M'Lady Witch

CHAPTER 7

"Alain? Ala-a-ain! Alain!"

Alain opened his eyes, and the light seemed to lance through to his brain. He squeezed them shut, then forced them open a crack. The light still pained him, and that infernal voice was booming in his ears, sending pain rolling through his head. "Alain! Praise Heaven! I feared I had lost you!"

"So did I," Alain gasped. "More softly, Geoffrey, I prithee! There is no need to shout!"

"Why, I do not." Geoffrey grinned, recognizing the condition. He knelt and slid a hand under his friend's back, pulling him up. "Drink, now. 'Tis time to break your fast."

"Bury me," Alain groaned, "for I have died." But he took the tankard obediently and drank. Then the taste hit him, and he yanked the tankard down and spat. "Pah! 'Tis the same vile potion with which you slew me!"

"'Tis good country ale," Geoffrey rejoined, "and 'twill go some way toward making you whole and sound again." He was still grinning. "But wherefore did you hide ... Oh, I see."

Alain frowned. What was he talking about? He followed the direction of Geoffrey's glance, and saw the bracken flattened in what must surely be more room than he needed by himself—and saw the stockings that lay there, forgotten as the wench had tiptoed home in the false dawn. Alain stared. "But ... but I did not . .." Then memory struck, and he buried his face in his hands and groaned. "I did!"

"Why, then, be glad!" Geoffrey slapped him on the shoulder, albeit gently. "You have slain a monster, you have drunk deeply, and you have lain with a wench! You live, Alain, you are alive as you never have been!"

"I am dead, as I never have been," the Prince groaned, "or nearly. You do not understand, Geoffrey."

"Oh, but I do. Quite well."

"Nay, you do not! I am the Prince, it is given to me to take care of my people, to guard their welfare—not to use or abuse them!"

"I doubt that you did," Geoffrey said slowly. "But you have said it yourself!"

"I have said no such thing," Geoffrey replied with asperity. "I told you to be glad of what you have done, and I say it still. The wench was more than willing—she was eager! I saw myself how she passed beyond flirtation to invitation, to leading and chivvying. What happened after she led you away, I cannot say, for I did not see—but if you could remember, I think you would find that she did urge you on even then, and did never say, 'Hold!' " "Nay, she did." Alain pressed a hand to his forehead. "The memory comes now—she did say, "My lord, how naughty! You must not!' "

Geoffrey smiled slowly. "And what did you do?"

"Why, I drew back, and took my hand from her, as any gentleman would."

"And what said she to that?"

"She took my hand and pressed it back where it had been, saying, 'Nay, you must—if you wish it.' I assured her that I did..."

"And thereafter she told you where she wished you to put your hands."

Alain blushed furiously. "Aye, though not always with words."

Geoffrey shook his head. "You are wrong to torment yourself with spasms of conscience. She wished it, and you were too drunk to refuse her, or to deny your own desires. There is no cause for you to feel guilt in anything save having drunk to excess—and therein must I share the blame, for I egged you on to it."

"My guilt is my own, for whatever I have done, I could have chosen not to!"

"Yet you would not hesitate to share the glory." Geoffrey grinned, shaking his head. "Well, bear in mind the wench's name, and that of this village, so that if she does prove by child, you can see that she is provided for. That much obligation you may claim, though I would not think it necessary. Still, if she knew who it was had lain with her last night, I have no doubt she would boast of it, and raise the child with pride."

Alain started to pull on his hose. "Then I must tell her!"

"Nay, nay." Geoffrey restrained him with a hand on his shoulder. "If she should prove by child, I said. If she does not, she will keep the memory of this night to herself, I doubt not—or if she chooses to share it, 'twill be as a boast, that she shared the bed of the knight who slew the monster." Alain hesitated, half into his hose.

"Nay, do pull on your clothes," Geoffrey urged, "for we must be away."

"Ought I not..."

