The Pixilated Peeress

I – The Captivating Countess

Thorolf Zigramson laid his scabbarded sword on the grass and baited his hook with a squirming green grub. He tossed the hook into the pool in the mountain stream and watched the crim­son float bob amid the silvery ripples. He gathered his russet cloak to sit down on the greensward when, a few paces downstream, a holly-green spruce sapling spoke:

"Goodman! Pray give me some clothes!"

Thorolf started. Dropping his fishpole, he clapped a bronzen hand to the hilt of his dagger. "What say you, bush?"

The sapling's voice, though musical still, took on a note of command. "I said, give me some clothes! Your cloak will do, to start."

"Forsooth! And why should I give my good Tyrrhe­nian mantle away to the first bush that begs for it?"

The voice grew sharp. "Cease calling me 'bush,' knave!"

"Why? Prefer you 'shrub'? Or perchance 'ever­green'?"

"Oaf! The proper address for one of my rank is 'my lady' or 'your Highness.' "

Thorolf sheathed his dagger with a smile. "A female shrub, forsooth? You are the first plant I ever heard to claim nobility. Not that it signifies aught in Rhaetia; we long ago abolished titles."

The soprano voice rose in exasperation. "I know that, yokel! That is why you have no government worth the name. But I am in sore need of garments. You should have the courtesy—"

"Come out and tell me who you be, and I'll con­sider. "

"I cannot."

"Wherefore not?" demanded Thorolf. "I am not decent."

Thorolf smiled through his beard. "Let not that pre­vent you. I know persons of all degrees, including some given to crass indecencies."

"Not indecent in a moral sense, blockhead! I beg your raiment because I lack proper attire."

With slow deliberation, Thorolf picked up his fish-pole. "No meeting, no garments. Now go away; you frighten the fish."

"Incondite rascal! I'll show thee!"

From behind the conifer sapling stepped a slight, fair-skinned young woman, naked save for a golden coronet on her aureate hair. Although but little over five feet tall and a jot too slender for Thorolf's taste, she was a beautiful creature.

"Good gods!" he exclaimed, dropping his rod for the second time. "Are you, mayhap, the Queen of the Fairies?"

"Nay; a mortal woman in distress. I hight Yvette, Countess of Grintz."

Thorolf glanced up uncertainly at the snowcapped peaks of the Helvetians, where dwelt the trolls; then bowed slightly. "Forsooth, Countess, your garb be­comes you, albeit a trifle impractical for this cool mountain clime."

He picked up his cloak, shook a fallen leaf out of its folds, and handed it to the woman, who swirled it around herself. Since Thorolf was big. all the Countess but her coroneted head disappeared into the russet gar­ment.

"How gat you into this predicament, my lady?" he asked.

"I fled the men of Duke Gondomar of Landai, who pursued me across the border. Thinking I had given them the slip for good, I paused for a dip in this stream, in a pool well below this one. Whilst bathing I heard their clatter round the bend of the Rissel and outcry as they espied my mount and abandoned garments. Ere they came in sight, I splashed across to the farther bank, climbed out, and ran. Seeing you, I hid behind that tree."

"Did the men of the Duke discover you?"

"Methinks not."

Thorolf considered what he might do if he were chas­ing such a quarry. The Duke's men plainly paid no heed to Rhaetian sovereignty. While reflecting, he changed the subject:

"Why do you wear that little crown? It suits not your bathing costume."

Unsmilingly, Yvette replied: "I dared not lay down my coronet whilst I did bathe, and a good thing, too. Lacking gold and jewels, I count upon this bauble to pay for mercenaries to regain my lands."

Aside from the Countess' beauty and unconventional garb, Thorolf was struck by the woman's utter self-confidence. So certain an aristocratic poise aroused in him—a Commonwealth citizen owing no devoir to any noble—a shadowy urge to kneel and utter oaths of fe­alty. He conquered the impulse but reflected that the sage who proclaimed that universal nudity would place all mankind on a uniform level had never met Yvette of Grintz. To cover his momentary confusion he gruffly said:

"That cloak is but a loan, my lady. I shall want it back when we find you more suitable raiment."

Yvette studied him. "Trust a Rhaetian to keep close track of's property! But from your speech you are no yokel. Who in sooth are you?"

Thorolf placed a hand on his chest and bowed. "Act­ing Sergeant Thorolf Zigramson of the Fourth Com­monwealth Foot, at your service."

