M'Lady Witch

CHAPTER 6

The whole castle was agog, bubbling with excitement, for the elves hadn't made any pretense of keeping a secret. A brownie had popped up at the kitchen door to announce that their unwelcome guests were almost upon them.

Cordelia hurried out into the courtyard and took up her position in a patch of sunlight, doing her best to look stern and regal. She was resplendent in a white damask gown; the sunlight glowed in her auburn hair, carefully set off by a plain bronze circlet.

The bandits trudged in through the gatehouse, stumbling with weariness and coated with dust. Cordelia stared, appalled. Had they walked all night?

Then the foremost bandit looked up, saw her, and stared. Suddenly, the weariness fell away from him. Cordelia gazed back, amazed. Her first view of the bandits hadn't prepared her at all for this. He was quite the most handsome man she had ever seen—though that may have been as much due to the hint of wildness in his face as to the actual set of his features.

Or it may have been some other attribute; there was a lot of him to admire, more than six feet, and most of it muscles. His legs were exceedingly well formed, she thought dizzily, and that sleeveless jerkin left one in no doubt as to the bulging muscles in his shoulders and arms, though she did have to guess at the massive chest beneath it. His face was open, his black eyes large and long-lashed, his nose straight though perhaps a little short, his lips full and red through the black jawline beard which blended into the wealth of black curls on his head. His teeth flashed white as he smiled, and the dangerous gleam in his eye as he looked at her struck like a crossbow bolt, arousing sensations inside her that she had never been aware of before, and wasn't at all sure she liked.

Of course, she wasn't at all sure that she didn't like them, either.

She stood a little straighter and tilted her chin up, looking down her nose at him. "What do you here, sirrah?"

"Why," said the bandit, "my men and I have come to surrender ourselves to the Lady Cordelia Gallowglass at the behest of him who defeated us in battle."

"Indeed," Cordelia said, with her best attempt at frostiness. "And what is his name?"

"Ah! My lady, that would he not tell us!" the bandit chieftain lamented. "He said only that he was a knight who sought to be worthy of you, and would not use his name in public until he has proven his worth."

Cordelia stared. Such a poetic flight was quite unlike Alain—and coming from the lips of this rogue with the tilted eyebrows and the knowing smile, it set up strange quiverings inside her. "Indeed! You have walked all night to tell me this, sirrah?"

"Alas! We have—for the Wee Folk would not let us rest. Whene'er we sought to halt, or to sit for more than five minutes, they were upon us with pinches and stings."

Cordelia tried to glare at him while she considered. "I might pity you, if there surely had been no reason for..." She withheld Alain's name, not quite knowing why. ". . . for the young knight of whom you speak to beset you so harshly. What misdeed had you done?"

"Oh, no greater than to seek to rob a poor carter of his goods," the bandit said, trying to look apologetic.

"And to reive his wife of her virtue," squeaked a small voice near Cordelia.

Her eyes widened, glaring. "How durst you, sir!"

"Ah!" the bandit said, the very picture of remorse. "I would have stopped my men ere long! We had first to subdue her husband, though, and must needs see that she not seek to aid him."

Cordelia's indignation boiled over. "You have deserved every pinch and every sting that the elves have given you, sir, and far worse, I doubt not. Mayhap I should give you some more of them, myself!"

The bandit chief stepped back, alarmed. He had some notion of what Cordelia might be able to do if the spirit moved her. He braced himself, ready to defend against a telepathic attack.

Her eyes widened; she felt the stir of his mind against her own. "You are a warlock!"

An incredulous muttering sprang up behind him. He glanced back at his men, then shrugged and looked up at her. "I had not sought to make it a matter of general knowledge, my lady—but yes, I am a warlock."

"For shame, sir! A warlock, and one nobly reared, for so I can tell by your speech alone! For you, who were born gifted in both rank and talents, to abuse your powers thus, by preying upon the weak when, by virtue of birth, you had ought to defend them!" Cordelia blazed.

"I know." The bandit chieftain bowed his head. "I had meant to spend my life in defense of they who could not defend themselves, my lady, to use my gifts for the general good—but circumstance has decreed otherwise."