"Nay, you ought not, for she may try to presume upon your good nature." Geoffrey did not add "and innocence."

"Did you say a single word about love, or desiring anything further of her?"

Alain scowled, clutching his head, forcing the memories up from the alcoholic murk. "Nay. As I remember it, I could scarce say a word."

"Then do not seek her out again, for if you do speak of love you do not feel, or of desiring further acquaintance with her, you would hurt her heart when you left. As it is, she will remember a night's sport, and so will you—and since that is all she desired and more than you promised, she will have nothing bitter in her heart. Speak again, and she may. Come, be of good cheer!"

Alain stood, fastening his hose-belt about his waist, but he was still dark of face, brooding.

Geoffrey eyed him narrowly. "What else, then?"

"What a vile excuse for a man am I!" Alain burst out. "To bed one woman while I love another! Indeed, how can I truly say I love Cordelia, if I go slavering after every shapely form like a dog in heat!"

"I would scarcely say that you went slavering," Geoffrey said drily, "or that it was you who went after her. Still, 'tis a sad fact, Alain, and maybap the bane of our species, that a man can desire many women, even though he loves only one."

"But does this not mean that I am not truly in love with her?"

"Not a whit," Geoffrey assured him. "The troubadours would have it otherwise, I know—they sing to their patronladies that a man's desire springs from falling in love, and that the man will only desire her with whom he is in love but the truth is otherwise. It is for me, at least."

Alain looked up. "You have been in love with one, yet desired others?"

Geoffrey shrugged. "Either that, or been in love with many at one time, or never been in love at all—have it as you will. I fear that fidelity is as much a matter of selfcontrol as of love, Alain."

"Well—I am schooled in that, at least." The Prince seemed somewhat reassured.

"Too much so," Geoffrey told him. "Indeed, I rejoiced most amazingly to see you drop your armor of chivalrous discipline for a few hours, Alain. There is more to life than rules and duties."

"I have been told that." Alain looked him straight in the eye. "I have been taught that a wise ruler must recognize that impulse toward excess in his people, so that he may understand and be merciful if they do not cleave to the letter of his laws."

"Have you been told, too, that men may be tempted and fall?"

"Aye." Alain looked away. "But I think that I never truly understood it before."

"That may be, that well may be," Geoffrey agreed, "but you do understand it now."

"Oh, aye! Most thoroughly!" Alain turned away in selfdisgust. "Surely I am not worthy of the Lady Cordelia." Geoffrey sighed. "I thought you had but now said that you could understand that men could fall."

"Well ... aye, but .. ."

"Then what matter this one lapse, so long as you are faithful after you wed?"

"But how can I be sure that I will be? I had thought love was my assurance, but ... Geoffrey! How if I am not in love?"

"If you can even ask the question, then you are not," Geoffrey said, with inexorable conviction, "and if you are not, then 'tis far better you learn it now, than after the wedding."

"I am in love with her!" Alain said. "I must be, for I have planned it for years!"

"'Twas your head did that planning, not your heart. Yet if your love is sure, it will stand the test."

"What test is that?"

"The test of conversing with pretty maids and beauteous ladies, even of kissing them now and again. You must risk your heart, Alain, or you may never truly find it." Geoffrey clapped him on the shoulder. "Come, don your doublet, for the day draws on apace."

"Aye, if you say it." Alain shrugged into his doublet and turned away, fastening the buttons as he went.

Geoffrey followed him, reflecting that a quick exit might be advisable, in case the wench came back looking for her hero. He trusted neither her, nor Alain's conscience and sense of duty. Besides, they had a world to wander, villains to chastise, damsels to rescue ...

Beautiful damsels, and pretty maids all in a row. A long row, Geoffrey decided. If he was going to trust his sister's happiness to Prince Alain's heart, he was going to make sure that heart had been tried in the crucible first.

In the vastness of the forest, a woman cried.

