For My Lady's Heart by Laura Kinsale

tolerated no gallant by her—any man who could not
    be discouraged in his attentions would meet his fate by some insidious
    means, so subtle that only gossip and evil tales followed Melanthe. So
    subtle that she had learned to befriend no one and smiled upon no man, cold
    as winter now in her heart.
    She turned that icy disfavor upon the knight, so that any who watched
    could see her do it. “I care naught for thy runisch font-name,” she said, as
    if he’d been too dull to understand her. “What is thy court, knight?”
    He showed no reaction but a turn of his thick gauntlet, gathering the
    reins. “My court is yours, my lady,” he said in French. “And his who rules
    the palatine of Lancaster.”
    “If thou love me as thy liege,” she said, “for today thy court is mine
    alone.” She stared at him, to be certain that he took her meaning, a long
    moment with everything she knew of command in her eyes.
    “Yea, then,” he said slowly. “Yours only, my lady.”
Chapter Three
    Ť ^ ť
    They called him by this north-name of
bersaka
with good reason.
    Melanthe was accustomed to games of combat, the innumerable hastiludes and
    tournaments and spectacles she had attended, celebrating every occasion from
    weddings to foreign embassies.
A plaisance
—pleasantries, as
    Lancaster had promised. But with his blunted tournament weapons, her Green
    Knight fought as if he meant to kill.
    Melanthe had led him last into the lists, holding back until two lines
    had formed: opposing ranks of destriers and knights, their banners waving
    gently over the fantastical crests of staghorns and griffons and outlandish
    beasts, as if each man vied to display a deeper nightmare than the next atop
    his helm. Down the open space between she led her Green Sire, halting at the
    center to the sound of scattered cool applause. The moment she had released
    his horse, a pair of pages in Lancaster’s livery hurried up to her, catching
    her by the hand and escorting her to a place upon the
escafaut
below Prince Edward on his red-draped couch and dais. She curtsied deeply to
    the prince and princess, then took her seat next to the duke’s empty chair.
    There was to be no old-fashioned melee. At the stout gate into the
    tilting ground, a monument of red stone held the insignia of the defenders.
    As each knight had ridden past in the procession, he had struck the shield
    of his choice to issue his challenge—and the green shield emblazoned with a
    silver falcon bore so many sword and lance wounds of challenge that the wood
    showed through the paint. Not every knight had touched it; many had raised
    their weapons and brought them down as if they would hit the falcon, then at
    the last instant held back, bowing deliberately toward Lancaster, and struck
    some other arms.
    But even so, there were no less than a score of rivals beyond the duke
    himself who had signaled a wish to fight for Melanthe’s favor. The trumpets
    sounded, clearing the lists of all but Lancaster’s swarm of attendants and
    her champion with his single man. As the Green Sire reined his destrier into
    position, the jeers began. They would not sneer openly at Melanthe, but her
    champion was fair game, it seemed.
    The entire crowd burst into frenzied acclaim for Lancaster as the duke
    rode forward into place, surrounded by his squires and grooms. The Green
    Sire made no sign of noticing either applause or taunts; he rested his lance
    on the ground and slipped Gryngolet’s jesses from the tip. The marshal of
    the lists accepted responsibility for Melanthe’s prize, riding back to the
escafaut.
As he handed her the jesses, both combatants lifted their
    lances in salute.
    Melanthe bowed to her champion, ignoring Lancaster.
    The trumpets clarioned. The lances swung downward. Both horses roused;
    the Green Knight’s half reared and came down squarely as Lancaster’s was
    already trotting forward. The green destrier sprang off its haunches into a
    gallop. Lancaster’s