"Circumstance? Nay, tell me!" Cordelia bit off the words sharply. "What circumstances could these be that would turn you from the obligations of your station?" She reddened, suddenly incensed as she realized what the rogue was doing. "You seek to play upon my sympathies! Be sure, sir, I am not so easily gulled as that! But what shall I do with you?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What mischiefs might Puck himself invent? Can I be as ingenious as he?"

"I do not doubt it!" the bandit said quickly. "But I pray you will not! Nay, if there is a gram of woman's pity in you, forbear! Send us to the King's dungeon, if you willset us to a year's hard labor—but do not seek to emulate the Wee Folk in your treatment of us, I beg of you!"

Cordelia gave him a look of contempt. (She thought she did it rather well.)

The bandit only looked up at her with wide, pleading eyes, and a look of intense remorse.

Cordelia made a sound of disgust. "Well, indeed, we shall see that the punishment does fit the crime! Get you to Sir Maris, the King's Seneschal, and tell him of your deeds. Tell him, too, who has sent you. Then, whatsoever punishment he shall give you, see that you bear in patience."

"Aye, my lady." The bandit chieftain bowed his head to hide his relief. "You are generous."

"Begone," she said, "before I forget my generosity."

"Begone?" He looked up and, for a moment, his face was drawn, exhausted. Then he recovered his poise, forced himself to straighten, and inclined his head. "As you wish it, my lady. Come, my men." He turned away.

"Oh, bother!" Cordelia stamped her foot, hands on her hips. "Nay, do not play the martyr! I will not be so cruel as to seed you out with no rest at all. Go, go sit down against the courtyard wall! Guards!"

The Captain of the Guards stepped up beside her. "Aye, my lady?"

"Keep watch over these men, and if they seek to move more than a yard from the places where they sit or lie, have at them! Steward!"

"My lady?" Everybody was on hand, of course, watching and waiting to be called upon.

"See to it these men are given gruel and water. Let them rest till noon, then send them out."

"In the heat of the day, my lady?" The steward looked appropriately horrified.

"Aye, even in the heat of the day!" Cordelia declared, with some heat herself. "'Tis the least they deserve, who have sought to wreak havoc on the weak." She turned back to the bandits. "Rest then, and begone." And, in a whirl of skirts, she turned and stalked away into the castle.

Forrest watched after her, reflecting that, if this was not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, she was certainly not far from it. The vivacity, the fire within her, made her quite the most fascinating female he had ever encountered. And she was a witch!

He had heard stories of the delights that lay in store for those who lay in love, warlock and witch, their minds melding as their bodies did. He wondered if such ecstasy awaited those who found themselves in such an embrace, even if they were not in love.

Then, with a start of dismay, he realized that for himself, at least, the question was academic. He fell in love easily and frequently—and he knew the signs well. He had fallen again ... And from the look in her eyes when they first saw each other, he thought that Cordelia might have, too.

"You make it sound as though it were a trade to which a man might be apprenticed, Geoffrey!" Alain complained—almost, Geoffrey thought, scandalized.

"Well, 'tis not quite so methodical as that," he said, grinning. "'Tis more a matter of an art for which one must have a talent."

"As you have, to be sure," Alain said wryly. "But even given that talent, there still seems to be a great amount that is simply knowledge."

"Knowledge for some men, instinct for others." Geoffrey shrugged. "If you enjoy the game for its own sake, you learn it quickly enough. If you do not, you shall never play it well, no matter how many years of study you invest."

"It can be learned, then!"

"Me forms, at least," Geoffrey agreed, "though they are worth little without the true spirit. If you would court a lady, you must dine by candlelight and, if 'tis possible, with a fiddler or three nearby, but out of sight, playing softly."

"But her duenna..."

"Ah, we are assuming that her duenna is not there." Geoffrey raised a forefinger. "We do not speak of ladies only, after all, but also of village wenches. Still, if you would win the heart of a fair lady, you must need find some time to whisk her away by herself for conversation, even if 'tis only for the quarter of an hour. A sheltered nook in her garden will do, or a bower—and have your fiddlers seeming to stroll by, or mayhap a lad who shall play soft songs of love on a flute."

"This by candlelight, or the light of the moon?"