Alain snapped rigid, like a bird dog hearing the flap of wings. "A damsel in distress!"

"Aye, from the sound of it." Geoffrey turned toward the sound, too. "Let us beware of traps, though."

"Ridiculous!" Alain scoffed. "Who would think to trap two knights with a woman's cry?"

"Who would think to summon drakes to the arrow by simulating the cry of a duck?" Geoffrey returned. "Nonetheless, we must go—but with tactical soundness, shall we not? Let one go posthaste, and the other go carefully."

"Then I shall take the posthaste." Alain grinned and plunged into the thicket at the side of the road. His horse neighed in protest, but fought its way through. Geoffrey followed the path made by Alain's horse, but rather more warily.

He could hear the sobbing through the trees—forlorn, heart-rending, almost as though the woman who wept was trying to choke her sobs down, but not succeeding.

Alain rode through the brush and between the trees until they opened out into a river meadow, a broad expanse of clover dotted with wildflowers and bordered along the stream by weeping willows. Under the largest sat a damsel, head bowed into her hands.

Alain slowed, going softly, wondering if he had the right to interfere—and Geoffrey came up behind him. They were so silent in their approach they were almost upon her before she heard the horses' hooves. She leaped up in fright, then gasped in fear and backed away under the willow branches.

"Fear not, fair maiden." Alain reined in his horse. "I would not hurt a lady in any way."

"We are knights," said Geoffrey, "sworn to protect the weak and punish the wicked."

"If any man has wronged you, tell us," said Alain, "that we may challenge him to mortal combat."

The damsel stopped withdrawing, at least. Alain's eyes were fast upon her, and it was scarcely a wonder. She was slender; long lashes swept across her eyes, so pale they seemed gossamer; her golden hair fairly glowed in the sunlight, sweeping down to the middle of her back. Her little heart-shaped face was the perfect setting for such huge, lustrous blue eyes and her small, pert nose. The width and fullness of her lips were surprising, seeming somewhat out of place—but making a man ache to lean down and kiss them. When she looked up at him, he felt a stirring within him, and had to fight to keep it from emerging as a shudder. She was, after all, a beauty—very much a beauty. She wore a bliaut and a kirtle, highnecked, full-sleeved, that should have been very modest, but was made of some fabric that molded itself to her body with every gentlest breath of wind, revealing the lush contours beneath.

Geoffrey glanced about, trying to discern some hint as to why the damsel wept—and why a lady of gentle breeding should be alone by a riverside. He did see a palfrey, tethered to the willow, grazing beneath its branches. Other than that, there was no sign.

"Lady, we shall protect you," he called out. "How is it you have come here alone?"

"Alas, good sirs!" She stepped forward timorously, coming out from beneath the branches of the willow—but only a little way. "There was a man—my true love, I thought—who bade me meet him here this morning, as the sun rose. But the dawn has gone, the sun nears the noon, and he has not come."

Geoffrey frowned, having something of a nasty suspicion as to what had happened—but when it came to a motive, he could only understand the most obvious, and it didn't make sense. "Wherefore would a gentleman fail in rendezvous with so beautiful a lady as yourself?"

The lady lowered her eyes, blushing, then looked up with a sigh. "Ah, sir! I can only believe that he is a true love turned false, or was never a true love at all! I blush with shame to think that he only toyed with my affections!" And she heaved another sigh.

Alain caught himself staring; the heavy sigh had done wonders. Her gown clung to her figure, after all, and her figure was very much worth clinging to. He found a desire to do so himself.

Indeed, a very great desire.

"The man who forswore a tryst with you must have been a fool indeed," he breathed.

"A fool," Geoffrey agreed, "or a very shrewd villain. Have you a sister, milady?"

"Aye, sir—a younger sister." Her eyes were wide in wonder. "How could you know?"

"You have no brother? It is the firstborn grandson who will inherit?"

"Nay, sir—it is she who weds first." Then the maiden gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "You do not believe..."

