Поищу в теме... Но может, действительно, фотки пропали уже. На фл-те есть только на английском.
* * *
A year turns full turn and yields never like;
The first to the finish conform full seldom.
Forbye, this Yule over, and the year after,
And each season separately ensued after other:
And thus yields the year in yesterdays many,
And winter wendes again.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
ONE
"Year's gifts!"
The cry rose with squeals and laughter as the ladies of Bordeaux craned, reaching for the prizes held tauntingly overhead by their gay tormentors. Veils came askew, belts failed and sent misericordes flying in the tussle—in a rush of varicolored silks and furs each gentleman went down in willing defeat, yielding his New Year's keepsake for the price of a kiss.
The first Great Pestilence was twenty and two years gone, the Second Scourge ten Christmases past—but though the French harried Aquitaine's borders and yet another outbreak of the dread black swellings had killed Lancaster's white duchess herself just last year, such dire thoughts were blown to oblivion when the trumpets gave forth a great shout, sounding the arrival of pastries to the hall, fantastic shapes of ships and castles and a stag that bled claret wine when the gilt arrow was plucked from its side.
A mischievous lady was the first to toss an eggshell full of sweet-water at her lord—the carved rafters resounded with glee, and in a moment every man was wiping perfumed drops from his lashes, grinning, demanding another kiss for his misfortune. Some hungry lordling broke the crust of a huge pie and a dozen frogs leapt free, thumping onto the table amid skips and feminine screams. From another pie came a rush of feathered bodies, birds that flew to the light and put out the candles as the company filled the gloom with shrill enjoyment.
The Duke of Lancaster himself sat with languid elegance at the high table of Ombriere, watching critically as kettledrums and the wild high notes of warbling flutes heralded the first course. At the duke's right hand, his most high and honored guest, the Princess Melanthe di Monteverde, overlooked the dim noisy hall with cold indifference. Her white falcon, equally impassive, gripped its carved and painted block with talons dipped in silver. The bannered trumpets sounded once more. All the candles and torches glowed again in magical unison, illuminating the hall and dais as the liveried servants held the lights aloft.
Lancaster smiled, leaning very near Princess Melanthe. "My lady's highness likes not mirth and marvels?"
She gave him a cool glance. "Marvels?" she murmured in a bored tone. "I expect naught less than a unicorn before the sweetmeats."
Lancaster grinned, allowing his shoulder to touch hers as he reached to refill the wine cup they shared. 'Too commonplace. Nay, give us a more difficult task, Princess."
Melanthe hid her annoyance. Lancaster was courting her. He would not be snubbed and he would not be forestalled. He took her coldness as challenge; her reluctance as mere dalliance.
"Then, sir—I will have it green," she said smoothly, and to her vexation he laughed aloud.
"Green it shall be." He signaled to an attendant and leaned back to speak in the servant's ear, then gave Melanthe a sidelong smile. "Before sweetmeats, my lady, a green unicorn."
The heavy red-and-blue cloth of his sleeve brushed her arm as he lifted the cup toward her lips, but the bishop on his other side sought him. In his distraction Melanthe took her opportunity to capture the goblet from his hand. She could already see the assembly's reaction to his attentions. Swift as metheglin could intoxicate a man, another horrified report began to spread among the tables below.
It would be a subdued mumble, Melanthe knew, passed over a shared sliver of meat or a finger full of sweet jelly, whispered under laughter with the true discretion of fear. Lancaster was thirty, handsome and vigorous in the full strength of manhood. While his oldest brother the Black Prince lay swollen and confined to his bed with dropsy, it was Lancaster who kept court as Lieutenant of Aquitaine, but who could blame a younger son of the King of England—most surely one of such energy and pride as Lancaster—if his ambitions were for greater things than service to his brother? Everyone knew he would take another highborn heiress after losing his good Duchess Blanche, and no one expected him to dally long about it. But Mary, Mother of God, even for the gain it would bring him, did he truly contemplate the Princess Melanthe?
