The Spell-Bound Scholar

Chapter 24

"How dare they!" Allouette exploded. "Will the government never cease exploiting the weak?"

"If that woman lived in that house, I think she may be more a member of what you call the government than one of the downtrodden," Gregory said. "See—her gown is damask, and her children wear good leather boots, not peasants' buskins."

"No matter what they wear, she is oppressed at this moment! What, sir, will you see her suffer and not raise a hand to defend her?"

One of the soldiers swung his arm up for a backhanded slap at the woman. Allouette cried out in anger and kicked her horse into a canter, shouting, "Now I bid you hold!"

The man's arm froze in midair. He looked up at it in alarm; then his face twisted with effort, but his arm stayed high.

Smiling, eyes glowing, Gregory rode after Allouette. If this were not a test of her newfound love of virtue, nothing would be.

Allouette cantered past the soldier, snatching his pike from his nerveless hand. "Flee, woman!" Then she turned her horse and walked it in until the point touched the man's throat.

His comrade shouted and spurred his horse, reaching out to yank Allouette off her mount—but a fat blue spark jumped from her shoulder to his hand. He shrieked and reined in, blowing on his fingers.

Allouette gave Gregory an angry glance. "I shall fight my own battles, thank you." Only a glance; she kept her gaze fixed on the first soldier.

"Witch!" the second soldier howled.

"Aye, and one too hot for you."

With a yell, a third soldier came riding around the corner of the house, lowering his pike. Allouette spared him one disgusted glance, and the pike wilted. He swerved wide around her, staring at the limp pole.

"You had best begone ere other staves turn incapable of stiffness," Allouette told him.

All three soldiers stared at her in horror, then turned their horses and rode. A hundred feet away, the one with the elevated arm pulled up and turned to call, "We shall be back with a dozen more behind us!"

"It had better be a score," Allouette informed him, and his arm jerked straight up in the air. He shouted with pain, then the limb went limp. He raised his hand, staring in amazement as he rippled his fingers.

"Aye, as good as ever," Allouette called. "If you wish to keep it that way, wait till I have gone before you come this way again."

The soldier blanched and kicked his horse into a gallop, riding hard after his mates.

Allouette watched them go with a curled lip, then turned back to Gregory. "Where went our wounded bird?"

Gregory nodded toward the forest. "In among the leaves. That was quite well done, beauteous lady."

"It was not," Allouette said, riding past him toward the woods. "I have had too much practice at that sort of thing." She wondered at his compliment, though.

She drew up near the underbrush. "Come forth, dame. None shall hurt you now. Come forth, and tell us the reason for this bullying."

She heard a child crying and the mother's lulling voice; then the woman came out, clutching a child against each leg, and Allouette saw that Gregory had been right: Her clothing marked her as a gentlewoman, the wife of a squire at least and perhaps of a knight.

"I thank you for your protection, kind lady." But the woman looked rather nervous, knowing she was addressing a witch.

"It is gladly given," Allouette told her. "I have many debts to pay, and this is a beginning."

"Debts!" the woman's face crumpled. "I, too, have many debts and cannot pay them! Alas, if my Herschel had only lived!"

"Your husband?" Allouette frowned. "That is why you lost this house?"

"Indeed," the woman acknowledged. "I am Nora—Nora Musgrave, kind lady."

"Then your husband was Squire Musgrave."

"Indeed. He left us a little money, but it lasted only a month. Sir Hector was patient, he allowed us six months, but when we could not pay the rent, he appointed a new squire and sent his soldiers to rid the house of us."

"Poor dame!" Allouette said, and was about to launch into a diatribe against the wealthy when Gregory came up beside her, saying, "Then if you could pay, he might let you have back your house?"

"What matter?" the mother lamented. "We have no money, nor any prospect of it! My husband's father hid a small fortune somewhere on the land and on his deathbed told Herschel where to find it, but what use is that?"

"Did not your husband tell you where it was?" Allouette demanded, seething.

"Aye—that it is buried at the top of the shadow the old oak cast on Midsummer's Eve." She turned, pointing to a broad, low stump. "There it stands, or what is left of it. Since we had no need of money at the time, Herschel thought it best to let the treasure lie—but lightning struck that tree a month later and he despaired of discovering where its shadow might have fallen. Mind you, he probed the earth all about the stump, but found nothing."