"How did word of this tryst come to you?" Geoffrey asked.

"Why, from my sister! 'Twas she who brought me word from my lord ... No! You cannot think that my own sister would betray me!"

"And that she even now importunes upon him?" Geoffrey shook his head sadly. "It has happened before this, and will happen again."

"But wherefore should she deal so cruelly with me?"

"Why, to have your lover for her husband, and your father's estates for her own," Alain said gently, his eyes full of sympathy.

The damsel stared in shock, then burst into tears.

Alain leaped down off his horse and ran to take her in his arms, patting her back, soothing, making comforting noises. He looked up and glared at Geoffrey over the damsel's head.

Geoffrey felt a surge of annoyance, and fought to keep his face impassive. Was the man truly so great a fool as that? Or, perhaps, merely inexperienced.

Geoffrey knew that Alain had had very little acquaintance with girls his own age, and that only under the very rigid rules of court formalities. But perhaps he was not so great a fool after all, for it was he who was holding the beautiful maiden in his arms—and she certainly was a beauty.

Geoffrey tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace of distaste. "Come, maiden," he called. "Where is your home?"

The damsel's sobs had slackened. Alain stroked her hair, murmuring inanities, looking stunned. "There, now—life shall go on, and you shall find a truer love than he. Come, let us dry these tears." He pulled a handkerchief from his own sleeve and dabbed at her cheeks. "Five years since, you shall look back on this day with amusement, and bless the mischance, the betrayal, that held him from you—for you shall find your true love, I doubt not, and discover him to be a far better man than he who turned from you to your sister only because you were not there, and she was."

The disturbing thing, Geoffrey decided, was that Alain really meant every word of it. In this case, it was not that he had acquired the gift of flattery—it was a genuine sympathy, a real caring for a person who was suffering. .

Though, Geoffrey reflected cynically, Alain's sympathy might not have been quite so strong if the damsel had not been quite so beautiful.

"But has he truly turned to her?" she cried, eyes brimming full again.

Alain stared down at her, feeling his heart turn over in his breast—but it was a heart that was pledged to Cordelia, as his conscience reminded him.

Well, no—it wasn't, really. After all, she had rejected his suit—spurned him, in fact. He felt a certain kinship with this maiden, who had sought her true love and been disappointed by him.

He shook the thought from him. It was unworthy of a knight. "It may be that he has not turned to another," he said. "It may be that he remains true to you."

"Oh, can you truly think so?" She stepped back from him a pace, looking up, eyes brightening with hope.

"It may be," Alain said solemnly, "though it may be as we suspect, too. Only by returning to your father's house shall we discover the truth. Come, tell us—where is your home?"

"Yonder, sir." She pointed down the roadway. "In the West, a day's ride."

"So far as that?" Geoffrey crowded his horse up near them. "You have come so long a way by yourself, unescorted, through half the night, alone?"

"Aye." She looked up at him, shuddering. "I did fear; I did start at every noise. I thought every moment to see a band of outlaws step forth from the greenwood, to assail me."

There was every chance that exactly that would have happened, Geoffrey knew, and that her purse would have been the least of which they would have reft her—if, by good luck, he and Alain had not sent the local gang packing. "But by good fortune, they were all abed, and you came here untouched, to wait for the dawn. You hid till daylight, did you not?"

She nodded.

Geoffrey looked at her, court-bred and dainty, her delicate gown soiled at the hem, and knew that any woodsman worth his salt could have found her trail and tracked her down. It had been luck, good luck only, that no bandit had done exactly that.

"The owl's hooting never had so much quality of menace as it did last night," she said.

"Then 'tis only by great good fortune that you have come thus far in safety." Alain looked down at her sternly, "You must return to your father's house forthwith—but you must not ride alone. Come, mount! We shall accompany you!"

"I could not ask that of you." But even as she said it, gladness suffused her face. "Assuredly, you are bound to other destinations."