She could almost hear the whispers as she sat next to him upon the dais and surveyed the company. There—that woman in the blue houppelande, leaning back to speak to the next table—she was no doubt complaining to her neighbor that such a gyrfalcon as Princess Melanthe carried was too great for a woman to fly. Nothing in the duke's mews could match it; not even the Black Prince himself owned such a bird. The insolence, that she would display it so at the duke's own feast! Immodesty! Wicked vanity and arrogance!
Melanthe gave the woman a long dispassionate stare and had the pleasure of watching her victim turn white with dismay at the attention.
Her reputation preceded her.
And those three, the two knights inclining so near to the pretty fair-haired girl between them—Melanthe could see the relish in their faces. Widowed of her Italian prince, the men would say, heiress to all her father's vast English lands...and the girl would whisper that Princess Melanthe had caused a maiden to be drowned in her bath for dropping a cake of Castile soap.
From her late husband, someone else would murmur—the income of an Italian city-state; from her English father, lord of Bowland, holdings as large as Lancaster's; she'd taken fifteen lovers and murdered all of them; for a man to smile at her was certain death—here the knights would smirk and grin—certain, but exquisite, the final price for the paradise he could savor for as long as it pleased her to dally with him.
Melanthe had heard it all, knew what they spoke as well as if she sat among them. But still Lancaster paid her court with polish and wolf's glances, smiles and covetous stares, barely concerned to keep his desire in check. Melanthe knew what they were saying of that, too. She had entrapped him. Ensorcelled him. He'd left off his black mourning; all trace of lingering grief for his beloved Blanche had vanished. He looked at the Princess Melanthe as he looked at her falcon, with the look of a man who has determined what he will have and damn the price.
She only wished she might ensorcell him, and turn him to a toad.
Tonight she must act—this public gallantry of his could not be allowed to go on without check. Before the banquet ended, she must spurn him so that he and no one else could doubt it. When she looked out upon the trestles, she saw the assassin who watched her, tame and plump in her own green-and-silver livery, but in truth another spawn of the Riata family, one of the secret wardens set upon her. Only by the mastery of long practice did she maintain her cold serenity against the hard beat of her heart.
The food arrived with full pomp and glitter, loaded onto cloths of purest linen, the procession winding endlessly among the tables. Lancaster offered her the choice dainties from his own fingers. She brought herself to the point of rudeness in response to him—by God's self, must he be so open about it, this determined public pursuit in the face of her expressed displeasure, when he might have had the sense to send his envoy by night and secrecy to measure her willingness?
But he thought it agreeable sport, she saw, a lovers' game of disinterest and affectation. He full expected that she would have him. She had told him more than once that she would have no man, but none here would blame him for his confidence. It was a brilliant match. Their lands marched together in the north of England: the sum of their possessions would rival the king's. By this alliance the duke could make her the greatest lady in Britain—and she could make him greater yet than that.
It was not passion alone that drove him to these smiles and hot looks.
She touched him lightly when he leaned too close, to remind him that they were in the court's view. He grinned, sitting back in obedience, but a moment later he had leaned near again, grasping her hand possessively, holding it in his upon the table in a gesture as clear as a proclamation. The Riata stood up from his seat, mingling with the servants as they passed up and down the hall.
Melanthe made no move to disengage herself. It was a game of hints and inklings between her and the Riata's man—a language of act and counteract. He moved closer, warning her, reminding her of her agreement with Riata and her peril if she thought to wed any man, especially such a one as Lancaster.
She merely looked at the duke's fingers entwined with hers on the white cloth, refusing to show fear. Her heart was beating too hard, but she held to her aloof composure, asking Lancaster for a loaf of trimmed pandemain from the golden platter just set down before them, so that he must let go her hand to serve her properly.
When she looked up, she saw the Riata lingered in a closer place even though the duke had released her. Verily, Lancaster's hopes must be crushed, or she would be fortunate to see the light of another morning.
Gryngolet moved uneasily on her perch at Melanthe's elbow, the falcon's silver bells ringing as she half roused to the sweeping flutter of a sparrow that still flew, panicked, among the roof beams. Noble stewards clustered and moved behind and before the dais, attending the duke and his guests, trimming bread, carving quail: knives and poison and color— she could not keep them all in her eye at once, as adept as she had made herself at such things. The Riata could kill her as well before the entire hall as in some dark passage. It was too dangerous and open a position; she had not chosen it; she had tried to avoid it, but Lancaster's ambitions had overwhelmed her subtleties. She must sit at his high table and deny him to his face.
