M'Lady Witch

CHAPTER 5

"Milady!" The porter bowed a little as Cordelia strode in. The Gallowglass servants generally didn't do more than incline their heads, but with the mood Cordelia was in, it was best to play it safe.

"Here, Ganir!" Cordelia tossed him her cloak. "And thank you. Where are my parents?"

"In the solar, milady."

"Mercy." Cordelia paced up the stairs.

Rod and Gwen looked up as she came in the door. "I do not mean to interrupt..." she began.

"Of course you do." Gwen dimpled. "And we could wish no happier afternoon than to have you do so. Could we not, husband?"

"Of course," Rod said. "Back so soon?"

"Oh, aye!" Cordelia threw up her hands. "What else am I to do? That lummox of a brother of mine told Alain about the heroes of legend, who sent their defeated enemies to their lady-loves as proof of their worth!"

"So we are about to be hit by an invasion of defeated enemies?" Rod fought to keep a straight face.

"A troop of bandits! Ruffians! Outlaws! And I must be here to receive them, so I cannot follow as I should! What other dangerous silliness will they fall into unwarded?"

She had a point, Rod decided. For a second, he wondered if Geoffrey might have arranged it this way. Then he dismissed the thought as unworthy—such manipulating would have been far too subtle for his direct, brash son.

Gwen gave a slow nod of approval. "'Tis an honor not unworthy—to see the lambs defended and the wolves caged, in thy name."

"'Tis a plaguey nuisance! 'Tis a monstrous inconvenience! 'Tis an imbecilic imposition!" Cordelia paced to the fire, glowering down at it.

Rod thought the lady did protest too much—and indeed, as he looked at her face lit by the fire, he thought he saw some glow of pleasure, of satisfaction, albeit carefully hidden:

Gwen knew she did, and that without reading her daughter's mind—not literally, anyway. "'Tis romantic," she murmured.

"Aye," Cordelia admitted. Finally, she smiled.

They rode on through the forest, chatting of this and that—but Geoffrey did most of the chatting. Alain listened, round-eyed and constantly feeling that he should not be hearing such things. Geoffrey was telling him all the things he had never said at court, about revels with villagers and tavern brawls and willing wenches at town fairs. Alain's eyes grew larger and larger, as did the feeling that he should tell Geoffrey to stop—but he abided, partly in fascination, partly in the conviction that somehow, mysteriously, all this would make him a better suitor for Cordelia.

An hour or more they passed in this study. Then the trees thinned out, and they saw the thatched roofs of a village ahead.

"Come!" Geoffrey cried. "There will be hot meat and cold ale, I doubt not, and perhaps even that change of clothing you wish!"

Alain agreed enthusiastically—it had been a long time since breakfast—and they rode out of the forest, down the single street of the village. A peasant who saw them looked up in alarm, then gave a glad shout. "Knights!"

"Knights?"

"Knights!"

"War-men to aid us!"

The villagers crowded around, showering the two young men with cries of gratitude and relief.

"Why, what is the matter?" Geoffrey called over their clamor.

"'Tis a monster, Sir Knight! 'Tis a horrible ogre, only this morning come upon us!"

"Only this morning, you say?" Geoffrey frowned; something there struck him as odd.

But Alain was delighted. "Have we come to our first adventure so quickly, then? Surely, good folk, be easy in your hearts! We shall find the monster and slay him for you! Shall we not, Sir Geoffrey?"

"Oh, certainly," Geoffrey seconded. He realized suddenly that, whatever its source, this most convenient monster would certainly give Alain a good chance to prove his courage and skill. Geoffrey couldn't have planned it better himself. "Yes, surely we will fight the ogre for you—if he is evil."

"Aye, if he is evil!" Alain sobered; he might have been about to strike a harmless being, simply because it looked frightening. That would have been very poor behavior indeed, for a knight-errant. "What has he done?"

Well, actually, it turned out that the ogre hadn't done all that much, really—only knocked a haystack apart, and made off with a sheep. Of course, he had also taken the shepherd, a boy of about twelve, who had been hiding in the haystack with the sheep, and that was what the townsfolk were really concerned about.

"He will eat the lad!" one woman cried, while another comforted the mother, who could not stop crying.

