M'Lady Witch

CHAPTER 12

The cloth, at least, was every bit as beautiful as Sir Julian had promised. She chose an emerald green lawn, almost as fine as silk, for the gown itself, then selected yard after yard of intricate lace to adorn it. She was tempted to take some long strips of embroidery they showed her, but decided that she would not be able to compete with Delilah in ornamentation; indeed, she remembered her mother's dictum, that when a woman resorts to an abundance of decorations, it is because she does not believe in her own beauty. Unfortunately, Cordelia did not.

Still, she would never admit that. The lace would have to do—the lace, and the wonderful cloth that showed her hair and eyes to such advantage.

Petticoats and kirtles the maid was glad to bring her, presumably from the sister's store. Cordelia did not even stop to think of the wonderful coincidence that they should be almost exactly the same size.

Then she sat down with pen and paper to make a rough sketch by candlelight—but the more she sketched, the more excited she became, till finally, she heard a clock somewhere tolling midnight, and told herself sternly that she must desist; she would have to have a good night's sleep, or she would be incapable of doing anything tomorrow, certainly not be able to be as charming as she must be at the ball.

And so to bed.

At last, Cordelia was able to lie down to sleep, dressed in a nightgown that she had found laid out on her bed. She nestled into the softness of the featherbed, luxuriating in it after a night on pine boughs. She burrowed deeper, letting her mind roam free, letting images arise and fade of their own accord—but the images were not of lovely gowns, or even nightmares of the extravagant dresses Delilah might wear to the ball tomorrow night, but of Alain ... and then Forrest ... then Alain again, then Forrest, then the two of them side by side, then Forrest alone, looming over her, his eyes bright, his lips moist ... She was only a little afraid of the feelings that the picture of him aroused, almost unafraid at all, considering that he was not really there. There was something about his gaze, his stare, and (be honest!) his body, his muscular build, that raised those tingling, tickling feelings inside her, and she admitted to herself at last that it was a longing she felt, that perhaps she was beginning to be able to understand the desire that seemed to drive Geoffrey.

But there was something that repelled her about Forrest, too—the very recklessness that made him appealing was also threatening, in its way. She found herself wishing that she could marry Alain for security and friendship, but still have Forrest for romance ... romance, and the pleasures of his attentions ...

She sat bolt upright in bed, staring into the darkness, realizing what she had been wishing for, blushing furiously in the privacy of night. Then, completely ashamed of herself, she burst into tears and buried her face in her pillow.

The campfire was a spot of cheer in a very dark night. It was chill indeed, very odd for August. Rod and Gwen shared his cloak, staring at the flames.

"I don't like this," Rod said. "The three of them could be at the mercy of whoever owns that manor house. How long has it been here, anyway?"

"By appearances, a hundred years, at least," Gwen answered.

"By appearances," Rod agreed. "But people can build things to look old."

"Indeed." Gwen was thinking of some of the wonders of modern technology she had seen in her brief sojourn off-planet.

A squat shadow detached itself from the darkness under the trees and came toward them.

Rod looked up. "Any news, Brom?"

The dwarf sat down on a rock by the fire, holding his hands out toward the flames. "I have sent elves to keep watch throughout the house. If anything untoward occurs, we will know of it within minutes."

"How long do the local elves say the house has been here?"

"Only these last two years—nay, some months less. A crew of strangers came to build it. They cleared the land here in the center of the forest, where none might see them. The tools with which they cut down the forest were magical, say the elves, and the job was done in a day."

Rod pricked up his ears; he knew the sound of high technology. "Anything about beams of fire?"

"Summat of the sort. They builded the whole of the house in a month, again with sorcerous machines, and gave it the appearance of age, though it was new."

Rod nodded. "Do they have any idea who lives there?"

"A lady and her retainers," Brom answered. "A most beautiful lady, slender, not very tall." He shrugged. "That is all they can say. Her face doth seem to change from time to time, as does the color of her hair. She doth bear herself as one well born, but they do sense a maliciousness about her."

"Anything definitely bad to say about her?"