"The moon is better," Geoffrey said judiciously, "if 'tis full, or nearly. But candles will do, and that quite well."

"But what would I say?" Alain asked.

"Why, you must praise her eyes, her hair, her lips, the roses in her cheeks," Geoffrey said. "It would help if you had written a poem to her beauty and committed it to memory."

"I have small gift for versing," Alain said ruefully. "Oh, there are poets aplenty who will scribble you a whole book of verses for a piece of gold, my friend—and if you do not trust your memory to work in her presence, you may surely bring the paper along to read."

"But will she not know that 'twas not I who wrote it?"

"She may suspect," Geoffrey said carelessly, "but she will not seek to prove it—if you do not give her occasion to. Speak of love, or if you think you have it not, speak of the feelings that rise within you when you look upon her."

"Why, there am I in confusion." Alain frowned, gazing off into space. "If I look at your sister as she stands today, I do feel most strangely within—and some of those feelings, I would not speak of to her brother." He blushed furiously. "Nor to any other being, mayhap, save my father."

"I rejoice to hear it," Geoffrey said softly.

"Yet most swiftly rises, over the image that she is, the face and form of the child she was." Alain turned to him in consternation. "For she was indeed a comely little lass, Geoffrey, as I am sure you remember."

"I would not have called her `comely,' " Geoffrey muttered.

"Nay, of course not—you are her brother. Still, the sauciness, the scoldings, the brightness of her laughter—all that arises when I look upon the grown Cordelia. It seems..." He broke off, shaking his head.

"Come now, you can say it!" Geoffrey coaxed. "Out with it! Speak it, then—nay, speak both, speak all, for I see you are a very welter of feelings now."

"Aye, and they go at cross-purposes." Alain scowled at the back of his horse's head. "On the one hand, there is the feeling that the impish girl is still within the gentle form I see before me, and although that has its attractive side, it is also somewhat repugnant—for she was ever as quick to turn and scold as she was to speak in mirth."

"I would say that child is still there within her, of a certainty," Geoffrey said slowly, "for I have heard my father say that we all are children within, and that 'tis tragedy beyond speaking if that child dies."

"Aye, I have heard our chaplain say that, too." Alain gazed off at the countryside. "That we all must strive to keep alive the child within us—for Christ said that we must become as little children if we would enter the kingdom of Heaven."

"Become," Geoffrey reminded, "not remain."

But Alain wasn't listening. "I am not sure how I felt toward that child, though, Geoffrey."

"Oh, stuff and nonsense!" Geoffrey said, with a flash of irritation. "You did trail behind her like a besotted mooncalf when you were twelve, Alain."

"Well, aye, I mind me of that," the Prince admitted, embarrassed. "I speak now of a younger age, though, when she dared to speak to me as though I were a lad with an empty head."

"Oh, aye, but she did that when you were twelve, tooand fifteen, and seventeen, and is like as not to do it again even now!" Geoffrey scoffed. "Be sure, she will. If that truly does repel you, Alain, seek elsewhere for a wife."

"Well ... I would not say `repel,' " the Prince said. "It does nettle me, though—sometimes. At others, it is as much a matter of spice as of bitter. There are thorns on the stem, so to speak—but the man would be a fool who would not brave those thorns for the beauty of the rose." Geoffrey smiled, amused. Alain did have something of the poet's gift within him, after all. "Yet what is the feeling that does counter such ardent praise?"

"Why, simply that she was near to being a sister!" Alain burst out. "Or the closest that I ever had, at least—for she was the only female child near to my own age that I saw with any frequency. How can one be in love with a sister? 'Tis against nature, when one has known a lass too well, too long, and too young. Why, there may be good fellowship, but never love—or, at least, not the sort of love that must be between a man and a wife."

"Yes, I see," Geoffrey said, nodding, "though I am not at all sure that you would think it against nature if we were speaking of peasant folk who lived in a small village, where all know one another from earliest youth. When that feeling comes upon you, try to remember in your heart the mooncalf that you were when you were twelve. Surely, you did not then seem to find her too sisterly."

"Well, there is some truth in that," Alain said. "But if I were truly in love, Geoffrey, would I not lie awake o' nights, dreaming of her face, her form? Would I not find food to be of small appeal? Life itself of no joy? Would I not spend my days in moping about and sighing?"

