Medieval Hearts - For My Lady's Heart Part 26

Unseen hands bore open the portcullis and brought down the bridge. As Ruck and Melanthe rode through the echoing stone pa.s.sage, handfuls of wheat kernels rained down from the murder holes in the ceiling. Their motley household followed, singing and cheering.

Crossing the moat, Melanthe glanced up from the bridge to the towering wall. Above the inner gate was carved the device of a wolf's head, painted black on a field of azure, the colors a fresh contrast, bright against the fading white. Inside the walls the intricate lace of stonework and decay seemed stranger still. A neat garden plot occupied the center of the court, but leafless woodbine climbed and covered half the arches of a sagging wooden gallery, the last vestiges of its painted ornament almost lost to the weather. Several cattle munched on hay strewn in the dry well of a fountain, oblivious to elegant slender chimneys and the beautiful windows, delicate with traceries and gla.s.s, that soared above.

Ruck dismounted and helped her down. A pair of boys seized his sword and shield, bearing them off with the destrier. He seemed reluctant to meet her eyes, standing in his green-tinged armor amid this elvish ruin that was no ruin, a donjon that should have held ten times the folk she saw, that was too lately raised, too lovingly fashioned, to be forsaken to neglect and decline.

William Ba.s.singer gestured, and the arched door to the great hall was opened for her, the minstrels forming a path as a harper struck up a lively cascade of notes. Ruck took her hand. Carrying Gryngolet, Melanthe stepped with him up the stairs, the icy crunch of their feet obscured by music fit for sprightly angels.

It followed them inside, past the fine screens, into the hall where the liquid sun shone down through mosaic gla.s.s from five huge windows. All defense was left to the outer wall; the inner was a splendor of airy light that glowed on plaster and tapestry, touched gilt and varnished beams, illumined long cobwebs that trailed from the ceiling. The excellent tapestries stretched and gathered dust in their folds, and the ones lit by the windows were losing their brighter hues already.

But a fire blazed in the big hearth, with benches and stools gathered round it, discarded work, piles of brilliant cloths, and unstrung musical instruments, here and there a sign of more mundane effort, such as a harness in repair. In the rest of the hall the trestles were stacked against walls.

Ruck lifted her hand, guiding her to the steps onto the dais. He looked over the gathering, the upturned faces of haps fifty people, near half of them no more than children, the whole dressed in color and caprice. The harp music lent a sweet air of fantasy, the dust made all hues softer, and Melanthe wondered if she had wed Tarn Lin in truth, for everything seemed only incompletely real.

He waited until the music drew to a conclusion, as if it held precedence. And yet his waiting gave him greater attention than any seneschal bawling for quiet. In the new silence he spoke quietly, and yet with a voice that came back in soft echoes from the hall.

"Your Highness," he said to her, "my lady, my dear consort and friend, accustomed be ye to greater, deserve ye greater, but this is my hold, and my people. For what love you may bear me, I ask of you to keepen them in your heart as I do. And them I ask and require likewise to love you, and holden you in fear and respect, and I give you power over them all, to ordain and arrangen according to such as you shall see best to do. Nill I name them to you now, for our journey has been long and weary." He had spoken to a point somewhere below her chin, still avoiding her, but he lifted his eyes then and met hers. "I say you, on my life and soul, that ye are safe here, where no ill can finden you, for so long as ye wish to remain."

She held his hand, and made a small reverence toward him. "In these matters, husband, do I willingly and gladly obey thee."

His green eyes narrowed in a brief smile, abashed and mocking at once, taking full note of her reservation, that she did not promise to submit in all things, but only in these. He looked again over the hall.

"Plague comes yet once more to the world beyond the frith, so therefore do I decree for the common good that none shall venture out anon. Pierre Brokeback is dead, though nought by pestilence, may G.o.d preserve and defend him, and give his soul rest. And yet moreover my wife the Lady Isabelle, whom, G.o.d pardon, returned-after the spirit to Heaven whence she came, these thirteen years. I-" He seemed to lose the tail of his words and said abruptly, "I am shend in weariness, and my lady, also. We will speak of these things hereafterward."

He let go of Melanthe, and in his turning she saw indeed that he was like to fall asleep on his feet. "Avaunt!" she exclaimed, beckoning to the nearest of the dumbfounded household. "Dispoil thy lord of his armor, and offer comfort. Ye knowen not how far he has carried me these two nights and day again."

In the chamber of the lord of Wolfscar, cushions lay on the floor, and carpets, too, the height of sumptuous luxury. The bed was made in ermine-lined coverlets and hung with embroidered silk on red cords and golden rings. The place smelled of old smoke and damp.