"His father has already gone out to slay the monster," an old man said grimly. "I doubt not he will be slain, if thou dost not speed quickly, good sirs!"

"Why, then, let us ride!" Alain cried, eyes alight with anticipation.

"Aye! To the fray!" Geoffrey wheeled his horse about and rode off after Alain, amazed—not so much by the Prince's eagerness as by his total lack of fear. Was he only hiding it well? Or didn't he really understand what he was up against? Probably the latter, Geoffrey reflected—ogres were nothing but pictures in books to Alain, as much fantasy as a real fight was. The trouble was that Alain didn't know that the battles in the books, and the monsters, weren't real. How would he react when he came face-to-face with the genuine article?

Pretty well, as it turned out. They followed a peasant to the haystack in question—or what was left of it, at leastthen tracked the ogre down. It wasn't hard—he had left footprints in the grass an inch deep and two feet long.

"If his feet are double the length of mine," Alain said, "will he be twice my height?"

"Likely he will," Geoffrey said, trying to sound as grim as possible. Didn't the callow youth understand what he was getting into?

He certainly must have understood it when they came in sight of the ogre. Newly arrived or not, he had found a cave already—a hole in a rocky outcrop toward the top of a hill, and the flinty pathway led up to him in zigs and zags. He sat by a fire where, with one of his four hands, he was turning a spit with some sort of meat on it, while he gnawed a leg-bone with one of the others.

Now Alain paled, reining in his horse. "Pray heaven that is not the boy's leg he is chewing!"

"I shall." Now Geoffrey turned grim in earnest as he drew his sword. "Ah, for a proper lance and armor! But we shall have to manage with what we have."

The ogre heard the sound of steel whisking loose from a scabbard and surged to his feet with a roar, brandishing the leg-bone in one hand and catching up a huge club with another. The other two clenched into fists and shook in the air toward the two young men. To Geoffrey, those extra arms seemed to have life of their own. The ogre wasn't twelve feet tall after all, but only ten—only ten! What he lacked in height, though, he made up in bulk. He must have been four feet wide across the shoulders. He needed the extra shoulder room, on the other hand—and the other hand, and the other, and the other.

Then Alain howled a battle cry and spurred his horse. He charged up the mountainside, sword swinging high as he shouted, "For Gramarye and the Lady Cordelia!"

The romantic fool, Geoffrey thought, alarmed, even as he spurred his own horse—but even in his exasperation, he had to admire Alain's bravery.

For the first time, he found himself wondering what he was going to say to Cordelia if he had to bring back the dead body of the man she'd been planning to marry since she was five.

The ogre roared and charged down the slope as fast as Alain was charging up. Geoffrey cried out in alarm—there was no possibility of a misunderstanding here; that ogre was out for blood! The huge club lifted for a blow that would flatten the horse like a housefly, and the leg bone shot toward Alain's head.

But the Prince chopped the bone out of the air with a sweep of his sword, then shouted to his charger. Undaunted and well trained, the warhorse charged straight at the ogre.

The huge club wound up and slammed down. Alain swerved at the last second.

The club churned up the ground. With a roar of frustration, the ogre yanked—but the cudgel stuck. Enraged, the monster bellowed, grabbed it with two hands, and set itself to pull.

Alain darted in to stab the monster's bottom.

The ogre howled, snapping straight upright, one of its free hands slapping its buttock. The other swatted at Alain as though he were a fly.

Alain danced his horse back, but not fast enough—the huge palm slammed into his chest, and he reeled in the saddle. His horse leaped back beyond range. Alain struggled for breath.

Geoffrey saw he was needed. He howled like a banshee and came riding in, waving his sword.

The ogre looked up, startled, then roared and snatched at its club.

The club still refused to move.

This time, the ogre grabbed it with all four hands—then, as Geoffrey galloped in, loosed one fist to swing backhanded at him.

Geoffrey dodged, but not far enough—the blow glanced off his head, and he saw stars. Holding onto consciousness, he backed his horse clear.

The ogre gave a mighty heave and pulled the club out with a shout of triumph.

Alain caught his breath and charged in.