"Aye, if you were a fool," Geoffrey said. "In truth, whenever I see such a man, I cannot help but think that 'tis not love he feels, but sickness. What do you feel, when you lie awake dreaming of her face and form?"

"Why, I am near to crying out in madness, that she seems to entice, yet mock!" Alain burst out, then broke off suddenly, staring. "You have tricked me, Geoffrey!"

"But only for your own benefit," Geoffrey said.

Cordelia couldn't resist coming out to see her guests off. In the end, she relented, and told the guards not to expel them at noon, but to let them rest until two o'clock. She chafed and fretted at the delay in following Alain and Geoffrey—but also found herself thinking constantly about Forrest and seeing him and his men off. She told herself the strange feelings that churned within her were only nervousness, and anticipation of seeing such a gang of blackguards out her gate.

Nonetheless, as the time approached, she found herself moving across the outer bailey to where Forrest reposed, a little apart from his men, stretched out in the shade of the kitchens. But he opened his eyes as she came near, and for a moment, she found herself trapped by that ebony gaze, mischievously admiring as it traversed her from head to toe, insouciant and arrogant with the knowledge that he was attractive to her.

Cordelia knew that so surely that she also knew it must have been a sort of psychic leakage, an unconscious projection of his that was bound to make a woman want to come closer—and the most maddening thing was that it worked. She flushed and stepped closer, her voice as cold as she could make it. "You are no peasant. What do you among this gang of thieves?"

Forrest sat up, running a hand through his hair and shrugging. "I live as I can, milady."

"Surely you could live better than as a robber!"

"So I thought." Forrest drew his knees up and clasped his arms about them. "I joined a lord's retinue—but he went to war against his neighbor, and lost. Then the neighbor hunted down those of us who refused to turn our coats, to slay us—so I fled to the greenwood."

It was a harrowing tale, and Cordelia found herself fascinated as well as sympathetic. She tried not to let any sign of it show in her face. "But you are a warlock! Surely you could have found a way by the use of your powers!"

"Could I indeed?" Forrest's smile curdled. "We are not all like yourself and your brothers, milady—oh, yes, we have heard of you, all young witchfolk have heard of you, even to the farthest corners of Gramarye, I doubt not! The sons and daughter of the High Warlock and High Witch? Oh, aye, we all have heard of you! But few indeed are they who have so many talents as you, or in such strength' Myself, I can read minds, and craft witch-moss if I concentrate my thoughts with all my might, but little more."

Again, his gaze raked Cordelia, making her feel as though he had touched her, lightly, caressingly.

She tried to hide a shiver. "Nay, you are not," she said tartly. "Still, you could have accepted service with the Crown!"

Forrest grinned. "I have said it was the eldest who was taken to Court to learn manners and love of the King and Queen, milady, not the youngest. No, I found myself resenting them highly, they who had shorn my father of respect, and myself of opportunity."

"I had not thought..."

"Did you not think the King and Queen were merciful? They did not behead the rebel lords for traitors, after all. By custom and precedent, they could have hanged or beheaded all the lords, scattered their armies, and attainted their wives and children, so that none might inherit."

"Aye." Forrest shrugged. "How could you, when the only witchfolk you have met have been those of the Royal Coven, or the few who dared to try to seize all that they might, no matter whom they hurt? They had the power, milady, that most of us lack." He shrugged. "Too little to be of use, too much to let us feel safe in our likeness to others—that is your garden variety of witch."

Cordelia longed to tell him that the proper word was "esper," for those born with psionic talents, but knew she must not, to anyone who did not already know of the great civilization on the Terran planets outside of Gramarye.

"But you are a gentleman, at the least, and more likely the son of a lord, if I mistake you not!"

"You do not." Forrest inclined his head. "But I am a youngest son, and my father is a lord attainted in the first rebellion against Queen Catharine, before either of us were born."

"The Crown did let the rebel lords keep their lands and titles..."

"But they were ever suspect thereafter." Forrest raised a finger. "And their eldest sons were taken as royal hostages, to learn loyalty to the Crown—but not their younger. My father told me with regret that I had my own way to make in the world, though he would help me as he could."