"Oh, a soldier! You have the thews for it." She studied the massively muscled, broad-shouldered young man from his short black hair and well-trimmed beard to his dusty, well-worn boots. "Findst it an exciting trade?"

He considered. "Not the word I'd use, madam. True, just before a battle one's heart beats faster, when one is torn betwixt fear of what's coming and fear of show­ing one's fear. When the fighting starts, one is too busy trying to save one's life whilst depriving others of theirs to think on such matters. But most of a soldier's time is plain hard work, especially since we adopted the Batavian system."

"What's that?"

"All men of a unit must dress exactly alike. When my father served his hitch as a youth, to tie a colored scarf about one's arm or hat sufficed; but no more. If, however, a garment gives out on a campaign, the sol­dier must buy or steal whatever replacement he can. So an army that sets forth brave in uniform garb returns in motley.

"Then we must drill, drill, drill, so that all shall obey instantly and precisely, as if the soldier were but a cog­wheel in a vast machine of clockwork."

"Ugh!" she said. "It sounds dreadfully dull."

"It is, but it works. Thus the Batavians drove the Emperor's troops from their swampy land."

She changed the subject. "Said you Thorolf Zigramson?"

"Aye."

"Then, are you perchance kin to Consul Zigram?"

"My father."

As Yvette began another question, Thorolf raised a hand. "Let's intermit the questions, Countess. If we stand here havering, your Duke's men may yet catch us in their dip net. Shog along!"

Thorolf hoisted his baldric over his head and gath­ered pole, net, and creel.

Yvette said: "I cannot walk far; my poor feet are half flayed."

"My horse is nigh. She'll bear the twain."

When they reached the big, staked-out mare, Yvette frowned. "This cloak were of small avail for riding pillion. Couldst lend me your hosen?"

Thorolf sighed. "Your Ladyship is not the easiest damsel to succor; I fancy riding bare-arsed no more than you. But—here!" He peeled off his leather jacket and'then his white linen shirt. The latter he held out, saying, "Put your legs in the sleeves and tie the shirt-tails about your waist."

With a sputter of laughter, Yvette complied. Thorolf looked her over. "Unsuitable for a coronation ball; but 'twill do, 'twill suffice. Now place your foot in my hands, and up you go!"

They trotted briskly along a little-used trail, with Yvette, clutching Thorolf's belt and hiding her coronet within the cloak, perched sideways on the horse's rump. The path sloped down. As they reached the lower lev­els, deciduous trees—oak, beech, and maple—appeared among the ubiquitous conifers, their foliage crisp and brown with the fading of summer. Over his shoulder, the soldier remarked:

"Now, what was that you said when first we met, about our democratic government?"

Yvette responded crisply: "It is a standing invitation to mob rule and anarchy."

"I beg to differ," drawled Thorolf. "Our public men may not all be saints or heroes, but we've never elected a consul like that ass, King Valdhelm the Third of Locania, who betimes imagines himself a watering pot and wanders his palace pissing on potted plants."

"Indeed, and what of the Rhaetian Consul who made off with half your treasury when he fled the land?"

"True," said Thorolf equably. "But if an official of ours do prove a fool or a knave, we cast him out at the next election. The Locanians have no voice in choosing their rulers, as all us Rhaetians do."

"All but your women," said Yvette acidly. "Aha, that punctured your self-satisfaction!"

"Well, ah," said Thorolf, "the general opinion is that women be not equally endowed in such matters."

"Thinkst not I be as able a politician as the best of your men? I work as hard for my people's welfare as do any of your senators or consuls. But in your land every Rhaetian with pintle and stones in's crotch may vote, be he as dumb as an ox, whilst the ablest woman is barred. Why not give male trolls the vote?"

Thorolf raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Trolls are not deemed human. If we start down through the animal kingdom, as well extend the franchise to bulls and billy goats."

"Trolls are human enough to beget offspring on hu­man women and to burrow for ores to make your nails and swords!"

"True, but trolls are still not citizens. When my sire was senator, he proposed defining them as human, thus entitling them to the law's protection; but the others took it as a jest."

"You evade the point, Master Thorolf. A folk cannot thrive without stability, and that requires a framework of hereditary lordships."

"And what stability, forsooth, has your feudalism given the Grintzers?"

"Enough of this subject, Sergeant! How come you to ride a mare? Methought men of valor eschewed them, lest they be infected by womanish qualities—or those traits they falsely attribute to my sex."

