M'Lady Witch

CHAPTER 8

Cordelia sped high above the treetops, a speck in the sky, listening for thoughts from her brother and ... yes, suitor. But flying takes time, and broomsticks move considerably more slowly than jet planes. The sun was dropping toward the western horizon before Cordelia finally "heard" Alain's mind with her own. Not Geoffrey's, of course—he habitually kept his mind closed, his thoughts guarded, and he took considerably more concentration to read, if he did not choke off all contact. But Alain ...

Alain was besotted.

Cordelia sat rigid for a moment, wide-eyed, horrified, all attention riveted to Alain's words reverberating in her mind, gallant and flattering. Why, he had never spoken to her like this! Through his ears, she heard the musical, belllike tones of the female voice answering him. She sat frozen, unable to think, unable to spare the slightest thought for anything else ...

She was falling.

She was plunging toward the earth, broomstick in a nosedive, falling out of the sky! She truly had become distracted, not even sparing a thought for telekinesis! Anger flowed; at herself, for such carelessness; at Alain, for his fickleness; at Geoffrey, for having led him into this; but most of all, at that scarlet hussy who dared to steal the affections of her man! Never mind that the girl probably knew nothing of Cordelia, or Alain's proposal—she was loathsome anyway!

But Cordelia was not about to be outdone, nor to see her prize stolen from her. She would match the hussy on her own ground, and win! She brought the broom out of its nosedive and sped above the treetops, scolding herself for having let Alain get away. Surely there must have been some way to say no and insist on a proper courtship, without packing him off to the arms of such a vampire as this! And that, without ever having met the girl.

There they were, on the roadway, visible for a moment between the leaves! But neither of the boys noticed her in the slightest, and the girl certainly didn't. Just as well, Cordelia thought, and sped ahead of them until the road curved close to the river in an open meadow. Cordelia decided that they would not pass by so ideal a camping place with the sun already low. She landed in the woods a short distance from the edge of the clearing, leaned her broom against a tree, and waited.

They came riding into the meadow through the shadows of trees stretched long across the grass—a golden young knight and a dark young knight, with a blonde beauty between them, laughing and chatting as they came out of the woods, both men seeming mightily pleased with themselves. Cordelia lingered a few minutes longer under the shelter of the leaves. Both of them were looking quite lively; their color was heightened, their eyes sparkled. So did the woman's; she looked down with frequent blushes—very coy, very demure, very calculating! Cordelia hated her on sight, not only for her golden tresses and baby-doll face—after all, the poor child could scarcely be eighteen!—but also for her deliberate manipulation of the men. Couldn't the fools see what she was doing?

No. Of course not. They were enjoying it too much.

What was worse, Cordelia found herself feeling dowdy for the first time in her life—at least, in comparison to this paragon of pulchritude.

Oh, but what a scheming creature she was! The high neckline seemed demure and innocent—but the clinging fabric showed her for what she was, in every sense. Shameless, brazen! Cordelia must learn how she achieved the effect. The blushes, the coquettish glances, looking up at Alain with spaniel eyes, every movement planned, every modulation of her laugh, and no doubt, the choice of every word, though Cordelia could not hear them. She fumed inside, but also felt a sinking despair. How could she possibly compete with such an accomplished man-eater?

And she had to admit, after all, that the woman had been blessed with uncommonly good looks.

For a moment, her heart quailed, but only for a moment. Then she saw the men dismounting, vying with one another to see who would help the lady from her perch. Laughing, she chose Alain—of course!—and his hands closed about her waist, lifting her down. Of course, she slid a little too hard, a little too far, and fetched up against his chest. For a moment, he froze, still holding her toes off the ground, then put her down with a little, forced laugh. She laughed, too, then turned away to blush—each movement exactly timed, head bent at exactly the right angle. Cordelia seethed, but she had to admire the sheer artistry of the wench.

Well, she would learn to outdo the minx at her own game! No, not her own, Cordelia reflected—if she tried to compete with the woman on her own terms, she was lost. Honesty and innocence were Cordelia's strong suit—being forthright without being forward. She must somehow make those qualities into advantages—and she would!

