For My Lady's Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

    waiting. Ruck held on to the coin for a moment, but futile pride overcame
    him and he tossed it to the beggar with no good grace. The man grinned and
    saluted, shuffling away.
    Ruck watched his dinner and bed disappear up the narrow street. He
    unfolded the paper—and jerked, catching at the green glitter that fell from
    inside.
    I charge thee, get thee far hence ere nyt falleth. Fayle not in this.
    He gazed at the English words, and the two emeralds in his palm. One was
    small, no bigger than the lens of a dragonfly. The other was of a size to
    buy full armor and mount, and pay a squire for a year. A size to adorn a
    falcon’s arrogant crest.
    He held the emeralds, watched them wink and catch the light.
    He knew what he ought to do. A good man, a virtuous man, would stand up
    and stride to the palace and throw them in her face. A godly man would not
    let himself be bound to such a one as she.
    He’d given up his wife to God.
    And his horse, and his armor, and his money.
    Ruck closed his hand on the jewels she sent and swore himself to the
    Arch-Fiend’s daughter.
    Aereernes fulerne andeldeneuer
    lyke;
ţe forme to ţe fynisment foldeful selden.
Forţi, ţisol ouerede, and ţeere after,
And vche sesoun serlepes sued after oţer.
    *
    And ţusirneţeere inisterdayemony,
And wynter wyndeaayn.
    A year turns full turn and yields never like;
The first to the finish conform full seldom.
Forby, 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
Chapter One
    Ť ^ ť
    “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