"Not from without—and they have had no wish to enter inside that house. Not that it houseth fearsome deeds, mind you, nor doth it repel them in any wise—'tis that it hath no interest for them. They have other fish to fry."

"No interest?" Rod stared. "Elves, with no curiosity?" Gwen frowned. "That doth sound little like any elf I've ever known. Indeed, a brownie's natural curiosity would send him prying into every corner. Or are these elves only, and no brownies among them?"

"What difference?" Rod said. "Elves are just as curious as brownies. Not so inclined to go indoors, I'll admit, but still..."

"There do be brownies among them, and they too have no interest in the house," Brom verified.

"It doth smack of enchantment," Gwen said, "of witchpower, and mighty, too."

"Even so," Brom agreed. "It doth bespeak one who hath laid spells of disinterest on all who come nigh."

"Is there danger to Cordelia, or to Geoffrey?" Gwen asked.

"Or even to Alain?" Rod finished.

"There is no sign of danger yet, to any one of them," Brom said. "There is hazard only in that they are amidst strangers who are themselves unknown in their desires or goals. But there is no present danger in evidence. Be sure that if there is, the elves will warn them—and, if need be, protect them with their own magics."

"But if there are witches in that house," said Gwen, "elfin magics may not suffice."

Rod shivered.

"They will bear word to us, will they not?" Gwen asked.

"Be sure that they shall," Brom promised her. "Be very sure of that."

Morning came lustrous, cool and moist—like herself, Delilah thought. She stretched luxuriously, treasuring the feeling of rest, of satiation of sleep, knowing that Cordelia was probably red-eyed and weary, her hair in disarray and her mouth stuffed with pins, trying vainly to cobble together some sort of dress. It made breakfast in bed so much more tasty.

Her modiste, of course, had been up all night, and was still busy with a fabric-bonder, computer, design program, and a ROM library of medieval style plates.

Delilah rose for her first fitting.

Cordelia had risen an hour earlier, her heart singing as she gazed at the cloth and lace. Then she noticed the breakfast tray by her bed, still steaming. So that was what had waked her—the servant. She felt an instant's panic, but found her sketches still carefully hidden away in her boots—in her enemy's house, there would be spies everywhere.

Boots! Yes, she would have to make slippers, too. Then she donned the riding dress, pleased to notice that the dust had been brushed from it. Clad once again in her working clothes, Cordelia buckled down.

Delilah came out of her bedroom into the sitting room of her suite as her modiste was finishing running the hem through the molecular bonder. "Nice timing, Chief." She held up the completed dress.

Even Delilah couldn't withhold an exclamation of delight. It was a daring confection of a dress, all pink and gold, that would set off her peaches-and-cream complexion and blonde tresses to perfection. "Quickly! I must see it!" She slipped into her petticoats and stood impatiently while the modiste fastened the gown around her. No need to trouble with a brassiere—the Middle Ages had not had them, and any reasonably civilized planet in the Third Millennium had them built into the garments with tiny electronic devices that enhanced buoyancy and line.

Of course, Delilah thought smugly, she did not really need enhancing—but it never hurt to fire a broadside. The modiste finished the last fastening—primitive, but they had to be something that could have existed in the Middle Ages, whether they truly had or not—and Delilah whirled away to stand in front of the doorway to her bedroom. The modiste pressed a button, an electronic circuit closed—and the surface of the doorway swirled into silvery reflectance. Delilah gazed at her reflection in the electronic mirror with smug satisfaction, posing side view, back view, three-quarter profile. That snob, Cordelia Gallowglass, could never match such a gown, not even with the most talented seamstress on Gramarye! She was, after all, limited to medieval technology, and certainly, mere needle and thread were so far from the devices available to Delilah's modiste that Cordelia could not have produced even an indifferent dress. But she would have tried—oh, yes! She would have stayed up all night and would stay up all day! Her hands would be raw with pinpricks, her skin pale with fatigue, and her eyes red. She would be snappish and insecure with weariness.

