He gripped his hands together and bent his head down. "Nay, only Desmond watz here, my lord, and she went apart and spake to him within the sight of my eyes, lord! And she mounted him upon my horse, and said that he would haf it to carry him, and bade me on pain to stayen you from following her."

"Nay." Ruck took a step forward. "She did nought!"

"My lord, she instructed me to sayen you, if ye would nought abide her word"—Hew lifted wretched eyes—"to remember, my lord, that she warned you once, that always she deceived."

TWENTY-TWO

He had no memory of coming down from the mountain. Hawk was galloping, pounding down the road before the castle. The May pole stood in the meadow. He sent Hawk flying off the track, drawing his sword, careering down the slope with his arm outstretched.

The sword hit, slashing through the ribbons, a violent impact in his hand. The stave vibrated wildly as he swept past. He reined Hawk on his haunches and spurred the destrier at the pole. He was yelling as he rode it down, swinging his sword overhead. The bright silks flew in the wind. The blow rang through him, opening a white gash in the wood.

Ruck carried away strips of blue and yellow; they fluttered and curled around his gauntlet and the guard. He flung the weapon from him as he passed the lists, leaning down to catch the haft of the battle ax. His arm took the heavier weight. He swung upright in the saddle and charged the May pole howling fury in his throat.

The blade flashed and bit deep in the wood. With a crack the pole bent drunkenly. Hawk carried him by it as the upper half listed. He drove the horse around with his legs, hefting the length of the ax in both hands. He cut at the stave, spurring Hawk in ever smaller circles around the fractured pillar, swinging again and again as wood chips flew past his face, chopping until the log fell with a squealing groan.

He raised the ax over his head and brought it down, cleaving the standing wood down the center with a crack like a lightning bolt. He yanked the weapon free and dismounted amid trampled ribbons, assaulting the downed spar.

The wood splintered beneath the blade. He lifted the ax and swung it, lifted and swung, grunting, mangling the pieces, driving them into the muddy ground. He had no thoughts, no idea of time. He hewed until his hands went numb with the work, until he could not pull the blade from its seat but stumbled forward over it when he tried.

He fell on his knees amid mutilated silk and sundered wood. His breath burned his throat. With his dagger he stabbed at a scarred length of pole beside him, the only thing in reach, grinding the knife tip around, deepening and widening the wound, stabbing at it again.

He could hear nothing but his own heaving breath and the sound of the point impaling wood. Sweat trickled down into his eye, sharp salt. He wiped it with the back of his leather sleeve.

The cold wind bit his cheeks when he looked up. All of his people stood at the edge of the lists, a cluster of color and silence except for one little girl who was weeping. Their May stave and garlands lay maimed and dismembered about him.

He shook his head. He shifted the dagger and speared the mud beside his knee. He pulled it free and gored again, his fist rising and falling weakly. He shook his head once more.

"My lord." It was Will Foolet's voice, heavy with fear and question.

"I cannought speak of it." Ruck's throat was hoarse. He shoved himself to his feet. "I cannought speak of it. Ask Hew."

He took up the ax and walked toward the lists, wiping his muddy knife on his thigh. The tear-stained girl came up to meet him as he passed, reaching for the hem of his surcoat. "Won't we have a May then, m'lor, if you please?" Her large eyes fixed him. "My lady's grace said me that I might carry her flowers to the stave—" Her mother hurried up, trying to lift her away, but she clung stubbornly to him. "And ne can I now!" she cried.

"Beg grace, my lord!" her mother exclaimed, yanking the small fist free.

Ruck saw a lone figure walking toward them from far away down the track. Hew. Soon enough they would all know, and stare at him, and pity him for a wretched love-sot, more fool than they could invent in their best playing at fools.

"I'll fell another." He turned from them, hefting the ax onto his shoulder. "Ne do I desire company at it."

* * *

Desmond had told Melanthe nothing more, but that Allegreto's father had come to Bowland. She had not asked. He did not use his bandaged hand, and he moved like an old man, his young face unsmiling, his eyes bleak.

He brought her to her senses. She had looked on him, the boy who had left with a merry melody that knew nothing of pain, and she had known that she must go.