"A buried treasure?" Allouette frowned at the stump. "Wizard, have you any skill as a douser?"

The children looked up at Gregory in alarm and huddled against their mother, who clutched them tight, staring at the wizard with wide and frightened eyes.

"Stuff and nonsense!" Allouette told them. "A wizard is a blessing if he is on your side. How say you, man of magic?"

Gregory shook his head. "I could cast such a spell, but it would be quicker to calculate the lay of the shadow."

"Calculate?" Allouette turned to him, brow furrowed. "How would you do that? Pythagoras's theorem? But we know not the length of any side!"

"True." Gregory smiled at her, eyes glowing. "But as you have seen, the tree and its shadow form two legs of a triangle. If we can learn its height and the position of the sun on Midsummer's Eve, we can learn the angle of the line between the top of the tree and the top of the shadow."

"By what method?"

"The answer," Gregory said, "lies in geometry."

"Geometry? What is that?"

Gregory's eyes widened in surprise. "You know algebra but do not know geometry?"

"Have I not but now said it?" Allouette demanded. "You know for which tasks I was trained. They did not require geometry."

"I shall demonstrate it, then, if we can discover where the sun rose on Midsummer's Eve."

"I can tell you that, sir," Dame Musgrave said. "Herschel remarked upon it every year, for it reminded him of the treasure he could no longer find."

"Where, then?" Gregory asked, too mildly. Allouette glanced at him, recognizing the sign of interest. She could not blame him; the puzzle intrigued her, too.

"Yon." Dame Musgrave pointed. "Just over the northern tower of the gatehouse."

Gregory gazed at the structure, pursing his lips. "Good, good. Now for the height of the tree."

"Let us measure the thickness of the stump," Allouette suggested, "then find three other oaks of the same thickness and learn their heights."

"Figure the average?" Gregory nodded, smiling with pleasure. "That will give us a good estimate of the old oak's height. Come, let us set about it!"

Allouette soon had the average height of three forty-inch-thick oaks.

Gregory said, "We must wait until the sun is even with the top of the tower."

"Wherefore?" Allouette demanded.

"So that we may discover the length of a shadow at that hour," Gregory said.

Allouette's expression said that she did not understand. Then suddenly it cleared. "The sun will be at the same angle as it is on Midsummer's Eve, and will cast the same length of shadow!"

"That is it." Gregory nodded vigorously. "Then we have only to strike the path it would have traced on Midsummer's Eve—unless we wish to wait a week and see."

"I shall manage with the estimate, thank you."

They had not long to wait, only a quarter of an hour. When the sun was level with the top of the tower, Gregory looked down at his shadow and asked, "How long is it?"

Allouette gave him an odd look but stepped off the length of his shadow, heel to toe. "Nine feet."

"I am just six feet tall," Gregory told her. "How tall is your average oak?"

"Sixty-four feet." She smiled, eyes bright. "If a six-foot-tall man casts a shadow nine feet long, a sixty-four-foot oak would cast a shadow ninety-six feet long."

"Well calculated, and instantly!"

Gregory thrilled to know she was learning the concepts so quickly and thoroughly. He sketched out the problem so that Allouette could calculate the angle of the evening sun from her average oak height, then the location of the fallen tree's shadow. She jumped to her feet, pink with excitement. "Come, wizard! We must discover if we have calculated aright!"

Gregory rose and hurried after her, protesting, "Do not expect too much. We only knew the average height, after all. We may need to probe ten square yards to find it."

"Ten square yards instead of an acre?" Allouette called back over her shoulder. "A good bargain indeed!"

The widow followed with her children, wide-eyed and wondering.

Allouette whirled at the tree stump, setting the back of her heel against it, then paced off the distance and stopped, pointing at the ground. "There! Will you move the earth, wizard, or shall I?"

"You may have the honor of the first excavation," Gregory said with a smile. "If you tire, I shall take it up."

Allouette gave him a strange little frown as though wondering if he were mocking her, but turned to glare at the earth. It burst into a fountain of loam, dirt shooting up into the air in a tightly controlled spray that fell neatly to the north in a growing mound.