Melanthe's first notion was to chastise and justle, demanding whether these acrobatic women could not find the time amid their tumbles to air the bedding, but both William the Foolet and Ruck were looking at her doubtfully, like two boys caught neglecting their studies by a severe master. Ruck, divested of his armor, went past her to the windows, leaning with his knee on the deep sills to open each latticed gla.s.s pane. Fresh air poured in from the courtyard, cold and carrying a faint scent of livestock.

"Charcoal," William snapped to the bevy of persons hanging back at the door.

"Anon!" A jester in a pointed cap came pushing through with two pails of fuel and set to work at the hearth.

"Your lady's grace," William Foolet said diffidently, "the falcon..."

Melanthe had no intention of handing Gryngolet over to this odd crew. "I will inspect the mew whilst the chamber airs," she said, maintaining a courteous tone. "A meal before the fire will do thy master well."

"Stews are preparing, and fish baked in bread, my lady. Will my lady see the kitchen?"

"I think it prudent." She looked at Ruck, who sat on a window seat, leaning against the painted stone embrasure, his expression brooding and his eyes with the distant cast of too many hours waking. Melanthe felt weary herself, but wonder and curiosity drove her. She went to him and caught his hands. "Thou wilt not come, but stay and rest," she ordered gently.

He frowned and looked as if he would object. But at last he said only, "It is the way they left it. Ne do I wish aught changed." The note of sullen defiance did not quite conform with the way his hands closed about her fingers, detaining her, almost a pleading touch.

"No thing would I do here," she promised, "without I crave thy leave, my lord."

A fresh rue came into his face. He released her, standing. "Alter what you will, then," he said shortly, "for naught I could deny that Your Highness asked."

He moved away, kicking a stray charcoal that had rolled onto the carpet, sending the piece clattering into the hearth. With his back to her, he lifted the trestles from where they stood leaning in the corner and began to set up the small table himself.

Chapter Sixteen.

She wandered through a dream of chalk-white pinnacles and vapor. Cloud wrack blew across the highest turrets, the gilt banner staves and azure peaks of the roofs vanishing and reappearing again overhead. The battlements dripped icicles on carved stonework-a face here, a winged creature there, their features made stranger and more distorted yet by the transparent masks; whole chimneys and flying arches interlaced with spires and lances of crystal and whitened stone.

Rich and cold it was, and empty, although a little flock of minstrels followed her about, staring at her as if she were as incredible to them as this place was to her. Hovering just behind her elbow like a pair of anxious dry nurses, the fat and slim Williams ordered the gaping band to disperse repeatedly, to no effect whatsoever.

She did not speak to them, but took her own path: the bailey, the gatehouse, the constable's chambers and guard rooms; weapons and armor dim with disuse. Her diligent escort offered no explanation for the deserted s.p.a.ces.

It is the way they left it. Ruck had said, but she could hardly comprehend this lost place, falling by inches to time and ruin while minstrels played in the hall.

A soft ringing echoed in the courtyard. Out a window Melanthe saw a priest walking across the bailey, swinging bell and censer-he at least dressed in the white surplice and red vestments of his office and not in some extravagant motley. She followed him to the chapel, faithfully pursued by her silent troop.

Golden arches, golden cherubim and seraphim, golden chalice and paten, golden roodscreen-the sanctuary was a marvel of magnificence, all warmed and dyed by the hues from trefoiled windows, She watched from the lower end, carrying Gryngolet, while at the altar the chaplain softly sang a Ma.s.s for the Dead. When he came to the memento, he recited names aloud in a long litany, beginning with the lords of Wolfscar and intoning on and on, mounting up to more than a hundred before she stopped counting. Inscribed tablets stood upon the altar, but he did not seem to read them, droning the names with the sure familiarity of long practice. When he had done, the minstrels behind her joined him in a De Profundis.

She left before the chantry was done, descending the stairs, the Williams hurrying after her. Finally, in the lesser hall and the servants' s.p.a.ces, she came upon something of normal life and exertion. The chimneys had fires. Beds lined dormitory chambers. Even her speechless retinue seemed to find their voices, whispering and talking behind her. As if released from an enchantment, William the Foolet cleared his throat. "Will my lady's grace judge the mews?"

Melanthe allowed herself to be escorted. The birds' quarters were not as much a shambles as she had expected, with clean sand on the floor and high barred windows for air and light. Hew Dowl was introduced to her, with some pomp, as "the son of the late lord's falconer who died in the pestilence." Hew himself was no more than an austringer, it appeared, flying only two big goshawks-kitchen birds, but hardy and practical, a meet pair to keep the larder filled. The close sight of Gryngolet was almost enough to unman him. He was struck mute and could only indicate the facilities that he kept by dumbshow and mumbles so thick with northern speech as to be unintelligible.