Even if her dress were presentable, though, it could never come within a mile of Delilah's for allure. But then, she thought with complacency, Cordelia could never have matched her for voluptuousness in any case. Delilah was, after all, a projective telepath, and a very talented and very skilled one at that—but the greatest of all her talents was the projection of sexual desire.

Cordelia was digging into her task with verve and glee. Never had she had such beautiful fabrics to work with! It seemed such a self-indulgence, when there were peasant women on her own estates who had only the one blouse and skirt, and those patched. No matter how her parents urged her, she had never been able to bring herself to indulge in outright luxuries.

Here, however, there was the best of reasons. She had to save her poor Alain from the clutches of that poisonous female, Delilah—and had to save him personally.

She had draped the cloth, marked it, then laid it out and chalked the patterns with not a moment's hesitation, following the diagrams in her mind's eye. Then she cut itstaring at the lines, thinking of the separation of molecules, watching the cloth separate itself along the lines she had drawn. Twice she made a mistake; twice she held fabric together, stared at it, and thought of the linen molecules moving, faster and faster until the cloth was whole again, each separate thread having bonded itself to its other half so that it was no longer cut, but as sound as new.

She was as talented in telekinesis as Delilah was in projection.

Now she held the sections of cut cloth together, staring at the edges, watching the threads flow together so well that you could see no seam at all. Molecule bonded to molecule, far tighter than any thread could bind. The unfinished edges folded themselves over, bonded, and made themselves into hems.

By noon, it was done, and she slipped it on for the first fit. She went to the window, opening the casement and letting out a trilling whistle. The aural call was only there to help her concentrate; really, it was her mind that reached out and summoned ...

A robin flew down, perching on the tree branch outside her window. It stared at her, then cocked its head inquisitively. Cordelia stepped back, reading the bird's mind. The robin saw her, and she read her own image from its mind, viewing herself through its eye, stepping back until she could see all of herself.

She gasped with delight.

She saw a fairy-tale princess complete in every detail except the headdress, of course; she had yet to make that. However, it was a dress such as a fairy-tale princess would have thought scandalous. The neckline was daringly low, and it fitted her torso as though it had grown there. Even as she gazed, she thought of a slight rearrangement of electrical charges, and the skirt and petticoat moved toward her legs, clinging. She walked toward the window opening a few steps, and the static charge molded the cloth to her limbs—not completely, for the petticoats muffled the outline considerably, but enough to more than hint at her contours. She viewed them with a critical eye, and decided that her contours might not be so insufficient, after all—and there had been enough boys who had sought to touch them on some of her outings. Not so lush as Delilah's curves, perhaps—assuming that Delilah's were real but more perfectly proportioned.

She turned, walking away from the bird, gazing at the back of her reflection, at the neckline, scooped low enough to show her shoulder blades, cloth clinging to hint at the smooth curves of hips. She looked back over her shoulder, lowering her eyelids, giving her best imitation of Delilah's alluring smile, and tried rolling her hips as she walked. Yes, it did seem to work.

She blushed as she thought of herself actually putting on a performance of that sort before Alain. She would not dare! And even if she did, surely he would not dare to appreciate it!

But the thought did excite her.

Still, the dress was a trifle too loose here and there. She thought at the cloth, and the seam turned inward, the darts tightening until it fit her—well, perhaps not quite like a glove above the waist, but certainly like a flower below.

And, too, it did need some adornment. She blew a kiss at the bird, dismissing it, slipped out of the dress, lifted the lace, measured it off against the cloth, and bonded it so that it filled in the scoop of the neckline, the dip behind her shoulders. Her mother had told her that what was imagined was more effective than what was shown; it was only necessary to give the gentlemen something for their imaginations to work on.

Cordelia certainly didn't intend to give them anything more.

When she was done, she summoned another bird—a bluebird this time—to look at her while she read its mind, and caught her breath with delight. It was quite the most lovely gown she had ever seen, even if she did say so herself. She dismissed the bird with a gay wave, slipped out of the dress and, in her chemise, took up the buckram, the lawn, and the veil, and began to make the headdress.