"Surely there were many positions open to a lord's son!"

"Honorable positions?" Forrest shrugged. "I had a choice between the church and the army—anything lesser was not honorable, and I am not cut out to be a priest. The former can be of value in telling me when my enemies are coming, but that does not always guarantee victory. The last is too exhausting to be of much use as more than an amusement."

Cordelia's heart went out to him. "But you are still branded with the sign of difference."

"Only figuratively, praise Heaven!" Forrest grinned again. "And then only if I let it show. I have become expert in dissembling. Indeed, I warrant you would not have guessed, had you not been a witch yourself."

"Aye, I know, and given the estates to those who had supported them loyally in the war." Forrest nodded, chagrined. "They were merciful, even as you say—but the shame of the parents clung to the sons, and it was no great boon to me to have my eldest brother set even higher above me."

Cordelia remembered how brothers could vie against one another, and had heard of families in which the rivalry was much sharper than in her own. "You did not at least lack for meat, nor a roof over your head! In truth, you did not lack for comfort!"

"'Tis true," Forrest admitted, "but only till I was grown—which is to say, sixteen. Then was I set on mine own, for my father died, and my eldest brother had no great love for me. You may say 'twas bad luck that I pledged troth to the wrong lord and had to run for my life, making a living by my wits—or you may say 'twas mine own recklessness that drove me to the greenwood. I could not argue, in any case." He looked up at Cordelia, and suddenly, his eyes seemed huge, seemed to devour her, and with alarm, she felt herself turning weak inside, felt a warming and a thrilling in the blood, far worse than she had felt for the very first time so short a while ago—or far better—and his words made it even sharper. "Were I not so attainted and so ashamed, were I not cast down to banditry and poverty, I might dream of suing and sighing, of wooing and courting so beautiful a lady as yourself."

The blood roared in her ears, but she knew extravagant flattery for what it was—and loved it, in a part of herself that she tried desperately to deny. She heard herself saying, as though from far away, "A man's lot is never lost. Faith and industry, and honest striving, can resurrect the fortunes of any nobleman, no matter how low he has fallen. You must never give up hope, sir."

His eyes fired with that hope she had spoken of. "Surely, my lady," he breathed, "if you say it, I shall hope—and strive to clear my name, and prove myself worthy of regard." She stared at him, stiff, her face burning.

He added, softly, "The regard of my King, of course." But he fooled neither of them—nor did he intend to. They stared at each other for seconds that seemed to last for an uncountable time, until Cordelia felt she must break from the strain. Clutching her hands at her waist, she said, "Then go, sir, with your men, and prove your proud words."

He stood up slowly and stepped close. His scent seemed to enfold her, the scent of sweat and dust—and something else, some musk she did not know. He towered over her, so close, so close, but not close enough... "If you say it, my lady," he breathed, "I shall." And he held her gaze for one more long, long moment until finally she gave ground, stepping back a little, to break the strain.

Forrest smiled sadly, and turned to bawl at his men. They came to their feet with groans, most shaking themselves from sleep, and a scullery boy passed among them with a bucket and a ladle. Another stepped behind him with a basket of rolls. Each outlaw took a roll, took a drink, and looked up at Cordelia in gratitude, muttering, "Mercy, Lady."

"Gladly given," she answered in her most lofty manner, wondering for the first time, with desperation verging on panic, why her mother and father didn't come out to help her with this.

Then Forrest bawled orders at his men, chivvying them into some sort of order and shooing them out through the gatehouse. But before the shadows swallowed him up, he looked back for a long, last look at Cordelia, and his eyes seemed to glow.

Then he turned away, and was gone.

The whole of the outer bailey seemed to exhale in one vast sigh of relief.

All except Cordelia, who stood rigid, staring after him. Above, at the solar window, her mother beamed down, and her father scowled.

"She did that rather well, my husband," Gwendylon said. "Yes, she did," Rod answered. "And so, unfortunately, did he."

"Ah, yes." Gwen's voice was entirely too cool. "He doth seem to have gained her interest. However, it will do her no harm to find some other suitor after her affections."

"Well ... if you say so." Rod did not look convinced. "But I don't like the look of him."