Thorolf chuckled. "Mere superstition. Salnia's as brave amongst horses as you are amongst women. And she takes me whither I would go."

"Rhaetian practicality!" said the Countess with a trace of a sneer. "Are you never chaffed about her?"

"One of my men jibed me. I picked him up by the ankles and dipped his head in a rain barrel until he agreed to hold his tongue."

"Fear not that I shall ever taunt you, at least if there be a rain barrel nigh! But how came you, with your connections and learning, to this lowly rank?"

"Not so lowly, madam. I am responsible for the wel­fare and conduct of a hundred men—or should be were my company up to strength." After a pause he added: "When I returned from my studies abroad, seeking an academic career, I obtained a readership at Horgus Col­lege."

"What transmogrified you from apprentice professor to soldier?"

"A trifle of trouble," said Thorolf uneasily, sorry that he had brought the subject up. "What trouble?"

" 'Tis a flat, weary, arid unprofitable tale."

At Thorolf's hint of reticence, Yvette came alert, like a cat that espies a dilatory mouse. "Tell me nameless!" she said in tones of queenly command.

"If you insist. When the Franconians conquered the Duchy of Dorelia, a crowd of students burst into my classroom, demanding that I sign a manifesto on behalf of freedom for the Dorelians. I refused."

"Wherefore?"

"I said that, first, this was a class in Tyrrhenian lit­erature and not a political forum; second, that my sig­nature would do nought to loosen King Chilperic's grip on the land; and finally, that it mattered little to the Dorelian masses whether they were fleeced by a duke or a king."

"What's this about people being 'fleeced' by their natural lords? In my country ..."

"Hush!" Thorolf drew rein and, turning his head, held a finger to his lips.

"But—" began Yvette.

"Quiet! Not a word!" snapped Thorolf. "I listen for pursuers."

Yvette subsided, scowling. When Thorolf was satis­fied he could hear no jingle of arms or creak of harness, he clucked the mare into motion.

"Insolent upstart!" shrilled Yvette. "Thus to order about a peeress born! In Grintz you'd be flogged till the skin of your back—"

"But this is not Grintz, and you have no bullies to jump to your commands. If you give trouble, I'll set you down instanter, and without my borrowed gar­ments. Is that your wish, Countess?"

Yvette silently fumed, her breath sibilating through clenched white teeth. Far above, the scarlet sunlight lingered on a snow-crested peak, then slowly shrank and faded. The only sound was the patient footfalls of the burdened mare.

At last Yvette muttered a few words that Thorolf took for a grudging apology. She asked: "What did the stu­dents next?"

"One emptied a slop pail over my head."

"And then?"

"I threw him out the window and asked if others would care to follow him. None volunteered, hearing the yells of him who'd broken a leg in's fall. His family went to law and won a thousand-mark judgment against the college. And away went my professorial plans."

"So you became a soldier?"

"Indeed. My father said: 'With those shoulders, and having no talent for commerce or finance, 'tis the army for you, my lad.' "

Yvette exclaimed: "But every Rhaetian's born with a ledger in his fist; else he's like a fish that cannot swim." After a pause, she added: "Hast fought in a battle?"

"A small affray with revolutionaries from Tzenric. They promised to abolish taxes and give every Rhaetian a stipend, so that none need ever work again."

Yvette tightened her grasp on Thorolf's belt and shook her head. "Just the sort of mountebanks your democratic fools might elect! Didst cross blades with those joltheads? "

"I made a few hits; but in such a brabble none knows for certain who does what to whom. In truth, I cared but little for the outcome. I'm a peaceable wight who'd liefer spend his days in scholarship.

"Now tell me of your plans anent the Duke. That coronet should fetch a few thousand, but such a purse would not long survive an assault upon a dukedom."

Yvette chewed her lip. "I could doubtless raise a good few thousand more within a year—"

Thorolf interrupted: "Still insufficient, I fear. Since King Chilperic has hired away our likeliest bullies for his Dorelian war, the pay of mercenaries has risen. My company is down to eighty-odd, since lusty youths earn more as camp cooks and stablemen."

Yvette sniffed. "Trust Rhaetians to value money above honor!"

Thorolf chuckled. "As says the buffoon in one of Helmanax's plays: 'Who hath honor? He that was bur­ied yesterday.' "

"Might I not engage your Rhaetian regulars?"