He swerved around to the front, being too chivalrous to attack an opponent from behind without warning, and Geoffrey groaned at his friend's idiocy. He set himself to gallop back to the fight, but Alain charged in so fast that the huge club slammed down right behind him, giving the Prince just time enough to stab up, as high as he couldright into the ogre's midriff. It screamed, a ghastly sound choked off as its stomach muscles gave out. Alain darted back out, but the ogre, disabled or not, slammed a roundhouse blow at him that cracked his shield and made him reel in the saddle.

Strangling and gasping, the monster waddled after him, murder in its eye, club lifting in all four hands. Geoffrey shouted and charged.

But Alain rallied, lowered his head, extended his sword like a lance, and charged again.

The ogre gave a strangled cry and swung, but it was so weakened that it overbalanced and fell—right on top of Alain. Its whole body slammed down with every ounce of its impossible size and weight. Alain disappeared under a mountain of flesh.

"Alain!"Geoffrey cried in horror, and leaped off his horse, sword swinging high to chop off the ogre's head ... Then a gleaming sword-tip poked out of the monster's back, and the ogre went limp.

Geoffrey almost went limp himself, with relief—but not quite. A dead ogre didn't prove a live Prince, after all. He grabbed an arm and threw all his weight against it, rolling the ogre up on its side.

Alain scrambled clear and climbed to his feet. He looked about, crying, "My sword!"

"There!" Geoffrey grunted, nodding toward the ogre's chest. "Pull it out, and quickly! I do not know how long I can hold him up!"

Alain dived for the sword, set a heel against the monster's chest, and heaved. The blade slid free as easily as though it had been in its scabbard, and Alain went staggering back.

Geoffrey let go with a grunt of relief.

"I did it!" Alain stared down at the huge corpse in disbelief. "I have slain a monster!"

"That you have," Geoffrey said sourly, "and with full measure of danger, too. Might I ask you, next time, to wait for your reserves?"

But Alain's face was darkening, elation giving way to remorse. "It looks so shrunken, lying there..."

"Shrunken! 'Tis ten feet long and three times the bulk of a man—nay, more! Make no mistake, Alain—that pigface would have slain you in an instant, if he could have!" That lightened the Prince's mood considerably—but he still brooded, though with puzzlement now, not guilt. "How is it he does not bleed?"

"Well asked," Geoffrey admitted. He had been wondering about that himself.

None of the ogre's wounds showed the slightest trace of blood—nor of ichor, nor any other sort of bodily fluid, for that matter. They were as clean as cuts in bread dough. In fact, the ogre's body looked far more like that substance, than like flesh or meat.

"Still, 'tis no wonder," Geoffrey said, searching for something reassuring to say—and found it. "The monsters of Gramarye are not made as you and I were, Alain."

"Not made as we were?" The Prince transferred his frown to Geoffrey. "Why, how is that?"

"Not made by mothers and fathers," Geoffrey explained, "or if they were, those parents, or their ancestors, sprang full-blown from witch-moss overnight. God did not make them as He made us, from lumps of protoplasm formed by countless eons of random changes that were shaped by the role He planned for them. No, they were made by the thoughts of a granny who was a protective telepath, but did not know it, shaped as she told a bedtime story of monsters and heroes to her babes—or by one person telling such a tale to many others, and of the many, there were several who were projectives but also did not know it. Their thoughts, together, formed the monster out of witch-moss."

He had told Alain about projective telepaths years ago—and about all the other psionic talents the espers of Gramarye had at their disposal. Of course, his father had warned him not to, and Geoffrey could understand why, in the case of the ignorant, superstitious peasants who would have reacted by saying that a witch was a witch, no matter what you called her. But Alain was neither ignorant nor superstitious—at least, not by local standards—and Geoffrey and his brothers and sisters had reasoned that he needed to know what his subjects really were, if he was to rule them well when he was grown.

So Alain understood Geoffrey's explanation, nodding, though his brows were still knit. "Naetheless, would such witch-moss creatures not have blood in them?" He knew that the substance they called "witch-moss" was really a fungus that responded to the thoughts of projectives, turning itself into whatever they were thinking about.