She had misjudged. These reckless English—she saw that she had been too accustomed to the feints and lethal shadows of the Italian courts to recall the power of plain English boldness. She would be fortunate to find her way to her chambers alive in this castle of unfamiliar corners and hidden places.
An ill luck it had been that had brought her to Bordeaux at all on her way home to England. She'd foreseen this disaster with Lancaster well enough to avoid the place by intention, but still had not cared to chance her French welcome and take the most northern route. She'd skirted Bordeaux, choosing the road to Limoges—only to meet there the English army just done with razing the town to ashes.
Lancaster wielded his courtesy with the same skill he handled a sword. She must not rush on her way home to Bowland, he had insisted graciously—there was to be a New Year's tournament—she must come to Bordeaux and honor him with her presence at the celebration. He had the ear of his father the king, he told her with his elegant hungry smile. He would write his recommendation that Princess Melanthe be put in possession of her English inheritance immediately and without prejudice. That he might, if he chose, equally well jeopardize her prospects with King Edward needed no such blunt hinting.
Wherefore, she was here. And Lancaster continued on his fatal determination, courting her through the service of the white meats and the red. She lost sight of the Riata, and then found him again, closer.
The moment approached. Lancaster would ask for her favor to carry in the tournament tomorrow. He had already told her that he would fight within the lists. In this public place, hanged be the man, Lancaster would beg her for a certain token of her regard and force her to a public answer.
There was no eluding it, no hope that he would not. His intention toward her was in his every compliment and sidelong glance. She had thought of becoming faint and retiring, but that could only put the thing off until the morrow— another night on guard against the Riata—and set off a round of further solicitude from the duke. Beyond that, the Princess Melanthe did not become faint. It was a weakness. Melanthe did not choose to show weakness.
She would end with Lancaster a powerful enemy, his lands marching with hers in bitterness instead of friendship. A man such as he would not soon forget a woman's public refusal. Among these northerners, chivalry and honor counted for all...but the Riata must be shown that she would not have the duke, and must be shown it soon and well.
She suffered Lancaster's attentions to grow more and more direct. She began to encourage him, though he needed no encouragement from her to lead himself to his own humiliation. She was angry at him, but smiled. She regretted him, but she smiled still, ruthless, laughing at his wit, complimenting his banquet. It was no sweet love that drove Lancaster now, but ambition and a man's lust. She could not save him if he would not save himself.
The second course arrived. As a gilded swan was carved before them, the duke grew a little drunk with wine and success. He plucked a subtlety in the shape of a rosebud from the profusion of decoration on the platter and offered it to her with a glance more of affection than desire. Melanthe accepted the almond sweet from his fingers. She looked at him smiling softly upon her and felt a twinge of regret for his spare, comely figure—for women's fancies—things she had heard about him, of the love he bore still for his first wife, things that could not now nor ever be between her and a man.
In exchange for her life—his pride. It seemed a fair enough bargain to Melanthe.
As Lancaster prepared their shared trencher with his own hands, she glimpsed a slim figure in blue-and-yellow hose in the throng below. Allegreto Navona lounged at the edge of the hall, near the great hearth, his black hair and bright hues almost blending into the shapes and figures in the huge tapestry on the wall behind him. The youth was looking toward the dais. As Melanthe accepted the duke's tidbit, Allegreto smiled directly at her.
It was his sweet smirk; charming and sly. She stared at him a moment.
He had succeeded at something. She looked again quickly for the assassin wearing her own green-and-silver livery—there he was, the one Riata watchdog she knew of certainly, still holding checked, still only observing from a distance—Allegreto had not slain or expelled him. Which did not mean that the youth had not bloodied his hands in some other way.