She set forth from the trees, strolling closer, waiting for them to notice her. It was the woman who looked up first, then looked again, surprised, staring. The men noticed and broke off their laughing, looking up. Geoffrey stared, as startled as though he had seen a mouse walking about on the bottom of a river, and Cordelia had the immense satisfaction of seeing Alain turn pale. Then he blushed beet-red and turned away—as well he might, Cordelia thought grimly. But she smiled as boldly as she could and stepped forward. "Well, brother! At last I have found you!"

"Indeed!" Geoffrey smiled. "You are well met, sister. But wherefore did you seek me?"

He knew very well who she was seeking! "I have wearied of my duties at home, and have come to see that, if you may go adventuring, so may I."

"A woman, adventuring?" The vixen stared, scandalized. "It is not seemly!"

Well, she should know, if anyone should. "Quite so," Cordelia agreed. "A woman alone may not—but in her brother's company, there is surely nothing improper."

She had the satisfaction of seeing the look of dismay flit across the hussy's features, though it was quickly masked. It was even more gratifying to see the look of delight that crossed Alain's face, even though it was hidden so quickly as to leave Cordelia wondering if she had really seen it. She felt a stab of remorse—how badly had she hurt him, that he dared not show pleasure in her company?

"Well, this will be pleasing." Geoffrey smiled, amused. "And timely: we are about to concoct supper. Surely you will join us—must she not, companions?"

"Oh, surely she must," said the vampire, all syrupy sweetness. Alain mumbled something that sounded vaguely affirmative and looked away. He certainly should, Cordelia thought, with a flame of white-hot anger—but she suppressed it with a self-control that was new to her; she had more important things to fry than Alain's conscience. She advanced toward them, doing her best to simulate the movement of a cat on the prowl. "Do you gentleman fetch some game for us, and we shall set about building a fire for it. We shall see what we may do to spark a blaze among kindling—shall we not, damsel?"

"Indeed!" For a second, the minx looked startled. Then she smiled in amused anticipation.

Geoffrey cast a dubious glance from one to the other, then shrugged. He, protect Cordelia from another woman?

As well to think of protecting a lynx from a kitten! Besides, he had a notion of what was about to follow. "Well enough, then. Milady, this is my sister, the Lady Cordelia." He almost said "Gallowglass," then thought better of it—an instinct to caution, Heaven knew why. But they were, after all, supposed to be incognito. "Cordelia, this is the Lady Delilah de Fevre."

"Delighted," Delilah purred.

"The pleasure will be all mine," Cordelia assured her, carefully not specifying what she would take pleasure in. "Come, Alain, let us seek out game!" Geoffrey turned his horse back toward the woods. With a dubious backward glance, Alain rode after him.

The clearing was quiet for a moment, only birdsong and breeze, as the two women regarded one another, both with slight smiles. Cordelia only wished that she really felt as confident as she looked. Well, anger would have to serve in place of confidence, and she surely had enough of that at the moment! "Perchance we may come to know one another," she said. "Come, let us chat, whiles we gather firewood and tinder."

"Gladly, if you will show me what it is," Delilah said. "I would not know what to seek, for my servants have always done such chores."

Cordelia held down her indignation and forced a saccharine smile. "'Tis the curse of we who are well bred," she agreed, "that we cannot care for ourselves when the need arises."

"The need has arisen for you, then?" Delilah said sweetly. "And you know that it will arise again?"

"Perchance," Cordelia said between her teeth, "and then, perchance not. It was my mother's teaching that every woman should know how to fend for herself if she must, that she not be dependent upon a man's whims and cruelties."

"Your mother was no doubt wise," Lady Delilah purred. "Had she cause to know?"

That stung worse—because, of course, Gwen had had cause to learn how to take care of herself, until Cordelia's father Rod came into Gwen's life. Cordelia was a little hazy on the details, knowing only the story of how they met, courted, and wed, with very little about how Gwen had occupied her time before Rod had come unto her life; she knew only that they had not married until Gwen was twenty-nine—very late for a medieval woman. "My father did not think so," she said sweetly. "Did thine?"

A frown creased the smooth perfection of Delilah's brow. "My what?"

"Your father," Cordelia explained. She sighed, as though striving for patience in explaining something elementary to a five-year-old. "Did your father find need for your mother to be dependent upon him?"