"Nay; the Consul has forbidden the hiring thereof for foreign adventures."

For half an hour, only the chirps of birds, the hum of insects, and the horse's hoofbeats broke the silence of the descending road. At last Yvette spoke:

"Then I must needs seek magical help. I hear that the King of Locania, since he got the religious bee in's bonnet, hath exiled all his magicians. Many have found a haven in Rhaetia."

"True," admitted Thorolf.

"How about Doctor Orlandus, the great Psychomagus?"

"He advances grandiose claims, but I trust him no more than I trust the ice on Lake Zurshnitt in spring. Some dub him one part wizard and three parts charlatan."

"They say he doth command those spirits called del­tas."

Thorolf shrugged. "I know nought of that. I do know howsomever an able iatromage, Doctor Bardi. He waxes old and infirm but retains enough prowess to banish the colds in my head.

"And, Countess, if it be not unmeet to ask, should not your husband, the Count of Grintz, and his retainers defend your county?"

"I am the late Count's widow. As a woman without issue, I am by law sole ruler until I wed again."

"What befell the Count? Battle or a tisick?"

"Neither. Count Volk had seen his eightieth winter when my sire, the Baron Grombac, betrothed me to him, thinking it a brilliant match. On our wedding night, this dotard braced himself and actually sheathed his blade ere his poor old heart gave up."

"Monstrous awkward for you!" exclaimed Thorolf.

"Awkward indeed!" Yvette shuddered. "I, a slen­der lass of scarce sixteen, had to roll that great car­cass ... Howsomever, that is the reason I am acting Countess."

"How gat you into Duke Gondomar's bad book?"

"A few years after Volk died in vain pursuit of his youth, my sire, upon his deathbed, promised me to Gondomar. But I, misliking the arrogant brute, threw his marriage contract in his face and refused to wed him. After my father's funeral, Gondomar came back with his army, vowing to bed me with or without the Divine Pair's blessing.

"I let it be known that I'd slay any man who sought to futter me against my will, if it meant stabbing him in his sleep. I beat off his first attempt, and for years I lived behind my castle walls, like a captive or cloistered nun. Last month the Duke returned and this time pre­vailed."

"Strange that a lady of your qualities and demesne did not find a hundred would-be spouses rattling her castle gates!"

"Oh, I've had offers aplenty, but none that suited," Yvette replied disdainfully. "My next husband must be, imprimus, of noble rank; secundus, a shrewd and met­tlesome man of affairs, able at running the county; and tertius, a poet who can ensorcel me with romantical fancies. And, it goes without saying, a strong-loined lover and a man who will heed my advice in county matters."

Thorolf whistled. "Even one of our pagan gods were hard-pressed to meet your requirements! Certes I could not, though I used to compose a few versicles. But one cannot live on poetry in Rhaetia, where merchants and bankers rule."

"You a poet? Ha, can your horse play the lute? 'Twere no more credible. Pray give an ensample!"

"Let me think." While he pondered, the chirp of birds dwindled to silence with the fading of light. A cricket struck up its shrill song, while overhead an early flittermouse whirred. At last Thorolf spoke:

"Ouch!" he exclaimed as Yvette boxed his right ear. "What's that for?"

"Insolent malapert! You, a commoner, jesting that had I the absurdity to offer you my hand, you'd have the effrontery to reject my proposal! Had you voiced such a thought in my demesne—"

"But we are not in your demesne. And if you seek to treat me as one of your serfs, you may wend afoot for all I care."

Yvette subsided, though Thorolf caught a murmur that resembled the expletives of a fishmonger who found he had taken counterfeit coins for his wares. As they rode on in silence, the soldier began to suspect that despite her notable virtues, the Countess was lacking in humor. He wondered what had happened to the knights in the old romances and the ladies fair who decked them with silken scarves and meekly awaited their return from adventures. Meekness was certainly not the style of Yvette of Grintz.

At last she spoke again, in normal tones: "Pray un­derstand, good my soldier, that I could never entertain a proposal of marriage from one of your class. The fact that you have worked for wages debars you forever from alliance with one of noble blood."

Thorolf raised an eyebrow. "What is so demeaning about earning an honest living?"

"That you do so doth you credit; but a noble must devote all his strength to the welfare of those whom the Divine Pair have placed beneath his rule, leaving no time to toil for gain. He must strain at the practice of arms each day, whilst his lady spends her waking hours in the conduct of their establishment. Knowst the tale of Count Helfram of Trongai?"