Somewhere in the middle of all these labors, she caught a sudden, stray thought—a servant approaching her door. Quickly, she dumped the dress into her lap topsy-turvy and pulled a thread through a needle, then scrubbed fingers through her hair to make it tousled, disarrayed.

A knock came.

Cordelia called, "Open!"

The door opened, and the serving-wench stepped in, holding a tray in one hand. "My lady, you have not come to dine."

"Oh, I cannot!" Cordelia did her best to sound frazzled. "See how deeply in the toils I am!"

The wench came closer, large-eyed. "Surely, my lady, the seamstress could aid thee... "

"Mayhap, but I am loath to ask. Oh, I will be done in time, I am sure of it! Nay, but set the wine and bread there, on the little table—I think there is room. I shall take it when I have a moment."

"Even as you say, my lady." The maid curtsied, roundeyed, then stepped out, closing the door behind her. Cordelia caught the impression of smug satisfaction, and answered it with a vindictive smile, glaring at the door. So they thought they would have her beaten, did they? Well, all to the better. Let Delilah think Cordelia was in a state and could not possibly have a decent gown. Nothing would strengthen her so much as Delilah's overconfidence.

She was done by early afternoon. The bread, cheese, meat, and wine were quite good. She ate lightly, not wanting to feel sluggish when she waked.

Because, of course, she wanted to be fresh for the evening's festivities. She lay down to nap, closing her eyes as she sought out a finch, leaving a stern command within its mind to come trill beneath her window in an hour. She left the same command within her own mind—only to wake, not to trill—hid the lovely gown in the wardrobe, locked the door, and lay down to sleep, satisfied.

After all, she did want to look her best.

She woke at four, added one last touch—a cloak, of a contrasting material; only a great circle of cloth that she could throw over herself to hide the gown. When the knock on the door came, she quickly threw the cloak over her shoulders and called, "Enter!"

It was a servant, with a can of steaming water. Cordelia bade her put it by the hearth, and the maid did, then left, with many curious glances about the room.

"Oh, I had almost forgot!" The maid turned back in the doorway and came to bring Cordelia a domino mask. "It is to be a masked ball, my lady."

Cordelia thrilled with delight, but tried to sound worn and exhausted. "Thank you, good soul."

"As you wish, my lady." The maid gave a little curtsy, then left, closing the door behind her.

Alain stared, paling. "I could never behave so!"

He was watching the "neighbors" flirt with one another as they bowed and chatted and danced. None had been introduced as other than the character they were dressed as, most of them from the romances, some from old myths. But they were all very outgoing, and the dances were rather earthy.

"Of course you can," Geoffrey assured him. "It is a masked ball, Alain. None shall know who you are."

"Well ... there is truth in that," Alain said thoughtfully, then looked up sharply. "But hold! I have heard of these masked balls. Is there not something about unmasking at midnight?"

"Well, aye," Geoffrey allowed, "so, if you are careful to leave before midnight, no one will discover your identity." Alain's gaze wandered over the glittering company, golden in the light of myriad candles. "Well ... true ... 'twould be a pity to miss the last of the ball..."

"Yet mayhap would be worth it." Geoffrey took a sip of his wine. "Bear in mind, though, that you need not decide until it is nigh the hour of midnight. If you feel that you would do something ... exhilarating, something ... that is not truly evil, mind you, but only a little wicked, or no, not even wicked, but ... daring ... why, if you have done it, you leave before midnight!" He clinked his glass against Alain's. "If you have not, you stay for the unmasking! Drink up!"

Alain sipped the wine absently, his mind clearly else where. Then he looked up, suddenly remembering what he had been thinking before. "Hold! I should not drink wine so early! 'Twill make me drunk, will it not?"

"What—one goblet of wine?" Geoffrey gave a deprecating laugh. "Do not give it a thought."

But he had. He had given Alain's wine quite a lot of thought. It was now thirty percent alcohol.

Geoffrey knew Alain of old, of course, and knew that the Prince had grown up drinking wine, as did most noble children on Gramarye. He would not become drunk, Geoffrey knew, but perhaps rather ... uninhibited ...