"Surely she did rely on him, and he proved ever reliable," Delilah said, amused. "In truth, I thought she fended for herself most excellently in that."

Cordelia frowned. "How so?"

"Why," said Delilah, "the lady who fends for herself, and has no true need of a husband, will not have one." Cordelia stared at her, frozen for a moment, fuming—but she kept the fumes inside, forced them into a curdled smile, and said, "She who does not need a man for living will have naught but the best of men—and only for love, true love."

"Ah! True love!" Delilah looked away toward the trees. "How each of us does long for it! But what if it comes not, Lady Cordelia? How then shall we fare?"

"As well as we wish," Cordelia snapped.

"Oh, nay!" Delilah turned huge, demure eyes upon her. "We shall do as well as we may."

Alain, Cordelia saw, was as well as Delilah had decided she might do. A change of subject was obviously in order. She turned away, stooping to pick up a twig here, a stick there. "How came you here, maiden, to the company of my brother and his friend?" She put perhaps a little more emphasis than was necessary on the word "maiden."

"Alas!" Delilah lamented. "I came at the behest of him whom I love—but he betrayed me, and did not come." That snatched Cordelia's poise away from her. She stared, aghast. "Truly he did not mislead you so!"

"Aye," Delilah sighed. "I fear I am ever too trusting."

Cordelia knew, with dead certainty, that "trusting" was one thing Delilah was not—except, perhaps, trusting in her own ability to manipulate a man. "Did you not fear the outlaws of the forest?"

"Oh, aye!" Delilah touched her eyelid, where a tear had presumably formed. "I feared they might hurt me soreyet not so sorely as my lord has hurt me." She looked away—and sure enough, fat tears trembled in her eyes, then rolled free. For a moment, Cordelia almost embraced her in a rush of sympathy—but it was replaced with a rush of anger. So the female serpent could actually weep on demand! Her admiration for the woman's artistry rose one notch higher, even as her opinion of the woman's honesty dropped even lower.

Still, she strove to sound sympathetic. "The night must have been long indeed."

Delilah said, "Any night is long, when one's love is not near one."

Cordelia had been wondering about Delilah's right to the title "maiden," but she was fast becoming sure. "I would not know," she said sweetly.

Delilah gave her a sudden, searching stare. "Nay," she said, nicely seasoned with scorn. "I think you would not." Cordelia felt her cheeks flaming—why, she did not know; to be a virgin was something to be quite proud of. How dare this flaunting flirt make it sound like a deficiency!

"How came you here?" asked Delilah. "I see you have no horse."

Cordelia did some quick mental jockeying, trying to decide whether she was better served by Delilah's ignorance, or her probable awe of esper powers. Discretion won out, and she said, "I do not believe a beast should be tethered, but should be free to roam as he will, till I have need of him."

"Then he must be well trained indeed, to come at your call."

Cordelia wondered at the tone of mockery in Delilah's voice, or why it stung. "I shall whistle him up when I wish," she assured the wench.

Delilah sighed in a parody of longing. "I have never learned to whistle."

"Then you have not had the bittersweet fortune of having brothers," Cordelia said, with a sardonic smile.

"I have not," Delilah said, all wide-eyed innocence. "Does that make a lass less hungry to be wed?" And, before Cordelia could answer, "You must forgive my asking. I am too young to know. I am but eighteen."

Eighteen what? But Cordelia did not say it out loud. "You shall know all that a woman needs within a year or so," Cordelia assured her, thinking all the while that Delilah already knew far more than a genuine lady should.

"I trust I shall," Delilah sighed. "What is this `kindling' that you spoke of?"

Geoffrey hailed them from the edge of the wood. "Small sticks and twigs." Cordelia displayed her skirtful of bits of wood. "We shall let the gentlemen fetch logsbut do you quickly catch up some tinder, for they are come with dinner."

"What is `tinder'?"

"Dried grass and leaves!" Cordelia stooped impatiently to catch up several handfuls as she walked toward the riverbank. Geoffrey rode down toward the river. Cordelia went to him, with Delilah trailing behind—which was fortunate, for she could not see how Cordelia's cheeks flamed with anger and humiliation. For some obscure reason, Cordelia felt she had come off the loser in that battle of wits—and was sure it had been a battle, though most of Delilah's comments had seemed entirely innocent.