"Not if the granny who told the tale did not think of blood. Difficult to imagine, for we who loved to hear tales of bloody deeds even in our cradles, but there are many who do not. Nay, there's no doubt the creature was only a construct, naught more, and one brought to life only last night, or the villagers would have seen him ere now."

"Well, there is no glory in slaying a thing that is not real, is there?" Alain asked, disappointed.

"Oh, it was real, Alain! Be sure, it was real—and you would have been sure indeed, if that club had touched you! Do you not see the hole where it plowed into the ground? What do you think it would have done to your head? Nay, made by grannies or by God, this was a lethal brute, and 'twas an act of great daring to slay it!"

Alain seemed reassured, then suddenly stood bolt upright, eyes wide. "The child! The shepherd-boy! We must find him! Pray God it was not .. ."

He could not finish, nor did he need to. Geoffrey nodded grimly; he had also wondered at the source of the legbone the ogre had wielded. "Aye, let us search."

They climbed up toward the ogre's cave, Alain calling, "Boy! Shepherd! You may come out now with safety! We have..."

"You waste your breath." Geoffrey caught his arm, pointing.

Alain looked, and saw the shepherd boy pelting away across the field, already little more than a dot of dark clothing against the amber of the wheat.

"Praise Heaven!" the Prince sighed. "He is safe!"

"Aye. I doubt not the lad was penned in the cave, and seized his chance to flee when the ogre charged down upon us. He will surely bear word to the village—if he paused to look back."

"What boy would not?" Alain smiled.

"A boy who flees for his life." Geoffrey was very glad to see the curve of Alain's lips; he had begun to wonder if the Prince was going into shock. "We must go tell them ourselves. Someone must bury this mound of offal, and I have no wish to tarry long enough to undertake the task myself."

Alain nodded; Geoffrey didn't need to explain. The Prince knew as well as he that a royal search party was very probably already after them, and he had no wish to cut short his adventuring.

Geoffrey clapped Alain on the back and turned him toward his horse. "Come, away! For what other feats of glory await you?"

But Alain hung back, glancing' at the ogre. "Should I not hew off its head and send it to the Lady Cordelia, as proof of my love?"

Geoffrey tried to imagine Cordelia receiving the ugly, gruesome trophy and shuddered. "There is no need, and I do not think she would find it aesthetic. Be assured, she shall hear of it soon enough!"

She didn't, as it happened. All the elves who had been watching the encounter were too late to tell her of it before she left Castle Gallowglass to follow the boys again. But Puck himself brought word back to Brom O'Berin.

"'Tis well." Brom nodded, satisfied.

"The mission is accomplished, and none hurt but the ogre." Puck strutted as he said it.

Brom eyed him askance. "Here is turpitude indeed! Have you no remorse, no sorrow for the creature you made?"

"None at all," Puck assured him. "It had no mind, look you, only a set of actions implanted in its excuse for a brain. It would charge when it was charged, strike when it was threatened, and naught more—save to die when its time was done."

"And was very clumsy into the bargain?"

"Tremendously. It could strike no object smaller than a horse, save by luck."

"Bad luck indeed! 'Twas with that I was concerned."

"Be easy in thine heart, O King," Puck said, grinning. "Surely thou dost know that I would take no chance with the Prince's life."

"Aye, unless thy sense of mischief got the better of thee!"

"Well, it did not in this case," Puck said judiciously. "A score of elves hid with me in the bracken and all about the field of combat, to protect the Prince and thy grandson with their magic, should mischance befall. Yet 'twas without need; 'twas not mischance that befell, but the ogre."

"Aye, and nearly crushed Alain in its fall!"

"'Twas not so massive as that," Puck protested. "Indeed, for its size, 'twas quite tenuous."

"As is thy report." But approval twinkled in Brom's eye.

The villagers cheered as soon as the two young knights came in sight.

"I take it the shepherd boy did watch the battle," Geoffrey said.

Then the people were on them, clustering about their stirrups, reaching up to touch their defenders.

"All praises be upon thee, young knights!"

"Save thee, my masters!"

"A thousand blessings on they who saved the boy!"

"Blessings and praises, and what soe'er they may ask that we can give," said one buxom, dark-haired beauty with a look in her eye that sent a thrill through Alain, one that held his gaze riveted to hers as hot blood coursed through him, awaking sensations that he found both intimidating and fascinating at the same time.