"What befell him?"

"As a result of untimely misfortunes, he found him­self unable to pay his servants to man the castle. In­deed, he could not even buy sufficient food to feed his family. So he donned a bogus beard, went to town, and persuaded the local taverner to hire him as bartender.

"All went well until one day a drunken customer, seeking a quarrel, remarked on the barkeep's piggy eyes and other features that the fellow deemed obnoxious. Count Helfram, unused to insolence, slapped the man's face, whereupon the drunkard seized the false beard and tore it off.

"The other folk recognized their Count and rose as one to hurl the drunkard into the street. But the tale took wings, until the King of Carinthia, hearing the rumor, ruled that Helfram had forfeited his rank, and the king appointed a new Count from another branch of the family. The last I heard, poor Helfram was still tending bar at the tavern, whither people came from afar to gape at a nobleman toiling like a commoner."

"Then," said Thorolf cheerfully, "I count myself lucky to have no noble rank to lose. We must hasten, for the dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth, as saith the man in Helmanax's play."

He heeled his horse to stir the beast to further effort. After they had ridden in silence for a time, Yvette con­tinued:

"At all events, I would never marry a Rhaetian. You're an unromantic lot, whose only knights are those little tin figurines that pop out of your clocks to mark the hours. None could essay the doughty deeds of ro­mances."

Thorolf laughed. "Suppose a knight engaged in such deeds in this modern world! If he slew a dragon, he'd be arrested by the game warden for hunting out of sea­son, as I believe once truly befell a Locanian knight in Pathenia, not long ago. If he snatched a maiden from an enchanter vile, the mage would hale him to law on charges of abduction. If he even sang a roundelay be­neath his true love's casement window, the song's com­poser would demand a royalty."

"A typical Rhaetian argument," retorted Yvette, "mired in base practicality! A sorry world we live in!" After a pause she asked: "For what goal, pray, do you strive?"

Thorolf frowned thoughtfully. "To settle, once and for all, the authorship of the Tyrrhenian play, Il Bast-mento dai Pazzi, doubtfully attributed to Goldinu."

"You would waste your life in thumbing dusty manu­scripts to settle some obscure pedantic dispute?"

Thorolf shrugged. "To me it's more fun than standing daily in the drill yard and bawling at my company: 'About—face! Forward—march! Hartmund, get in step!' "

"Either were better than turning brigand, I ween," she said. "But this merely reinforces my point: that you are a typical stolid, avaricious, unromantic Rhaetian. As a noblewoman's consort, you'd be as out of place as a pig in a horse race."

"Avaricious?" Thorolf gave his most irritating chuckle. "My sire complains that I be not mercenary enough. And whilst we're trading flatteries, as a wife you'd be as useful to a soldier as slippers to a serpent. I fear, my dear Countess, you'll search the wide world over without finding your notion of a suitable spouse."

Yvette sighed. "Whilst I loathe to concede a point, you may be right. Many I've seen with one or another of my qualifications, but never one who met all. Me-thought I'd found my mate in a handsome troubadour who boasted blue blood and showed a promising grasp of county management; but he soon moved on."

"The scurvy lown!" said Thorolf suppressing a grin. He felt he understood the troubadour.

"Pray, treat all I've said as secret. I should not have so confided in a stranger, and a commoner at that; but my sire did ever chide me on my runaway tongue."

"Your secrets are safe with me. And now good news." He pointed ahead. "Yonder lies Vulfilac's smithy, around the bend."

The mare picked up her ears, as if sensing the journey's end, and trotted smartly over the remaining distance. She drew up before a pair of doors that led into the forge.

Thorolf dismounted and lifted Yvette off. She stood disheveled, clutching Thorolf's cloak around herself and the coronet.

"Wait here," he said. "I would not startle Vulfilac by your unforewarned appearance."

Thorolf strode into the smithy, where the firelight danced to the beat of hammered metal, while sparks flew out the open portal into the night like fugitive crimson fireflies. Inside the doors, a vestibule led to the smith's small dwelling, huddled against the much larger workplace.

"Aha, Sergeant Thorolf!" boomed the giant smith. "Glad to see you am I!" He continued to pound a bar of red-hot iron, which he held on the anvil by tongs. Setting hammer and tongs aside, he called to the boy who was pumping the bellows: "Take a rest, son. We have a visitor."