The children cried out in fear and clung to their mother, who, sadly, was in little better condition than they.

The last scatter of dirt fell on the heap, and Allouette scowled down. "Three feet. That should be enough."

"Should." Gregory looked down into a neat cylinder a foot in diameter. "Let us widen it to three feet."

She eyed him askance, wondering if that was really admiration in his voice. "It took small enough skill, you know."

"I know just the opposite. Nevertheless, stand away from the spray and let us see if I can perform in as tidy a fashion as yourself."

Allouette stepped back beside him and the earth erupted again, as though a giant mole were trying to claw his way back into his lightless home. It rose in a nearly solid column for minutes as Gregory stared at it with a knit brow, digging by telekinesis and trying to equal Allouette's skill. Abruptly he relaxed and the flow stopped. "Boy," he said to the widow's eldest, "go look in that hole and tell me what you see."

The lad glanced up at his mother for reassurance, but she took firm hold of his hand, took his sib's too, and went with him. All three of them peered down into the excavation—a very ragged circle, to Gregory's chagrin—and exclaimed with wonder.

"I see a chest, sir!" the lad cried. " 'Tis a wooden chest, banded with brass and fastened with a huge lock."

Allouette gave a shriek of joy and threw her arms around Gregory in triumph. "We have found it!"

He stood rigid for a moment, wondering what Geoffrey would have done in this situation, then clasped his arms around her waist and whirled her about, grinning. "You have calculated marvelously."

"Liar!" She pushed away from him but looked up with glowing eyes. "It is you who did the calculations, but I shall be able to when next I need. ... Ho! Leave be! It is too heavy for you!"

Turning, Gregory saw the eldest boy standing in the hole, heaving at the little chest. He grinned and stepped over to the lad. "Is it so weighty, then? That is good news. Let me help."

The boy gave a shout of fright as the box floated upward in his grip. He let go as if it were hot metal, but it kept on rising of its own accord—or Gregory's.

He let it float to the ground. "Dame Musgrave, have you the key?"

"That, at least, my husband did leave me." The widow came forward, pulling out a key and fitting it to the lock. She tried to turn it and frowned with the effort. "It moves, but scarcely."

"It has lain long in the damp with no oil," Gregory explained, then turned to Allouette. "Will you aid?"

"Why not you?" Allouette retorted. "I have never seen a telekinetic warlock before. Surely you can manage!"

"My father seems to have had a skill Gramarye telepaths lack," Gregory acknowledged, "but you seem to have it in greater measure than I—or at least have it under greater control."

"Well, then, if I must." Allouette didn't really seem to be upset at the news. She glared at the lock, saying, "Turn, good dame."

The widow's lips pressed thin with effort and the lock groaned, then gave and fell open.

"Well done," Gregory said softly.

Allouette shrugged impatiently. "A bagatelle."

"Not to them."

Dame Musgrave yanked the lock loose from the hasp, opened the chest, and gasped.

"Is it gold, then?" Gregory asked. "I had thought that might be the reason for its weight."

"It is indeed gold, sir, and surely enough to pay our rent and pay for food till the children are grown." She turned to Allouette, tears in her eyes. "Oh, thank you, kind lady, a thousand times—and you, good sir."

Allouette stood stiff, staring with surprise at the elation the thanks gave her. Then she thawed and nodded. "It was our pleasure, good woman. Take the gold from the chest and hide it about you, all three of you, that you may take it to a safe place. Then have your children fill in the hole."

"We shall, we shall!" Dame Musgrave seized her hand and kissed it. "So much for they who say the witches are evil! Ever shall I sing your praises, sir and demoiselle."

Allouette managed to escape without too many more praises, though the children's did move her, especially since they were lisped through tears.

When she and Gregory were back in the greenwood, he said softly, "You need not be so surprised, you know. You are truly a good woman."

"Stuff and nonsense!" Allouette said angrily. "I am a wicked woman who has done one good deed, and you would be wise to remember that, sir!"

"I shall remember that you said it," Gregory temporized.

Allouette looked daggers at him but couldn't ignore the elation in her heart. "You have the advantage of me, sir— you know far more of mathematics than I. I shall require that you share that knowledge with me."