She was torn between anger and relief. She had her own agreement with the Riata. In spite of the unceasing threat of the watchers they had placed on her, she wanted no Riata lives spent, not now. But she could not disclose that to a son of the house of Navona. And a murder in the midst of this banquet, in her retinue...it would be offensive; there would be trouble; things were not done so here as they were in Italy, but she could not make Allegreto understand.
She did not acknowledge him with more than a brief look, reserving her pleasure. He made a face of mock disappointment, then lifted his chin in silent mirth. A pair of servants bore huge platters past him. When they had moved beyond, he was gone.
The trumpets sounded.
Melanthe looked up in startlement. They could not yet herald the last course. Over the hum of gossip and feasting came the shouts of men outside the hall. Her hand dropped instinctively to her dagger as the clatter of iron hooves rang against the walls. People gasped; servers scattered out of the great entry doors, spilling platters of sweets and more subtleties. Melanthe reached for Gryngolet's leash.
An apparition burst into the hall. A green-armored knight on a green horse hurdled the stairs, galloping up the center aisle, the ring of hooves suddenly muffled by the woven rushes so that the pair seemed to fly above the earth as ladies screamed and dogs scrambled beneath the tables.
Nothing hampered his drive to the high dais. Not a single knight rose to his lord's defense. Melanthe found herself on her feet alone, gripping her small dagger as Gryngolet roused her feathers and spread her wings in wild alarm.
The horse reached the dais and whirled, half rearing, showing emerald hooves and green legs, the twisting silver horn on its forehead slashing upward. The destrier's braided mane flew out like dyed silk as light sent green reflections from the lustrous armor. Silver bells chimed and jangled from the bridle and caparisons. At the peak of the knight's closed helm flourished a crest of verdant feathers, bound by silver at the base, set with an emerald that sent one bright green flash into her eyes before he brought the horse to a standstill.
The knight was on a level with her, the eye slits in his visor dark with the daunting inhumanity that was the life and power of his kind. The destrier's heavy breath seemed to belong to both of them. He held the reins with gloves of green worked in silver—on his shield the only emblem was a hooded hawk, silver on green. Rich ermine lined his mantle, and all over the horse's caparisons embroidered dragonflies mingled with flowers and birds, silver only: argent and green entire.
Melanthe's hand relaxed slightly on the dagger as she realized that this was not immediate attack. She felt the sudden exposure of standing alone, but it was too late to sit down and hide her reaction. Everyone stared, and after their first startlement, no one appeared dismayed. At the edge of her vision, she could see the duke grinning.
"My lady," Lancaster said into the utter stillness. "Your unicorn comes."
"Mary," Melanthe said. "So it does."
"My liege lady." The knight's voice sounded hollow and harsh from within the helmet. He made a bow in the saddle. The horse danced. "My dread lord."
"Trusty and well-beloved knight." The duke acknowledged him with a lazy nod. "My lady, we call him the Green Sire who rides your unicorn. I fear he will not grace us with his true name."
"Liege lord of my life," the knight said, "I have made a vow."
"Yea, I remember. Not until thou art proved worthy, was it? At least remove thy helm, sir. It alarms the ladies, as thou canst well see." He made a slight gesture toward Melanthe.
The green knight hesitated. Then he seized his helmet and pulled it off his head. The feathers fluttered as he held it under his arm. Melanthe glanced at the emerald that adorned the crest, and looked into his face.
But he kept his eyes well cast down, focused on some spot below the table at Lancaster's feet, showing mostly a head of black hair cut short and unruly. He was clean-shaven, with a strong jaw and strong features, sun- and battle-hardened in a way that was different from the men she was accustomed to—in the way of campaign and chevauchée, open-air knight errantry instead of close-handed duellum with wits and dagger. Melanthe had an abiding respect for any type of violence; this type had the benefit of a certain novelty. One could appreciate the theory of chivalrous knighthood...one could smile at the idea of a man who would not give his name until he was proven worthy.
Since she felt the urge to smile, she followed the primary rule of her existence and did not do it. Had she followed that principle a moment ago, stifling instinct, she would not now be standing in this foolish and conspicuous way, showing herself the only one who had been so affected by the sensational entrance.