Still, Melanthe liked the fit look of his birds, their plumage full-summed and their weathering blocks positioned out of the wind. Gryngolet went to him without protest, and Melanthe had no nonsense out of Hew Dowl about his own opinions when she gave orders for the falcon's care. Gryngolet preened contentedly-her ancestors had flown the snows and ice rivers of the northman's country, and this chill mountain air was well to her taste.

With Gryngolet comfortably disposed, Melanthe went next to the kitchen, where she met the cook and his sister a.s.sisting him, whose parents had perished in the Great Death at Wolfscar. Likewise with the bottler, and a girl peeling onions, and the smith, all honorably descended from the castle, though they wore the gaudy livery of minstrels, and some of them she recalled with instruments from the procession outside. Forebears in the former lord's household appeared to be the only parentage worth the telling.

William the Foolet clearly acted constable, marshal, and seneschal at once, such as the offices were. William Ba.s.singer appeared to have no tasks beyond the lending of his rich low voice to n.o.ble and gracious talking, and tasting of the stew. After she had overlooked the pantry stores and b.u.t.tery, they led her to the ladies' bower.

It was a chamber like the others, frigid cold, rich in hangings and carved cupboards and carpets. For the mistress there was a bright oriel bay overlooking the court, with its own hearth and three large windows that sent shafts of light through the dust. Melanthe lifted her hand, dismissing her curious retinue. "Only the Williams," she said, and the rest had sense enough to find urgent business elsewhere.

She walked slowly across to the bay, glancing at the ceiling, where painted vines bloomed with golden flowers against a ground of stars and sky. With the hem of her mantle she brushed off a chair by the window. An embroidery rack had been left with the work still upon it. She turned and sat, fixing a straight gaze upon the two Williams, ignoring the cold.

"Now, my men," she said in French, "we will have some honest talking."

William Ba.s.singer bowed, and Foolet knelt on one knee. "Your Highness," he said with flawless humility.

"Rise, and look at me."

She waited until they obeyed, and waited still longer, a sustained and steady observation. Ba.s.singer's brows slowly rose and his lashes lifted, his face growing more and more roundly innocent above the white beard, until a babe could not have appeared as blameless. William the little Fool only stood without expression, a light color in his cheeks the single flaw in his calm.

"Tell me what has happened here," she said.

Ba.s.singer bowed. "Your Highness, as G.o.d maintains me, may I bend my poor talent to the task you set?"

"With all dispatch!"

"Your Highness, I beseech the Saviour of the world to fill me with such ardor and excellence as to give you great delight and pleasure in my tale-" "Not a tale, but a history," she said impatiently. "Not one word but true."

He gave her a hurt look, then lifted his chin and filled his chest with air. "Then I begin forthwith, to tell Your Highness of the glorious and stirring history of my Lord Ruadrik, the grandsire of the father of the father of our present lord."

Melanthe lifted a forefinger from the arm of the chair. "Nay, let us drop a father or two. Begin with your lord."

"Ah, but Your Highness, his father the Lord Ruadrik was a great man, very great of heart and body, so I have heard tell."

Melanthe saw that it was useless to press him faster than he would go. "Very well, but say me nothing false."

Ba.s.singer puffed up in mild indignation. "My knowledge is exact, Your Highness, from sources of faultless authority, being my lord your husband and Sir Harold."

"And who is Sir Harold?"

The Foolet spoke. "A knight of the old lord's. Our present lord's tutor in arms. Lives he in the postern tower. He waxes a little-mad, sometimes. Your Highness will have a care of him, I pray."

Melanthe raised her brows. "A most interesting household. Recommence, William Ba.s.singer."

"Your Highness, I tell you of how our lord's father Ruadrik of Wolfscar was in his youth among the companions of our n.o.ble King Edward of England, may G.o.d protect him. It was in the king's minority, when his unwise mother the queen and that vile traitor Mortimer held sway in the land, such that any man of honor and understanding deplored the state of affairs, even to fearing for the life of our young king himself. For all know that the traitor murdered most foully the former king his father."

He paused, to see that she was attentive. Melanthe nodded at old history and urged him on with her fingers.

"But by the grace of G.o.d," Ba.s.singer intoned, "our king had good friends and true, and Ruadrik of Wolfscar was one. Under the advice of Lord Montagu and others, the king laid a trap for-"

"Yea, at Nottingham, they went in by a secret pa.s.sage and took Mortimer by surprise," she said, to cut short what was like to be a long adventure. "Wolfscar was one of the king's party?"