Then she transferred her gaze to Geoffrey, and Alain went limp with relief—but the sensations were still there, with a strength that shook him.

Geoffrey had no such trouble, of course. He met the girl's gaze and grinned slowly.

Alain turned red and cleared his throat. "Aye! You may give the monster burial! A score of your men, with shovels and picks!"

"We shall, we shall straightaway!" cried a man. "But what wouldst thou have for thyselves, good sirs?"

Alain glanced at Geoffrey, saw he was still eyeing the peasant wench, and sighed. If his father's party caught up with them, well, they would, and that was that. "I would have a bath," he told the man, "and food, and strong clothes fit for travelling. Then, though, we must be on our way."

"Must we truly?" Geoffrey said, gaze still on the wench: "Might we not stay the night? There will be few real beds for us in the weeks to come, Alain."

The girl's smile broadened; then she dropped her gaze demurely.

"Why, as you will," Alain sighed—but he found himself eyeing the peasant lass, too, and forced his gaze away. It did no good; the sensations she had raised still shuddered through him. He did his best to ignore the feelings and said, "Still, my companion, let us first bathe."

The village didn't have a bathhouse, of course—such an item would have counted as a major technological breakthrough in the Medieval Europe after which Gramarye's society had been modeled. Such whole-body washing as was done occurred in the local mill pond. The villagers didn't seem to have all that elaborate an idea of privacy, but fortunately, there was a screen of brush around the pond that the miller hadn't gotten around to clearing for several years. On the other hand, from the smothered titters and giggling that rose from the scrawny leaves, Geoffrey guessed that the brush didn't screen them all that thoroughly. He grinned, enjoying the attention of the unseen audience as he languorously caressed his muscles with a cake of soap—but Alain turned magenta with embarrassment, all over, and made sure he didn't let anything more than his torso appear above the waterline. That did inhibit the bath, of course, but it was an improvement over the sweat-and-grime coating with which he had climbed into the pool.

Then, though, there was the problem of climbing out. It didn't bother Geoffrey in the slightest—he just waded ashore, though he did catch up the makeshift towel so quickly that his nudity was only revealed for a second. However, that was long enough to still the giggling chorus. It began again as a series of hushed murmurs as he turned his back, tucking the towel around his waist as an improvised kilt, then holding another out to Alain.

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Geoffrey," the Prince muttered as he stepped out of the pool into the cover of the towel.

"Well, from your bottom, anyway." Geoffrey grinned. "You look quite well in that sacking the miller provided us, Alain."

The Prince gave him a murderous look and caught up another towel, rubbing himself dry with furious haste. Geoffrey grinned, taking his time about towelling, playing to his hidden watchers. The murmuring voices were properly appreciative.

Alain caught up his clothes and went quickly toward the cover of the mill. Geoffrey caught up with him, and they went through the door together.

"You are quite shameless," Alain grumbled as they dressed in the safety of the millhouse. "How can you enjoy displaying yourself like a joint of beef?"

"Why, I find it quite stimulating." Geoffrey was still grinning. "My blood tickles through me when I know that lasses do watch and admire me—tingling in every limb, at the hint of the pleasures that may follow, if they find enough to admire."

"Shameless, as I said," Alain growled. "Surely you are too chivalrous to seek after such pleasures as you mention!"

"To seek after, no," Geoffrey said, "though if they are offered freely, I am delighted to accept."

"Have you no decency, no regard for others' feelings?" Geoffrey blinked, surprised at Alain's vehemence. Then he said slowly, "Well, some regard, surely. I would never think to force my attentions on a wench who did not want them, nor on a virgin, no matter if she did wish it, nor how greatly. I seek to give only pleasure, Alain. never hurtand if there is reason to think the lass wants more than the sheer fun of it, I'll not come near her, for then is there chance indeed of hurting her heart."

"But all women believe, in their hearts, that there will be more than a night's sport—that the man will then take care of them forever after! They do, Geoffrey, even if they admit it not, not even unto themselves!"