"You desire a unicorn, and I give it you," Lancaster said in high good humor. "The beast is yours to command, Princess."
The knight lifted his head slightly. His face was immobile. A faint tickle of significance stirred in Melanthe's mind, a fleeting thought she could not catch. He was indeed a fine man, tall on his horse, strong of limb, his face that combination of beauty and roughness that provoked the ladies to sighs and the more elegant courtiers to spiteful remarks about vulgarity. The range of expression in the company behind him was of vast interest to Melanthe—and not least intriguing the green knight's own taut countenance. He had a look of extremity on him, some emotion far more intense than mere playacting at marvels before a lady.
"What will you, my lady?" Lancaster asked. "Shall you send them to hunt dragons?"
The knight glanced at Melanthe for an instant, then away, as if the contact startled. His destrier shifted restlessly beneath him, its enameled hooves thumping on the braided rush. The bells jangled. With an abrupt move he yanked one glove from his hand and threw it down before the company. "A challenge!" he shouted. He turned about in the saddle, scanning the hall, rising in his stirrups. "For the honor of my lady, tomorrow I take all who come!"
Lancaster went stiff beside her. He stood up. "Nay, sir," he snapped. "Such is not thy place, to defend Her Highness!"
The knight ignored his liege. "Is this the court of the Black Prince and Lancaster?" he shouted furiously. "Who will fight me for the honor of my lady?"
His voice echoed in the stunned silence of the hall. They stared at him as if he had lost his senses. But comprehension burst upon Melanthe. This was the source of Allegreto's mirthful satisfaction—he had created a chance for her.
"Cease thy nonsense!" Lancaster growled in a low voice. "It does thee no credit, sir!"
The green knight had dropped his veneer of submissive respect. His gaze hit Melanthe and skewed away again. He dismounted and went down on his knee before her in a chinking clash of mail. "My lady!" Over the edge of the table she could see that he held his bare hand against his heart, the plumed helmet thrust under his arm. "I crave of you, do me this ease—give me something of your gift, that I might carry the precious prize tomorrow and defend against all comers."
"Thou shalt not do so!" the duke declared, his voice rising. "I carry Her Highness's favor, impudent rogue!"
Melanthe seized her moment. She slanted him a cool look. "Think you so, my lord?" she asked softly.
Lancaster glanced at her, his face growing red. "I—" His jaw went taut. "I am at your service, if you will honor me," he said stiffly.
Melanthe smiled at him. She caught Gryngolet's jesses and pulled the soft white calf's leather loose from about the falcon's legs, slipping her dagger inside to cut the belled bewits and the jesses free. Gryngolet's varvels swung suspended from the ends—two silver rings jeweled with emeralds and diamonds and engraved with Melanthe's name. She slipped the bells from Milan onto the jesses, tying them so that they made a falcon's music—one note striking high and one low—in the rich harmony that belonged to nothing else in heaven or earth.
Lancaster was watching her. She looked at him for a long, significant moment, then turned back to the knight who still knelt below her.
"Green Sire," she declared, "the most precious prize I possess on earth, I give thee for a keepsake, to defend me for my honor on the morrow."
She tossed the jesses with their gems and bells onto the rush before him.
"I challenge for it!" Lancaster exclaimed instantly.
"And I, on my lord's behalf!" A man stood up beyond him on the dais.
"And I!" They were seconded by two more, and then four, knights standing in the hall to shout their dares until the hammer-beams rang.
"Enough!" Lancaster lifted his arm. "It shall be arranged who will fight." He glared down at the green knight. "Rise, then, insolent fellow."
The knight came to his feet, his eyes downcast again. She noticed that he'd had the presence of mind to retrieve his gauntlet along with the jesses while he knelt—not entirely a lack-wit. God only knew how Allegreto had threatened or enticed him to do this thing. The knight stood waiting with a stony stare at his lord's feet, the light on his virid armor sculpting broad curves at his shoulders, chasing silver arcs across his arm-plates. Lancaster could barely keep the fury from his face.
"A most marvelous unicorn," she said with amusement. "My lord's grace is kind, to put him at my service."