"Or the look he gave our daughter? I cannot say I am surprised. Yet be easy in thine heart, mine husband—she is warded against those who would use her, as well as any maiden may be."

"And no better. Why didn't you go down there and help her out?"

"Why did not you?"

"Mostly because of your hand on my arm restraining me, every time I started for the door."

"Well, that is true." Gwen smiled, dimpling. "After all, 'twas to her they were bound to surrender, not to us."

"True," Rod admitted. "Still, I think she could have used a little support."

"She is experienced with those who would do her harm, and is quite ready to deal with them herself, mine husband. We cannot always shield her—but I will admit 'tis best for her to experience such men as he, when we stand near."

"Oh, you bet it is," Rod said softly.

The bandit troop passed out from the gatehouse and down the winding road, descending the mound on which the castle stood. There the road split, the eastern fork straggling off into the wood, toward Runnymede. They trooped off eastward with it—but as soon as they were in under the trees, there were mutterings in the ranks.

"We could go now, and none would ever be the wiser!"

"Now could we fade in among the greenwood leaves, and none should ever find us!"

Pebbles whizzed from the roadside. One clipped the last speaker on the pate as it passed, knocking his hat off. He cried out, pressing a hand to his head, then bent down to pick up his hat—and a stick popped up out of the roadway to spank him very soundly on the rump. He straightened up with a howl, pressing his other hand to the injured anatomy.

"I think the Wee Folk have not forgotten us," said Forrest. "We are not quite yet free to go where we will."

"Then when shall we be?" cried one of the bandits. "Why, you heard the lady—when we have spoken to Sir Maris!"

Sure enough, a few rods farther on, the roadway opened out into a small clearing, and there stood Sir Maris with his dozen knights at his back.

"The lady bids us bring ourselves to you for punishment, Sir Seneschal." Forrest bowed a little.

"She has done well," the old knight grated. "We are freed of any need to require thee at the King's dungeon."

"But you promised..." one outlaw burst out, before another clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Aye, I gave my word," said Sir Maris, "and gave it in Their Majesties' names—so thou art free to go. But see to it thou dost not rob, nor steal, nor poach, ever again!"

"We shall not, sir," said Forrest, and the whole band behind him mumbled hasty denials.

"Thou, sir, most of all!" Sir Maris glared at Forrest. "Thou, the son of a nobleman, lowering thyself to banditry by the roadside! Thou shouldst be red with mortification, to stand before a knight! Thou shouldst be afeard to admit thou wert ever dubbed a knight bachelor!"

"I am ashamed." Forrest lowered his head—coincidentally hiding his expression.

"Well, mayhap there is some saving grace left within thee," the old knight grumbled, leaning on his staff. "Go thou, and mend thy ways, then—and see that thou dost make better use of the life and fortunes God hath given thee! Be mindful, whene'er thou art tempted to despoil those weaker than thyself, or those come for a moment within thy power—what would any one of these men of thine give, to have been born as thou wert? Be grateful for what thou hast, sirrah, and do not berate God for not having given thee more."

A flash of annoyance showed in Forrest's eyeresentment, quickly masked. He bowed again. "I shall take your words to heart, Sir Seneschal."

"See that thou dost! Farewell—and never come before me again with complaints of misdeeds being levied against thee! Go, go one and all—into the greenwood! You are pardoned, you are free to seek honest labor within the King's domain! Go, and never stray again!" He raised staff and hands, dismissing them.

The bandits knew when to take their chance. They faded in among the trees, one and all.

Including Forrest. He picked his way through underbrush, then strode quickly over last year's fallen leaves until he was a hundred feet from the roadway. There he stopped and listened, and heard faint sounds that must have been his men gathering together again. He set off in the opposite direction. At last he was freed from their weight, hanging about his neck—at last he was freed from the need to care for them. If they still wanted him to lead them badly enough, they could come and find him.

He hoped they would not. He wanted the freedom to be himself again, to try to build his own future once more. He had decided to take Sir Maris at his word, and make better use of his time, indeed. He strode off through the woods, circling back toward Castle Gallowglass, the image of a lissome form and a beautiful face under a wreath of auburn hair burning in his mind.

He intended to court Cordelia.