The musicians had tuned their instruments and begun to play. Cordelia stood in the shadow at the top of the staircase, shrouded in her cloak, eyes wide as she stared at the guests, feeling a strange nervousness, a strange apprehension. How many of them were truly neighbors, and how many Delilah's minions?

How could she hope to outshine Delilah on her own territory?

But my heavens, there were a lot of people! Admittedly, their garb was old-fashioned by the standards of Runnymede—but nothing was ever really out of style on Gramarye. They were certainly jovial enough, laughing and talking as the servants passed among them with goblets of wine. The entire Great Hall was already filled with company—at least half dowagers and their husbands.

But the other half were young. Probably most of them were married, but they were young and vibrant nonetheless. They milled about, making quite a roar. Like waves upon the beach, they were about to engulf her.

"Surely you are not timid, Lady Cordelia!" Cordelia looked up, alarmed.

It was Delilah, parading down the stairs in a gown so lovely that it made Cordelia gasp. Mask or not, there was no mistaking her—the cascade of golden hair was artfully arranged and equally artfully displayed, as was a generous expanse of bosom. The heart-shaped face, the voluptuous curves-all were enhanced by the splendor of her pink-and-gold gown.

Cordelia felt a bitter stab of jealousy.

"Why, what a mouse you are!" Delilah said. "Will you start at every shadow? Come, how can you possibly not delight in such an evening as this?"

"I ... I will endeavor to." Cordelia summoned what remained of her self-possession and drew herself up.

"I rejoice to hear it. Do you go before me, for I have no wish to dim your luster."

Cordelia's eyes narrowed behind her mask. "Surely, Lady Delilah, no gown can compare with yours tonight. Nay, do you precede me. 'Tis your house, after all, and 'tis your due."

"I thank you, my dear. I shall." Delilah nodded with a pinfeather smile and stepped to the head of the stairs. She motioned, and her maid hissed down to the majordomo. He looked up; his eyes widened a moment; then he turned to the crowd and bawled out, "The Lady Helen of Troy!"

Of course, Cordelia thought.

As one, the crowd turned to look, and the musicians struck up a soft march. Delilah paraded down the stairs.

For a moment, the crowd was silent, staring. Then, as one, they broke into applause.

Cordelia tried to remind herself that most of them must be in Delilah's pay—but still, the jealousy burned within her. The hussy!

Well, Cordelia would answer in her own style.

The applause turned into congratulatory conversation as Delilah reached the foot of the stairs. The young men were pressing forward to kiss her hands; the ladies were "oh"ing and "ah"ing and congratulating her on so wonderful a costume, then turning away to mutter savagely with one another.

Cordelia knew her hour had come. Her heart thumped so painfully that she thought it would tear through her dress. Still, she handed a note to the footman on the stairs, who handed it down to the majordomo.

When Delilah had moved far enough away from the stairs, the majordomo raised his voice and cried, in his clarion tones, "The Lady Elaine of Shallot!"

It had seemed like a good idea, at the time—a silent rebuke to Alain. Now, Cordelia wasn't so sure.

The crowd quieted a little as they turned to look at the new arrival.

Cordelia held her breath, straightened, and stepped onto the first step.

The crowd was totally silent, a sea of faces staring up at her.

Cordelia nearly died inside. She descended another step, another. There she stopped and whirled the cloak from her shoulders.

All eyes were on her, stunned.

She began to walk again, but faltered in her step, holding on to the handrail for dear life. Had she committed some immense faux pas? Was she truly in enemy territory in more ways than one?

Well, then, she would show them of what she was made! She lifted her chin high and took another step. Suddenly, the crowd burst into applause, cheeringmost of it masculine.

It slammed at her ears. Her eyes widened behind the mask in amazement. Could they truly be applauding her? They certainly could. The young men were pressing to the fore, with the older men not far behind them. She came down the stairs slowly, the applause and cheering ringing in her ears.

As she stepped onto the last step, some of the young gallants pressed forward to seize her hands and kiss her fingers. She looked down at them, amazed, then lifted her eyes ...

And saw Delilah's glare of hatred. She knew she was truly a success.