Alain saw those huge eyes glowing up at him, and knew that he could not do anything else. "No true knight could turn down a request from a damsel in distress," he told her. "We shall ride with you—and we shall not hear a word to the contrary."

Nor was she apt to give it, Geoffrey thought—but he did not say so. After all, he would never turn down an opportunity to escort so voluptuous a lady, either.

"I hesitate to ask it of you." She bowed her head, looking up at him through long lashes. "Surely you must be bound on a mission of great importance."

"You may say that." Alain smiled. "We are two knightserrant, wandering where we will to discover damsels in distress, so that we may give them aid and succor. I could not think of any mission more important. Could you, Sir Geoffrey?"

"Oh, nay, assuredly not, Sir Alain!" Geoffrey fought to keep both sarcasm and amusement from his voice. At least one of them was sincere.

"Then 'tis said; 'tis done." Alain stepped away from the lady, albeit reluctantly, and stepped over to the palfrey. He untied it and led it out from under the willow leaves. "Come, my lady, mount!" He dropped the horse's reins, set his hands to her waist, and lifted her up to the saddle, amazed that she felt so light. She gasped with surprise and fright, clinging to his arms, then smiled tremulously as she found herself on horseback again. She hooked a knee about the horn of the sidesaddle, arranged her skirts, and beamed down upon him. "Bless you, sir!"

She looked up at Geoffrey, and for a second, he was hit with the full force of that enchanting gaze, that adorable, piquant face, those full ruby lips... "I shall praise you in my prayers every night! How can I thank you for your mercy, to a poor, lost damsel and, aye, a foolish one. How foolish, how credulous, to believe what I have believed!"

And Geoffrey found himself reassuring her, just as Alain had done. "Your trust does you credit, even though it was betrayed—for surely, what woman would think that her own sister would play her false? What man could think less than highly of a woman who would ride to meet her lover? Assuredly, my lady, we must accompany you!"

And, as he pulled his horse into step beside hers, he realized the truth of what he had said. Thank heavens she was an innocent, for that face, that voice, that form gave her a power over men that was absolutely incredible.

Somehow, it never occurred to either of them that she might not really be so innocent, and might know exactly how much power she had. Even more should they have believed that she knew how to use that power, too.

They rode back onto the forest road, turning their horses away to the west, Geoffrey and Alain vying, with witticisms and flattery, to raise her spirits. They succeeded admirably—within half an hour her eyes were alight with mirth, and her laughter rang like music in their ears.

The bandits were on their way, and Cordelia resolutely forgot about them. Yes, she had put those dark, reckless eyes, broad shoulders, and sensuous lips firmly out of her mind, and she knew she had, because she thought of them every now and then, just to make sure. Her mind clear, she went soaring off on her broomstick to track down her brother and her suitor, cursing the delay under her breath—with far too much vehemence.

It didn't take her long to find the village in which Alain and Geoffrey had spent the night. She searched the minds of the villagers quickly and lightly, injecting a thought of the two heroes who had come through the town, and reading the memories that rose in response. Her eyes widened as she learned of the appearance of the ogre, and of the battle. She was even more surprised to learn that it was Alain who had slain the monster, not her brother—or, at least, that Geoffrey had given him full credit for the deed. She wondered, for a moment, if her brother had lied; then decided that he probably had not. Not that Geoffrey was above lying, mind you, or at least prevaricating—it was merely that, in this instance, there was more for him to gain by truth, at least in terms of his goals for Alain. Geoffrey was not the sort to lie unless it was to give him a military advantage, anyway, and never in matters of honor or glory. Chivalry, to him, was sacrosanct. How silly, she thought, but was astounded when she found no memory of their leaving; everyone in the village seemed to have waked to find them gone—except ...

Except the village priest, who had risen early for Matins, and seen them ride into the forest ... Cordelia arrowed off toward the trees.