It was doubly strange that she should feel the loser, since she had certainly given as good as she received, when the comments had been barbed.

Hadn't she?

"Well!" Geoffrey surveyed the heap of kindling that Cordelia dumped onto the bare clay by the water—then the cascade of dead leaves and dried cattails that suddenly fell on top of them. Cordelia looked up, startled, and met Delilah's sweetest smile. The cat had snatched them up by the handful as they had come back to meet the boys! "'Tis a good beginning," Geoffrey pronounced.

"'Twill do to kindle a blaze." Cordelia knelt, brushing grasses from her skirt.

Alain came up with a six-inch rock in each hand, set them by the tinder, and, glancing furtively at Cordelia, mumbled something about needing to fetch more, got up, and went away. She gazed after him for a moment, frowning. Admittedly he should be remorseful, repentant—but how was she ever going to win him back, if he would not talk to her?

"Here is your flame." Geoffrey had dismounted and knelt by the tinder now, drawing his dagger and taking a piece of flint from his pouch. He struck them against one another with an expert touch, several times, until a fat spark fell into the tinder. He struck another, and another. Cordelia breathed on them gently, and they began to flame. Out of the corner of her eye, she realized that Delilah was still standing, looking down in contempt at the hoyden who could get down on her knees in the grass and kindle a fire as well as any boy. Cordelia turned and smiled sweetly up at her. "It is given to women to be the keepers of the hearth."

"Indeed." Delilah's eyes sparked. "But for a lady, the hearth is watched, while servants build it up." Fortunately, Alain arrived before the two of them could go any further, with two more rocks to set by the flames. Cordelia looked up, about to say something about their not being overlarge, but saw how closed his face was, the furtive glances that he flicked at her, and decided it was not the time to say anything that was at all critical.

There was a rustle of cloth beside her. Cordelia glanced out of the corner of her eye to see Delilah folding herself gracefully to sit by the fire, adjusting her skirts to cover her legs in complete modesty—that is, if you disregarded the cut of her bodice. Apparently, she had realized that everybody else was sitting or kneeling. Cordelia smiled to herself as she took kindling from her little pile and fed it to the flames, building them up little by little, letting it grow. "What have you found for us to eat, gentlemen?"

"A hare." Alain proudly held out a spitted blob of pink meat that bore about as much resemblance to a rabbit as a toad to a toadstool. He was obviously very proud of having shot, skinned, and cleaned it himself, but Delilah shrank back with an exclamation of frightened disgust, as a delicate maiden would when coming face-to-face with the world's realities for the first time.

Alain was instantly all contrition. "I pray you, look away, milady. I had forgot that you would never have seen raw meat as it came from the hide."

"Nay, I never have." Delilah turned away, trembling. "I doubt if I shall be able to eat of it now."

Alain stepped over to her side. "Come, come! When 'tis done, you shall not recognize it at all!" He reached out to her, then drew his hand back. "I would not offer a murderer's hands to you..."

She blinked up at him, and forced a smile. "Nay, surely not. You mean only my welfare, I know, to see that I am fed. Forgive me that my stomach is too delicate for such a sight." She relaxed into his arms, laying her head on his shoulder. Alain wiped clean hands on his hose before he put his arms around her.

"Sister," Geoffrey murmured in Cordelia's ear, "what is that grinding noise?"

"Only my teeth," she grated back. "Can he not see through her, Geoffrey?"

"Why, no," whispered Geoffrey, surprised, "and neither can I, though her skin is perfectly clear."

"So is her behavior! She is positively transparent!" Cordelia made the comment a lash. "I would have thought that my much-experienced brother would not be so easily deceived."

"Better, or worse?" Geoffrey smiled, amused. "Few of us are born with defenses against a pretty face or form. Be patient, sister. If she truly is as you imagine her to be, no doubt we shall discover it."

" `Beauty is as beauty does,' do you mean?" Cordelia's tone was scathing. "Many a man has discovered nothing of the sort, 'til the priest has pronounced the words."

Then, with sudden despair: "What am I to do, Geoffrey? I have no tricks, no skill in dissembling! How shall I save him from her?"

"Do you care about him?" Geoffrey seemed quite surprised. Then he frowned. "Or is it only that you fear that something belonging to you will be taken?"

