."

"Gr'mercy, my lady," he said humbly. "I beg my lady's favor."

"Thou hast my favor. Leave me now." She held out her hand from beneath the sheet to be kissed. He reached for her so quickly that for a moment she regretted the move, but he took her fingers gently, only the rough pads of his palms touching her as he made a courteous gesture of bending over her hand.

"God preserve your lady's grace." He rose, falling back from the bedside with his shoulders squared and his head lifted. Ruck had stood all the time beside him, as if ready to drag him out at any moment. Sir Harold gave him a deep bow, pronounced himself at his lord's mercy whenever he should be pleased to devise a just punishment, and strode from the room.