"Gladly," Gregory said, and began to explain the rest of plane geometry. She listened intently, drinking the concepts directly from his mind before he could put them into words and breathed, "Fascinating!"

Gregory broke off, realizing what she had done and staring in surprise. Then his eyes began to glow and he said, "You are truly the most wondrous of women, lustrous as a pearl and brilliant as a diamond."

Allouette turned away, feeling her face grow hot again. "I was speaking not of my face and form, sir, but of things of the mind!"

"So was I," Gregory said.

She darted a puzzled glance at him. Surely he could not mean that mathematics meant more to him than the pleasures of the senses.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," Gregory said frankly, "but the glory of your mind exceeds even that of your face and form."

Now she blushed indeed, blushed beet-red and lowered her gaze, feeling the thrill of his admiration warring against her old cynicism. "I had rather speak of geometry than of my beauty, sir."

"If you must," Gregory sighed, "but there is a beauty to mathematics, too. Contemplation of its orders can lift the mind to an elevation matched only by the finest music or the most excellent poetry. I have never met another who could share that delight."

"Nor have you now, I suspect," Allouette said tartly. She turned away, chin high as she rode the forest pathway—but found herself remembering his arms around her. Foolish girl! she scolded herself. His embrace had felt as good as any other man's, no more and no less. Wrenching her mind back to the poor and weak, she proclaimed, "Thus it begins."

"Thus indeed." Gregory's voice was a caress.

She steeled herself against it. "I meant aiding the weak and desperate, wizard."

"I understood that."

She cast him a doubtful glance, then quickly looked away from his beaming smile. "I shall do more to make amends, much more."

"I rejoice to hear it,' Gregory said, "but with whom must you make amends?"

"With myself, of course," Allouette snapped. "My victims are either dead or far too wary of me to accept any aid I might offer—and it was unkind of you to remind me of that, sir."

"My apologies, lady," Gregory said with contrition.

"Accepted," Allouette grumbled. "Who else needs assistance, wizard?"

"Why, I do not know," Gregory said. "Let us ride and seek."

They didn't find anyone else in need that day, of course they were in a forest, not a city. But after dinner, Allouette found time to practice meditation again and considered Gregory's advice first with contempt, then with growing seriousness. Trying to imagine the sound one hand would make trying to clap was nonsense, of course, but merely thinking about it did seem to be leading her deeper into her trance.

The next day, they came to a village whose well had gone dry. Allouette attempted dousing and pronounced the water table still full but lower than when the well had been dug. The villagers were ready to start digging on the instant, but Gregory asked them what they would do if the well went dry the next year. "Dig again," they answered, but Allouette watched Gregory's speculative gaze and told them, "There might be a better way."

Gregory showed the blacksmith how to build a giant auger, then set the villagers to building a stand for it. They ran a pole through the top of the earth auger and harnessed two mules to it, then sent them plodding around and around in a circle.

"Why not let me dig as I did yesterday?" Allouette demanded.

"Because you might not be here next year, when the well fails again," Gregory told her.

When the auger came up wet, the townsfolk cheered, then fell silent, frowning. The elders asked, "How are we to draw up the water? Your hole is too small for a bucket!"

But Gregory had already set the village smith to making the first brazen pipe the town had seen. They forced it into the hole, section by section, while Allouette showed the town potter how to make a stout earthenware spout. It was fired and ready by the time the pipe was in place and, remembering the basic physics she had learned in school, she harnessed a plunger to it, clad in leather to make it airtight. Then she poured in a little water to prime it and began working the handle. The villagers began to growl about wasted labor as she pushed it up and down, up and down, then, wearied, turned it over to another woman. When the water began to flow, the villagers exclaimed in awe, as though they had witnessed magic—which, as far as they were concerned, they had.

"It works!" Allouette said, pink with pleasure.

They accepted the villagers' profusive thanks, then rode off into the forest, discussing ways of calculating air pressure. They expanded the discussion into the peregrinations of air masses and weather. When the trees shielded them from the villagers' sight, though, Gregory added his own thanks, telling Allouette that to the villagers, she had been a fountain in the desert. "To myself, too," he told her. "I never understood what all this nonsense about love and beauty was. Now all the verses of the love-crazed poets seem only common sense to me, for I have met you."