The echo of their mother's words irritated Cordelia. "Nay, 'tis more than that." But the image of Forrest came up unbidden before her inner eye.

Geoffrey was not intent on reading her mind at the moment, so he missed the picture, but he caught the hesitation, the uncertainty. "When you are sure, Cordelia, you shall prosper. But I pray you, do nothing extreme until we know whether or not she is the monster you think her to be, or is truly as sweet and kind as she seems."

"Read her mind, brother," Cordelia said, exasperated. "I have tried." Geoffrey's brow knit, puzzled. "There is only a sort of swirling there."

"What—say you that she has no mind?"

"Oh, nay! She is there, surely enough. We do not deal with a witch-moss construct." Geoffrey deliberately mistook her meaning. "Still, her thoughts cannot be read, though she seems to make no effort to block them."

"Truly?" Cordelia glanced up in time to see Delilah push herself a little away from Alain, blushing, eyes downcast, then looking up and smiling, as though thanking him for his concern.

It was like a stab to Cordelia's own heart, that he did not even think of her enough to realize that she might be hurt by seeing him be solicitous to her rival. Either he was so smitten that he did not even remember that Cordelia had reason to object—or he was truly only being chivalrous.

Kindness to a stray kitten? And, in his own mind, nothing that she should object to?

She didn't believe that for a minute.

They chatted as the roast turned on its spit, Cordelia wondering at the back of her mind what Delilah was going to do when it came time to eat. She toyed with the notion of conjuring up knife, fork, and plate, but remembered that this was the boys' affair, not hers. She sat back, hiding a wicked smile, to see what her brother and her besotted beau would do.

She found herself wishing that he was besotted with her.

Then she remembered that he had been, but she had turned him down.

Well, no—the arrogance with which he had approached her had not been besotted, by any means. But she remembered a younger Alain, of only a year before, whose gaze had followed her everywhere she went, and the Alain of five years before that, who had followed her about so persistently that she had scolded him for being a pest.

She regretted that bitterly now. Had that scolding broken her spell over him? Or was it still there, but he, in obedience to her sharp tongue, was no longer allowing it to show?

Watching him closely now, she would have to say that he wasn't besotted with Delilah, really—only very attentive. Too attentive. Far too attentive. And not at all so to Cordelia—though he seemed to be avoiding her out of guilt rather than indifference.

Still, what was Cordelia to do? Feign a swoon? Certainly he would not believe that she needed comforting or protecting! For a moment, a tide of self-pity swept her. For the first time in her life, she found herself wishing that she were not so confounded capable.

Geoffrey solved the tableware problem with slabs of journey bread—flat, round cakes eight inches across. Lady Delilah, however, did not even have a dagger—of course. Alain solved the problem by cutting her meat for her, presenting it on the improvised trencher as though on a silver platter.

"Oh, sirs, you should not trouble yourselves!" Delilah protested.

" 'Tis no trouble at all, my lady, I assure you." Then, as an afterthought, it seemed to Cordelia, Alain turned and, for the first time, addressed her. "Cordelia, may I serve you in like fashion?"

She would have cheerfully served him instead—on toast. But she kept the lid on the seething and smiled sweetly. "Why, surely, Alain. I thank you." She bit back a scathing comment about being second, and probably always being second in his affections. Hot tears stung at her eyes, but she blinked them away. It was silly indeed to think that; Delilah was surely a passing fancy, no more. Surely ...

"I thank you." She held out her makeshift trencher with strings of steaming rabbit meat on it. Alain took it, cut the meat, then handed it back to her, inclining his head gravely, and offered his knife, hilt first. "Take it, I pray you, so you need not soil your fingers."

Delilah froze, a bit of meat halfway to her mouth, her eyes turning cold.

Cordelia was surprised to find herself blushing with gratitude—or was it relief? "Gramercy." She was on the point of refusing the knife—after all, she had a smaller one of her own—but realized she had better not; he might take it as a refusal of himself, too. "I shall endeavor to finish with it quickly, so that you may once again have the use of it."

"An excellent notion!" Geoffrey proffered his own knife, hilt first. "Will you take my point, my lady?"