Lancaster seemed to find some control of his emotion. He bowed to her, producing a smile that did not quite cover the grim set of his jaw. "I would have counted it worth my life to serve you myself, my lady. But now I count it an honor to win your better regard by trial tomorrow, against this man I had thought under true oath to me."
The green knight looked up, his expression a fascinating play of yearning and pride, of checked temper. "My beloved lord, I wish with my whole heart to please you, but my lady commands me."
"Thou takest too much credit upon thyself, knave!"
The knight glanced to Melanthe; his eyes as green as his armor, human now instead of hidden by steel and darkness. In his intense gaze there was an open dismay of his own defiance before his prince—he looked to her hoping for reprieve, asking her for release from what he had done.
She held him, denying it. Her answer was unrelenting silence.
The knight bowed his head. She could see the taut muscle in his bared neck. "Does my lord bid me serve his pleasure before my lady's?" he asked in a low voice.
It was a futile attempt, hardly more than a strained whisper. Without an appeal from Melanthe herself, Lancaster would not withdraw—could not, not now, when he had agreed to fight.
"I do not well know where thou comest by this notion that Her Highness stoops to command such as thee!" Lancaster snapped.
"From me, mayhap," Melanthe murmured.
The duke gave her a sullen small bow. "Then your wish is mine," he said curtly. "And my command, of course. This man shall ride for you on the morrow, my lady, against myself and all who challenge for your favor."
The green knight lifted chagrined eyes to Melanthe. Holding Gryngolet on her wrist, ignoring Lancaster, she gave her new champion a small smile and dropped a mocking bow of courtesy. "I look forward to such spectacle. Go now and refresh thyself, Green Sire. Attend me in chamber when dinner is done."
"May God reward you, lady," he murmured mechanically, and stood. With an easy move that belied the weight of his armor, he remounted, reining the horse around and spurring it to a gallop. He parted the men-at-arms at the door, vanishing out of the hall with an echo of hooves and bells.
* * *
Of course she didn't remember him.
Ruck tore the loaf of white bread and shed more crumbs onto his bare chest, causing mute Pierre to gesture and dust him urgently, but there was no time to sit down for a meal as his broken-backed squire wished. His lady—his liege lady, the cherished queen of his heart—commanded him immediately after the dinner; and by the time he'd stabled Hawk, secured his mount's armor and his own, harried Pierre, and sufficiently bullied and bribed the fourth chamberlain for a bath in the midst of a banquet, he could hear the higher note of the trumpets that signified the lord's retirement from the hall.
A light-headed sickness hung in his throat. The dry bread seemed to choke him. It was almost too fantastical to believe that it was her; that she was here. He had never expected it. He hardly knew how to fathom the fact, or what he had just done for her.
Christ—Lancaster's face—but Ruck could not bear to think of it.
"Hie!" He knocked Pierre's hand aside as the squire tried to wipe the shaving soap from him. The barber had been impossible to obtain at such a time. "My hose." He grabbed the towel, cleaned his jaw himself, and finished off the bread before Pierre had the green hose ready for him.
He didn't think she remembered him. He couldn't settle it in his mind. By her young courtier in the yellow-and-blue motley, she had sent him a command to challenge for her. She had looked upon him in the hall with that cool authority...as if she knew his vow to her service—as if she expected it. He had a wild thought that she had known all there was to know of him since that day he had first seen her, that his every move for ten and three years had somehow been open to her. Those eyes of hers, 'fore God!
She was here. And in faith, it felt more like a blow to his belly than a boon.
His breath frosted in the cold as he bit into an apple. Holding the fruit between his teeth, he pulled the green hose over his linen. A few gentlemen began to wander out of the great hall to relieve themselves, passing the open door of the buttery where the servants had grudgingly hauled the bathtub for Ruck.
"La la! Seest thou, Christine," said a feminine voice. "He is not green all over!"
Ruck looked up from belting his hose to find a pair of ladies leaning in the door. He didn't know either of them. He dropped the apple from his mouth and caught it in one hand. As he bowed, he grabbed his mantle from Pierre's hands and tossed it around his bare shoulders. "A common man only, madam."