"Two visitors," said Thorolf, embracing his gigantic friend despite the smith's sooty face and forearms. Presently the two men came out and hastened toward Yvette. Thorolf said: "Countess, I present my trusted friend Vulfilac Smith. He has some clothes for you."

The smith bowed as Yvette smiled, saying: "Your health, goodman! Where are these garments?"

"In my poor house, your Highness. Will ye step thither?"

In the smithy, they passed a great rack of tools: tongs, files, and hammers with heads of various shapes, round, pointed, and wedged. Unlatching a small door, the smith led his guests into the common room of his dwell­ing. He unlocked an ancient armoire, mumbling:

"I've kept my goodwife's things for sentiment; but ye are welcome to any or all, my lady."

Smiling, Yvette approached the wardrobe and, still clutching her coronet beneath the cloak, began to rum­mage. Studying a bodice, she said:

"Methinks your late wife was fuller of breast than I."

"Aye, and taller, too, the gods preserve her soul."

"Amen," said Yvette. "Had she hosen and shoon?"

"Aye." The smith opened drawers beneath the cup­boards.

"Splendid!" said Yvette, rummaging anew. "Good­man, your generosity shall be well repaid when I obtain the wherewithal. Meanwhile my thanks must suffice."

The smith gazed at the little countess with the awe of one who beheld Rianna, the goddess of love. "If— if your Highness mind not our simple rustic fare ..."

"You offer to dine us? Mind? I embrace your offer; hungry as I am, your simplest repast were a banquet. Now I beg your leave, good people, to dress."

The men withdrew, the smith to the cookhouse, Tho­rolf to stable and feed his horse.

When Thorolf returned, Vulfilac was ladling stew into bowls while his son carved a loaf of black bread into slices. Yvette waited, clad as the complete goodwife, with a flounced petticoat showing below her skirt. Be­low the petticoat were red wool stockings and stout leather sollerets. On her head was a barillet, a miniature turban held in place by a wimple beneath her chin. Handing Thorolf his cloak and shirt, she spoke:

"Friends, the stars do shine and I do starve. Let the feast begin!"

The repast was nearly done when Yvette held up the coronet. "Goodman Vulfilac, canst find me an old cloth wherein to wrap this thing? It were folly to flaunt it in town."

"Aye," said the smith. "Son, attend to the matter." Waving his spoon, he continued the talk of his trade: "As I was saying, it takes a sharp judgment to tell the heat of iron by its color. Ye start hammering when it glows a buttercup yellow and keep on till it cools to dark red. If ye smite it thereafter, 'tis labor wasted. But if ye heat it up to white, so that it shoots out sparkles, then ye've overheated the piece and spoilt it. It were good for nought but scrap, to be melted up again ..." The smith turned toward the door. "What's that?"

Outside, horsemen were dismounting. "Gondomar's men!" Yvette exclaimed. "What shall I do?"

"Out the scullery door, quick!" snapped Thorolf. "Hide in the woods. Hold the forge door with me, Vul­filac."

"Show her the way, lad!" said Vulfilac. The boy gathered up the bundle he had made of the coronet. He and the Countess fled hand in hand. The shouts and hammering grew more insistent as Thorolf picked up his sword and followed Vulfilac into the smithy, where the smith chose four heavy hammers off the wall.

They reached the open door to be confronted by five men; behind them a sixth held their horses. Four of the five grasped swords, while the fifth cradled a cocked crossbow. The leader was a heavy-set man wearing a white surcoat over his leather, metal-studded cuirass. On the chest of this garment was broidered an emblem, but the man wore his surcoat inside out so that the patch was hidden.

"Where is the Countess Yvette?" barked this man.

"We know nought of that lady," said Thorolf.

"Liar! We tracked her to the pool on the Rissel whereat ye fished, and anon a peasant saw her riding pillion behind you. Say where she be and we'll not harm you twain."

"I cannot tell you what I do not know," retorted Thorolf. "So be off with you!"

Vulfilac added: " 'Tis an unseemly time to be pounding an honest workman's door—"

"Take them!" said the leader, pointing with his sword.

The four swordsmen advanced in a semicircle; but as they closed in to pass beneath the lintel, they crowded one another. Vulfilac hurled one of his hammers. With a crunch, it struck the nearest raider in the face and threw him prone and still, his face a mask of blood.