"Why, thank you, sir." Delilah bestowed a very sweet smile on Geoffrey and took his knife.

Cordelia reflected on other potential uses for the blade as she stabbed the bits of meat and popped them into her mouth. "It is well done, in truth. You are an excellent chef, Alain."

"I learned something in the kitchens, from time to time." Alain smiled, relieved at having found a neutral topic—and wondering why Geoffrey was suddenly coughing so violently.

"I am sure you have," Cordelia said, with a touch of sarcasm.

Alain blushed and looked away.

Oh, no! Cordelia thought. I have set him off now! And she set herself to being pleasant, with renewed determination. What ailed the man, anyhow? If he felt so guilty at paying attentions to Delilah, why didn't he simply stop?

She chatted about the weather and about events in the palace, while Delilah found occasion after occasion for a subtle compliment, drawing Alain into telling her more and more about himself.

Cordelia did her best to change the topic, but not too much. "And how have you fared, knights-errant? I see you have saved a damsel in distress. What of the monster that did guard her?"

She was surprised, and chagrined, when Delilah broke into peals of laughter, and the gentlemen grinned in answer. "We seem to have saved her only from abandonment," Geoffrey explained, "though it may be she would have had more fell creatures than that preying upon her, if we had not come when we did. Still, in your name and for your glory, Alain slew an ogre."

"An ogre?" Cordelia turned, eyes huge. She remembered hearing the villagers thinking of the event, but recognized a chance when she saw one. "How is this, Alain? Does he mock me?"

"He does not, I assure you," Alain said, with grave courtesy. "It was indeed an ogre, though your brother will not admit to his part in its defeat."

"An ogre! Oh! How brave of you, sir!" Delilah exclaimed, clasping her hands at her breast. "But how dangerous! Thank heavens you are returned alive!"

Definitely overdoing it, Cordelia thought—but apparently, Alain couldn't see that. He swelled visibly at her praise. "It was a poor thing, in its way," he said modestly.

"A poor thing! Oh, aye, nine feet tall, with four arms!" Geoffrey scoffed.

"Well, true," Alain allowed. "But it had very little brain."

"Though a great deal of brawn," Geoffrey reminded him, "and it does not require so very much brain to swing a club half the size of a man."

Cordelia stared at Alain. "And you rode against it with naught but your sword?"

"I did indeed." Alain looked rather happy about it. "I will own, though, that I did take a wound of him." Delilah gasped again.

"Though 'tis naught that a little time will not heal," Alain said quickly.

"How gallant of you, sir!" Delilah caroled—but Cordelia was suddenly all business.

"Let me see." Cordelia stepped around the fire and began to unbutton Alain's doublet.

"Why, Cordelia!" he said, eyes wide. "Really, damsel!" Delilah huffed.

"Oh, be still!" Cordelia snapped. "If he is hurt, I must know it. Where, Alain?"

"Why, you are a forward wench indeed!" Delilah gasped. "A wench when it pleases me, but for now, I am a nurse!" She folded the doublet open—and stared a moment.

My heavens, the man had a massive chest! When had he grown all those muscles? She felt the strange feelings beginning to churn within her again, and turned her attention to the rough dressing held to his side by a bandage that was wrapped around and around his abdomen. "That was only a scratch, you say?"

"In truth, it was." Geoffrey frowned. "Do you fault my doctoring, sister?"

"Was it you who did this?" Cordelia looked up. "How deep was the cut? Was any organ harmed?"

Delilah turned pale.

"Nay, only muscle tissue, and not much of that; it scarce passed beyond the layer of fat. No large blood vessels cut, either, but only a seepage from many capillaries."

Delilab turned away, a hand to her mouth.

"Peace, peace!" Alain tried to recover his doublet with a glance at Delilah. "'Tis naught, Cordelia, truly!" Cordelia probed the wound gently, and when Alain only gasped lightly, she grudgingly said, "It seems well enough." She frowned up into his eyes. "My touch does not pain you?"

For a moment, his face turned fatuous. "Not in the slightest," he breathed. "'Tis as the petals of a flower that brush against me."

Cordelia stared at him in complete amazement.

A slight smile touched Alain's face. "If such touch as that be pain, may I live in torment all my days!"

Now, finally, Cordelia blushed, and turned away.