Geoffrey took his time framing the reply, choosing his words carefully. "They want something more than the pleasure of their senses, that is true. But marriage? Nay! No peasant woman truly believes a lord will wed her, Alainno woman of sound mind, at least. In this instance, what they want is a night with a hero, that his glory may adhere to them afterward."

"Aye, and expect him to adhere to them, too, for all their lives!"

"Hope for it secretly, mayhap—so secretly that they admit it not, even unto themselves. If they see him again, they will hope for at least a nod, a few tender words, a half-hour's intimate talk. But, `expect'? Nay. Unless she is mad, no peasant wench would truly expect a lord to marry her."

"Still, secret or not, expectant or not, there will be mayhem done to her heart, whether she knows it or not!"

"Or will admit it or not?" Geoffrey shrugged. "There, I cannot say without reading her mind far below her surface thoughts—and even I shudder at so profound an invasion of privacy. If she knows it not, neither do L I can only judge by her actions, by the deeds and the farewell smiles of those I have seen, by the boasting, covert or overt, among her friends."

"Surely a woman would not boast of being used by a man, even a hero!"

"Well, I have never heard a woman boast of a bedding," Geoffrey admitted, "though I have seen them cluster about a hero, and hint most plainly to be admitted to his bedchamber."

"Mayhap." Alain scowled. "I cannot deny it. But does not each lass hope that he will cleave unto her forevermore, no matter how plain it is that he will not—that to him, she is only one among many?"

"Mayhap," Geoffrey sighed. "I cannot say. There is no accounting for the daydreams women may spin for themselves, nor may men truly comprehend them. I only know that I count it no shame to take what is offered freely, and think that if it is so offered, I give no pain."

But Alain only shook his head as he buttoned his doublet, muttering, "I cannot believe it!"

As he followed the Prince out of the mill and back toward the village common, Geoffrey reflected that Alain's attitude paid credit to his upbringing, but not to his understanding of the world as it really was.

The village common was decked with streamers of cloth and bunches of flowers around trestle tables. The village girls, decked in bright skirts, dark bodices, and white blouses, were just finishing putting up the decorations, chattering and exclaiming to one another. The village youths and men raised a cheer as the two young men came in sight.

"Hail the slayers of the monster!"

"Hail the saviors of the child!"

"Hail the courageous and mighty knights, who have saved our village from peril!"

Alain looked about as they closed in, applauding and cheering him. He was dazzled by all the adulation. He, who was used to the deference and flattery of the court, had never received so much heartfelt praise due only to his deeds, not to his station. He turned from one to another with an incredulous, widening smile ...

And a village wench planted a kiss on his lips, firm and deep.

He jerked his head back, shocked, but she was turning away herself by that time, and another was taking her place. Alain looked up to Geoffrey for help, saw him with a girl in his arms, mouth to mouth, and mentally shrugged. What harm could a kiss do? And would not the girls be insulted if he refused? Surely, he did not want to hurt their feelings! He turned back to give the peasant lass a courteous peck on the cheek—but she had other ideas, ones that took a bit longer. So did the next girl, and the next.

Alain finally managed to reclaim his lips and, yes, his whole mouth, from the last admirer, dazed and incredulous to hear the men still cheering all about him. Were none of them jealous? Were there no sweethearts among the girls who had just kissed him? He realized, with a sense of amazement, that he was rather enjoying the whole affair.

They ushered him to a table and sat him down. Before him, a whole pig was roasting over a fire. The aroma reached him, and he breathed it in eagerly, suddenly realizing how hungry he had become.

And how thirsty. A girl thrust a flagon into his hand and her mouth against his—only this time, however it may have looked to the outside world, her tongue trickled fire slowly over his lips.

Then she straightened up with a glad laugh, and to cover his confusion, he took a deep draft from the tankard. It was new ale, nutty and strong. He came up for air. Geoffrey slapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. "Drink deeply, my friend, you have earned it."