Ba.s.singer appeared to have a good deal of trouble swallowing her rude interruption, but after a moment of offended silence, he agreed. "Your Highness, Ruadrik of Wolfscar led the way."

"Well, I think I would have heard of him, had he led the way, but I can believe that he was in the company. And for this service, I presume he was rewarded?"

"He was made a knight of the Bath, and his lands extended from here to the abbey in the south, and the lakes in the east, and the coast on the west, and two miles north."

"Knowest thee who held these lands before him?"

"Your Highness, I be no lawyer," Ba.s.singer p.r.o.nounced solemnly.

"They were escheated of a part of Lancaster that had no heir, my lady, and held by the abbey," the

younger William said, "but the king suspended the escheat and gave them to Wolfscar for reward."

"And the license to fortify? These lands appear not rich enough for such a castle."

William Ba.s.singer would have spun out another tale, of Scots and battle heroics, but William Foolet cut

him short. "There be a mine for iron in the hills, Your Highness. The king gave my lord's father the

income without enc.u.mbrance for the building of the castle, for there was no northern defense." "Iron?" Melanthe looked about her at the silk and cushions with skepticism. "A full rich iron mine must it be," she said.

The fool's unfoolish eyes regarded her. She waited. "Gold there be in it, too, my lady, and silver," he said at last, reluctantly. Melanthe steepled her fingers and rested her chin on the tips. For a long while she watched the slow fall of dust motes through a shaft of light.

"Why," she demanded softly of Foolet, "did the abbot not ward him as Lord Ruadrik told me should have been?"

"It were evil days, my lady. I think many monks died. None came here."

"He should have gone to them!" She looked to Ba.s.singer, for Foolet could have been no more than a child. "After the death pa.s.sed. Thou shouldst have taken him!"

"My lady, you may be a.s.sured that had I known of the arrangement, I would have moved both Heaven and Earth to see my lord Ruadrik into the hands of those who would guard and care for him, for I loved him as my own son. I was not made mindful of this warding. I think he did not apperceive the will of his father, whom G.o.d absolve, for some time."

"What time?"

"I found his father's testament, my lady," Foolet said, "among the manor rolls. My lord Ruadrik had ten and five years then, and we went to the abbey, my lady." "And?" Ba.s.singer made an apologetic gesture. "The clerks had no record of the king's grant of the land to my lord's father. There was a fire, it seems. They were short with us, my lady. We left them." "Left them! Without seeing the abbot?" "My lady, with such a rude welcome, I advised my lord to withdraw, ere he let news abroad that might be harmful to him. It is a very covetous abbey, my lady." "Thou half-wits, there would be record among the king's rolls, if the abbey's was lost!"

"I am no lawyer, my lady," Ba.s.singer murmured. "We carried out his honored father's will."

"My lady," Foolet said anxiously, "we did try. But we were afraid then; we realized that he could not prove himself-"

"None knew him from the font? No retainer? No villein?"

"Only Sir Harold," William Foolet said in a hollow tone.

"One is enough, if he is a man of good standing."

"I think not, my lady. His mind is-uncertain."

"The priest, then."

"My lady, our chaplain came into the valley after the pestilence. There were a few such who came from outside, in the first years, and we made a place and welcome."

She frowned at him. "Come, they did not all perish, those who knew him. What of these you've named to me as in this valley at their birth?"

"Yea, my lady. But you saw them; they are younger than my lord. It is their parents who could have said, and they have died since." He shrugged helplessly.

"I am no lawyer, my lady," Ba.s.singer repeated, "but I think that to make a claim stick against that abbot, a hundred peasants who could name my lord Ruadrik would not suffice. And so I counseled my lord." He drew air into his chest expansively. "He saw the wisdom of my words, and being a young man of great heart and spirit, he betook him to prove himself worthy of his lands by his own exertion. He eschewed these ink-stained clerks and lawyers and went out into the world in search of adventures and glory-as is proper to one of his knightly lineage, my lady, I'm sure you will agree. I have recorded his ordeals and victories in a poem, and will be pleased to delight my lady's grace with the singing of it. It is not finished yet, for we still await the great deed by which he will prove himself, and take his due reward, but G.o.d willing comes it soon."

Melanthe gazed at him. At first she thought that he was making a mirth. But he looked back at her with a pleased expression.

"By hap my lady would care to hear the prologue?" he asked.

"G.o.d confound you!" she breathed. "Have you made him go ragged and nameless about the world, as if he is of no account but what he wins by his strength of arms?" "My lord does no thing but what he chooses of his own self." Foolet's voice was stout, but his gaze wavered almost imperceptibly.

She leaned forward. "The abbey should have warded him! Or better yet the king!"

The two stood silent before her vehemence.