She could not let this come to Wolfscar. And it would come, if she stayed, if Gian was here. The world would come no matter the depth of the woven wood barrier. Gian would hunt her until he found her.

As dreams and vapor vanished, as a laughing youth came home a cripple, so would such things perish if she tried to hold on to what she could not possess. She had not forgotten who she was, but she had let herself forget what it demanded.

She had looked back once, halting the horse at a crossroad where a monk and a farmer worked to repair a harrow. Gryngolet sat on the saddlebow, asleep, her head tucked beneath one white wing. The wind blew warmer here, pushing fat low clouds and showers off the sea. The lowland was alive with the work of spring, with cleared fields and flowers, church bells and children chasing birds off the new seeds.

Behind her the mountains rose, catching the rain against their flanks—a dark watch, a malevolence that made the eye long to turn to the new foliage and fresh red soil. She stared at the boundary. High and impenetrable it seemed, and yet precious frail, vanishing at a glance for anyone with the key.

Her message to Ruck had been a more powerful kind of barrier, designed to kill all trust and love. He would have followed her—she made a pit of broken faith between them to prevent him.

Desmond did not halt or look back at her. His fat sluggish rouncy, taken from Hew, carried him step by step. She had seen him wrap his good hand in the mane, his mouth drawn hard against every jolt. Sometimes, when his face grew too white, she had told him they would rest, and gave him time to recover himself.

She wondered how many fingers he had left beneath the bandage. But someone had been kind to him—it was only his left hand, and he could still move his joints, if stiffly. He had not been racked for long.

So far from Gian, she had let herself drown in foolish visions. She had done a thing unforgivable and irreparable, disdaining the danger. She had loved, and let it command her.

If she had not, Desmond would be whole. He would still be in Wolfscar, playing his mirthful flute. But she had never thought Gian would come. She had thought Allegreto dead. She had thought she was free.

Free! Better she had obeyed Ligurio and gone into the nunnery. Better she had flung herself from the highest tower of Monteverde. Better that she had never, never known what she knew now—a man's faint smile and the depth of his heart and his faithfulness. She did not deserve it, she had never deserved such, she had mistaken herself for someone else. Ligurio had trained her, Gian would have her; it was beyond defying.

Even God Himself had stayed his hand. She had not conceived; she had seen the signs denying it each month with regret—but she understood now what mercy had been given her, that she was barren.

Fantasies and a lover she left behind. Only one thing did she do for herself, brutally cruel as she could do it, so that she might have a hope of sleeping. She made him hate her, so that he would not follow.

* * *

The moment that they rode within sight of the massive gatehouse and red sandstone walls that guarded the abbey, Allegreto came striding out. He did not keep to a walk—he began to run, avoiding puddles and a flock of peahens, coming to a halt before her horse. "My father," he said.

His face held no expression, his voice no panic, and yet he radiated a fear so deep that he seemed to breathe it in and out of him.

"Is he here?" She nodded toward the abbey.

"Depardeu, no!" He seemed to get a little hold of himself and shook his head. He bowed to her. "No, lady. At Bowland. We came away in secret."

"Let us go in, then. Desmond must have rest and food."

Allegreto looked toward her drooping companion. He walked to the horse and took its reins, reaching back to grip Desmond's good hand. "Well worth you," he said, "for bringing her lady's grace. You see I did not follow."

Desmond gave a hollow croak of a laugh. "Not for lack of trying."

Allegreto turned and clucked the rouncy into a slow walk. He looked back at Desmond. "How were you injured, when they ask?"

"A mishap," Desmond said weakly. "A mill wheel."

Allegreto nodded. "Clever enough," he said to the horse.

Melanthe saw Desmond smile feebly. He looked at Allegreto with bleared and worshiping eyes.

"I have said a lady doing penance is expected," Allegreto informed them. "A great lady traveling poorly, to atone for her pride and vainglory. A falcon brought the message to her in a dream."

Melanthe sighed. "Ah, Allegreto—and I thought thee dead." She pulled her hood about her face and lifted the bird who had delivered the unfortunate news of her pride and vainglory, pressing her horse toward the abbey gate.