And Alain did, wondering whether country ale always tasted so good, or if it was only so after a feat of valor. Indeed, all his senses seemed to be heightened—the village lasses seemed to be prettier, their cheeks redder, their eyes brighter and more inviting. The aroma of the roasting meat seemed almost solid enough to bite, and the piper's notes sounded far keener than they ever had, stirring his toes to movement. He took another draft of ale; then a girl was pulling him up from the bench, laughing, and another took his other arm. They led him to a flat, level green, and began to dance. Alain knew the steps—he had seen them often enough, at festivals, and his parents had seen him schooled in the more stately steps of the court dances. He began to imitate the girls' movements, slowly and clumsily. Then he noticed that other girls had stepped out to dance with the young men, and he could copy the boys' movements. He did, with increasing sureness and speed, turning back to his partner. Her eyes glistened, her teeth were very white against the redness of lips and tongue as she laughed, and he found himself caught up more and more in her movements and his own, thought suspending, sensation claiming.

Then, at some unseen signal, the girl whirled away, and another took her place. She leaned forward to give him a quick kiss, clapping his arm about her waist, and moved through the same steps, but much more quickly now. He gazed down into her eyes, feeling his own grin widening, and let himself be swept up in the movements of the dance. Dimly, he noticed that Geoffrey was dancing, too, but it only seemed to be of passing interest.

Then, suddenly, the dancing was done, and the girls were leading him back to the place of honor, thrusting another tankard of ale into his hand. He took a long, thirsty pull at it. As he lifted his head, Geoffrey scoffed. "Pooh! That is no way to drink village ale, Alain! You do not sip it as though it were a rare vintage—you pour it down your throat!" So saying, he lifted his own tankard, tilted his head up, and drank it down—and down, and down. Finally the tankard exploded away from his lips and thumped down onto the table, empty.

"Aye, that is the way of it!" a village youth next to him cried with a laugh, and lifted his own tankard to demonstrate.

"Come, confess it!" Geoffrey cried. "You cannot even keep pace with these stalwarts!"

"Oh, can I not!" Alain retorted, and tipped up his own tankard. The ale was good, very good—but he did begin to wish he could breathe. Nonetheless, he was hanged if he'd admit defeat, so he hung in there, swallowing the rich dark tide, until suddenly he gulped air. He thumped the tankard down, drawing a very deep and welcome breath, and was amazed to hear the villagers all cheer. He looked up, smiling, not quite believing it, then grinning as he saw they were delighted to see him enjoying himself. A fresh tankard appeared next to his hand. Across from him, Geoffrey raised his mug in salute, and Alain felt a sudden surge of determination not to be outdone. He clinked his tankard against Geoffrey's, then copied his motions as he swung the vessel up. He swallowed greedily, though to tell the truth, he was liking it less than he had at first. When the tankard was done, he slammed it down, almost in unison with Geoffrey. The two young men stared each other in the eye, and Geoffrey grinned. After a moment, so did Alain.

Then the tankards were whisked away and full ones set in their place, but Alain was saved, because a trencher of sizzling pork was slapped down in front of him. "Eat, as a hero deserves!" someone cried, and he did.

He ate, he drank, and the notes of the pipes filled his head, along with the scents of the meat and the ale. Things seemed to be blurring together a bit, but the villagers were such warm and friendly folk that it didn't worry him. He chewed the last sliver of pork, and a girl was pulling him from his seat, laughing, out to the dancing. Laughing, too, he feigned reluctance, then fell into the steps with her, mimicking the extra sinuousness with which she moved, and if she took advantage of the dance to thrust herself against him, why, it seemed only polite to return the gesture.

Then Geoffrey's face was there again, laughing, raising his tankard in salute, and Alain was raising one in return, the nut-brown ale cascading down his throat, then the tankard gone, and the girl back, her eyes heavy-lidded, her smile inviting, her body constantly against his as the dance moved them, till they seemed to churn as one. Fire threaded itself through him, tingling in his thighs, his hips, wherever his body touched hers.

Then she was holding up another mug of ale, and he was drinking it down, lowering it to look into her eyes, and they seemed to be huge and seemed to draw him in, and her lips were red and moist, so moist, but she was not holding them up to him now, but drawing him by the arm, out and away from the dancing, away from the fire, to a place where shadows gathered, where their bodies crushed soft bracken beneath them, and the music of the dance was distant, so distant, but her mouth was warm, very warm, encompassing him, and her touch thrilled him, so it seemed only right to return that thrill, if he could.