Swords clanged and grated. Thorolf found himself hotly engaged with two of the swordsmen, one of them the leader, while the remaining swordsman danced about just beyond reach of the smith's hammers. Vul­filac made another throw, but the swordsman ducked.

"Get away and give me a clear shot!" cried the crossbowman in the rear.

Another thrown hammer caught Vulfilac's opponent in the belly and sent him reeling, doubled over and retching. One of Thorolf's two looked around for his comrade. Thorolf, till then compelled to remain on the defensive, took advantage of the pause to skewer him of the surcoat with a coupe; his blade punched through the leather corselet into the flesh beneath. The man folded up with a groan. The other swordsman found both the sergeant and the smith advancing upon him.

He ran back, while the crossbowman leveled his weapon. Without armor, Thorolf felt naked. At that range, the bolt would tear through his guts like a skewer through butter. Beside him, Vulfilac wound up to throw his last hammer.

The crossbowman backed away, swinging his weapon so that it bore first upon one antagonist and then the other. At that moment a small figure appeared in the dusk behind the arbalester. The newcomer picked up one of the thrown hammers, lofted it high, and smote the crossbowman's head from behind. The arbalester collapsed.

The raider who had been struck in the belly scuttled painfully to the horses. The unwounded swordsman and the groom who had held the animals boosted him into the saddle. Leading three riderless animals, the survi­vors cantered off. Holding the hammer she had wielded, Yvette came forward into the light from the smithy with the smith's son.

"Countess!" chided Thorolf. "I told you to hide in the woods!"

"One of my blood," she replied with dignity, "skulks not in hiding whilst her defenders risk their lives for her."

"A good thing she disobeyed you, Thorolf," growled the smith as he collected his hammers. "Without her aid, one or t'other of us would have gat a bolt in's bris­ket."

Thorolf was kneeling to examine the bodies. He rose, saying, "This one, too, seems safely dead. Let's pile the carrion out back and cover them. The constables will take them in charge after I report to them on the morrow. That was a mighty blow for one so delicate, Countess."

"The strength of desperation, I ween," said Yvette. Pointing to the corpse in the surcoat, she added: "I know that knave: a captain of Gondomar's guard. If you turn back his coat, you will see the red boar of Landai. His survivors will flee back to the Duke, who will set another party on my trail. Ere they return, you must discover me a wizard who can change my appearance, so I cannot be readily tracked. Couldst lead me to the one in Zurshnitt, whereof you told me, this very night?"

"Nay, my lady," said the soldier. "It's above an hour hence to town. All doors are already latched and barred. We must tarry here till dawn on a patch of floor with, perchance, a mattress and a coverlet from our friend."

"Better yet," said Vulfilac. "Your Ladyship shall have my bed!"

"A generous offer," she said, patting a yawn. "I am fordone. May I see this bed?"

"Up this ladder, madam."

Yvette, carrying her coronet, and Thorolf climbed into the loft, the smith following with a candle. Yvette said: "A vasty bed, Goodman Vulfilac."

"My wife's and mine. Now I sleep with the lad; but he shall make do elsewhere, as shall I."

"So huge a bed with but one small occupant were wasteful and ridiculous. One of you shall take the other half."

Thorolf and Vulfilac exchanged glances. Thorolf said: "It would grieve me to oust a friend from's bed. I'll take the floor."

"Nay!" boomed the smith. "As host I have the final say, and I assign myself to the floor."

They argued until Yvette said: "A pox upon your courtesies! I've camped in the field with my soldiers, so bed sharing is nought new to me. My judgment is that you shall flip a coin."

The coin gave Thorolf the bed. Yvette stripped off her garments and pulled the coronet firmly down on her head.

Vulfilac, blushing above his beard, looked away. Thorolf exclaimed: "Countess! That's how I first met you. Do you sleep with that thing on?"

"Certes, as do many nobles and royals, to be sure their baubles be not stolen whilst they snore."

"Is it not uncomfortable?"

"One gets used to it, as you are accustomed to strut­ting about with a sword banging your shins ... Tho­rolf! You shall not get into my bed with those dirty clothes! Strip down like a man of sense!"

"You mean—ah—"

"Nay, silly, I make no lewd advances; my person is off-limits to commoners. Lend me that great knife of yours!"

"Not to stab me asleep, I hope?"

"Nay; but if I feel something poking me in the mid­section, I shall know what to do. Good night!"