The dark-haired one giggled. The other, the one who'd spoken, was blonde and comely and she knew it; she moved upon him with a flow of brilliant parti-color robes. "Thy form gives thee the lie, sir. Thou art uncommon strong and pleasing." Smiling, she traced him with her forefinger from the base of his throat down to his chest. "And uncommon brave, to proclaim such a challenge."
He lightly clasped her hand and lifted it away from him. "For the honor of Her Highness," he said evenly.
Her smile deepened. "Such wild courage," she murmured, lifting her mouth. "We have heard much of your ferocity in battle. Stay and tell us more."
He looked down at her offered lips, the soft smiling curve. "For God's mercy, you tempt me to dally, but I cannot." He held up the apple, brushed her cheek with the rosy smooth skin, and pressed the fruit into her fingers, setting her away from him. "Accept this, and I know I've shared a sweet with a gracious lady."
A shadow of pique crossed her features. But she stepped back, taking a bite with a crunch of white teeth. "The Princess Melanthe," she said airily. "You know her?"
"I know her," he said.
"Ah. Then you know to accept no apples of love from that one. She poisoned her own husband."
Ruck stiffened. "Madam—it were better that thou spake truth on thy tongue."
"Oh, I speak true enough." She licked a drop of juice from the apple. "Ask it of anyone. She was put to trial for the deed."
He scowled at her for a moment, and then held out his hand to Pierre for his tunic. His squire caught the mantle as Ruck shrugged it off and pulled the green wool over his head. A few more gentlewomen hovered outside.
"She is a sorceress," his blonde temptress said, and looked to the others. "Is she not?"
"That gyrfalcon," another offered. "The bird is her familiar. Never has she flown it in the light of day."
"She bewitched the magistrate to release her—"
"She took her own brother for a lover—"
"Yea, and murdered him with that very dagger at her waist; whilst he was a guest in her husband's house."
"And now on her way to gorge on his birthright! But no Christian knight will escort her hence, for fear of his soul."
"Nay," Ruck objected, "she is a princess."
"A witch! Sir Jean will say you!" Feminine hands urged a knight forward from where he'd been lingering at the edge of the group, trying to woo one of the gentlewomen.
Pierre helped Ruck into his surcoat, smoothing down the cloth-of-silver. Ruck stood facing the other man, his jaw rigid. "Have a care," he said. "The chatter of the women is naught. On behalf of my sworn lady, sir, I will not take thy words so lightly."
"You have sworn to her?" the blonde asked, stepping back.
"Yea. I am her man."
"For the tourney," the other knight said. "My lord the duke will abide no more." He gave Ruck a shrewd grin. "It was a bold stroke you took. He's angry now, but he'll value you to show him at his finest on the morrow."
"I am her man," Ruck repeated.
Sir Jean looked at him. "Nay, you don't mean to be serious in this?"
Ruck stared back, eyes level, showing nothing. "I am sworn to her. I am honored with her gift. I fight for the Princess Melanthe."
The spectators began to depart, withdrawing with sidelong glances and murmurs among them. Ruck threw his mantle round his shoulders and stabbed the pin of his silver brooch through the cloth. When he looked up, he and Pierre were alone in the buttery.
The mute squire elevated his eyebrows expressively. He dug in his apron and held out a leather-bagged amulet.
"She is not a witch," Ruck snapped.
Pierre crossed himself and mimicked a priest blessing the charm.
"Curse thee! She is my lady!"
Pierre ducked and genuflected. With a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head, he tucked his saint's tooth away.
Кстати, в оригинальном исполнении автора книга написана "под старину", используя старинные словечки и выражения. Атмосферно
10.04.25 23:56 
Она большая по объёму?
И обсуждение не прерывается. На каждый месяц книги выбираем. 
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Браво, Ирин! 
) у нас намечается 100-ое КЧ!!! Предлагаю выбрать что-нибудь интересненькое, надо подумать 
Я уже год тут тоже, хотя в тему периодически одним глазком заглядывала. Так что я тут молча с самого начала присутствовала. 
Надо же, как коллектив поменялся, даже книги по второму кругу идут. 
