M'Lady Witch

CHAPTER 2

In the Great Hall, Geoffrey stood rigid, closing his eyes, visualizing Alain's face, trying to concentrate on it—but his emotions were in too great a turmoil to allow him to teleport. His own sister! That the empty-headed, preening fool of a Prince should have had the gall to insult Cordelia! He could scarcely throttle his rage enough to detect the Prince's thoughts, there was such a roaring in his head. "I shall have to seek him on horseback! Blast and be hanged! 'Tis too slow!"

But there was no help for it, so he strode off to the stables and saddled his roan as a groom leaped to the bridle. Minutes later, the young warlock was pounding out across the drawbridge, hard on the trail of the Prince who had insulted his sister.

"He spoke of what?" Geoffrey stared, incredulous. "Surely not even Prince Alain would be so great a fool as to seek revenge on our house!"

"I speak only of what His Highness said, sir," the steward replied.

"And proper and loyal you are to do so." Geoffrey spun away. "I must speak to my sister!"

He boomed through the stillery door. "Cordelia! What has Alain done to you!"

Cordelia looked up at him, tears streaking her face. "Oh, nothing! Only spoke a deal of nonsense, only been as lofty and pompous as ever he was! Do go away, Geoffrey! Leave me to cry in peace! You shame me with your gaze! Go away!"

"Shame you!" Geoffrey spun on his heel and stalked out of the stillery, his face dark, fists clenched.

"Geoffrey, no!" Cordelia cried, leaping to her feet—but she was talking to the stout oaken planks of the door. "I had not meant—oh, blast! Men are such fools!" And she collapsed onto her stool again, weeping afresh.

An hour later, Cordelia emerged from the stillery, face washed but haggard. As she came into the solar, the steward stepped up, all solicitation. "Are you well, milady?"

"As well as one might expect," Cordelia sighed, and sat down beneath the clerestory window. "I am minded to take some tea, Squire Bruntly."

"Aye, milady." The steward nodded to the footman, who departed for the kitchen.

"And, Squire Bruntly..."

The steward turned back to her. "Aye, milady?"

"Where is my brother?"

"I cannot say, milady." Squire Bruntly did his best to look apologetic. "I know only that he rode off posthaste, an hour ago."

"An hour ago!" Cordelia stiffened. "Is it all of an hour since he came to see me in the stillery?"

"It is, milady."

"Where has he gone?"

"I do not know." Squire Bruntly spread his hands, beginning to have a very bad feeling about all this.

"Then I fear I do!" Cordelia leaped to her feet and began pacing the floor. "Blast! Knows he no better than to meddle in my affairs?"

"I am sure that your brother is quite concerned for your honor, milady," Squire Bruntly said, vaguely shocked without knowing why.

"My honor, forsooth! When my honor needs such defending as a brother might do, I shall tell him! Oh, Squire Bruntly! In which direction did he ride?"

"Why, I cannot say, milady—but I shall send for the sentries."

"You need not. Which way did Prince Alain ride?"

"West, milady, back toward Runnymede."

"Then you need not ask which way Geoffrey rode," Cordelia said grimly. "Blast! If only I could teleport, as he can! Well, there's no help for it! I shall return when I may, Squire Bruntly!"

"We shall keep the kettle hot, milady." Squire Bruntly stared after her as she caught up her broomstick and hurried away toward the nearest tower. Now he knew why that feeling of dread had been building within him.

As they had ridden west, the day had darkened, and Alain had calmed a bit, from anger into moroseness. A strange, hollow feeling had been growing inside him; where butterflies had been struggling out of their cocoons, there was now only echoing darkness.

Very dark indeed. There was a lethargy, a hopelessness, that had never been there before. Could Cordelia really have meant so much to him?

Yes, he realized. For year after year, she had been his playmate, when the two families had met for feast-day or parents' conference. She had played with the boys as vigorously as any, and Alain had fallen in love with her before he was seven. Of course, he had told himself, that had been only a child's infatuation—but when she had undergone the teen-age metamorphosis from child into young woman, he had been taken all over again; his head had seemed lighter whenever he had looked at her, watching her move and hearing her talk had become entrancing again. Of course, he had been tongue-tied, unable to talk with her then, except in the old, familiar ways of friend ship, never as boy to girl, so he had never told her of his feelings. Instead, he had consoled himself with the thought that, since he was a Prince and Heir Apparent, he could have his pick of any of the girls in all his parents' kingdom, and of course he would choose Cordelia. It had never occurred to him that she might say no.

However, with a new and brutal self-honesty, he realized that he had never seriously thought that she could be in love with him. Oh, yes, he was Prince and Heir, and would some day be King—but he was lumpen compared to her. She was a fairy, light and dancing; he was an ox, plodding through life with nothing but a dogged determination to do what was right—right for his subjects, right for the kingdom, and right for her. Not for himself, of course—that was one of the most important principles in being a knight and a nobleman, let alone a King: to sacrifice one's own comfort and pleasure for others' good. So his father had taught him, and it had never occurred to him to question it, in spite of his mother's jaundiced looks and jibing. She had never truly denied it, only joked with Father that he was too intent on duty, to the point of being dull and boring. Her sallies always resulted in his giving a ball, and spending half the evening dancing with her, jesting and chatting and listening to her, in a strenuous attempt to prove he could be exciting and romantic still.

He had never done very well at it, Alain thought. He had heard that his father had been handsome and gallant in his youth, and the son could certainly believe it when he looked at the sire—but he noticed that no one had ever said his father was dashing or romantic, and he could easily believe that Tuan had never been so. Always solidly dependable, always serious and devoted, but never much fun.

Nor was his son, Alain reflected—and never would be, in all probability. Worse, he didn't even have the advantage of being handsome.

But he could be gallant. Iron resolve hardened within him; he would treat Cordelia in the future as though she were a goddess; he would bow to her, he would speak her fair, he would shower compliments upon her. He would even send word ahead.

A shout broke the air behind him, inarticulate, angered. "Highness!" Sir Devon snapped.

Alain looked up, startled, and turned around, to see Geoffrey Gallowglass pounding after them down the road, cloak flying behind him in the wind. Alain turned his horse, a glad cry of welcome on his lips, but Geoffrey was roaring, "Caitiff! Hound and swine!"

"How dare you speak thus to our Prince!" Sir Devon bellowed back at him, and the other five young knights took place behind him, forming a living wall between Alain and Geoffrey.

Suddenly, Alain remembered that Geoffrey was the brother of the lady who had so lately scorned him, and that in his hurt, he might have spoken more harshly to her than he had intended.

Geoffrey crashed in between Sir Devon and Sir Langley, throwing his weight against Sir Devon in a bodyblock. Horse and rider shuddered; the others were knocked aside, and the horse stumbled.

With an inarticulate roar, Geoffrey whirled to chop down with his sword at Sir Langley, who was just recovering his balance from the unexpected shock. He looked up, appalled, then brought up his sword barely in time to parry. Then Geoffrey whirled his sword down to slam against the knight's shield. The strength of his blow knocked the blade back against its owner, slashing Sir Langley's forehead. He fell, senseless.

Then Geoffrey was beyond the group of knights again, turning and halting his horse, glaring at them, eyes narrowing. They shouted and spurred their horses—but two of the stallions collided with each other, and the third knight's sword suddenly wrenched itself from his grasp, then rapped him sharply on the head with its hilt. He slumped in the saddle, and his horse slowed, feeling the loosening of the reins. He fell, limp as a sack of meal. The horse, well trained, stepped over him to shield him with its body.

The other two young knights had steadied their horses and regained control—but one's shield suddenly yanked his arm up high, then knocked him on the head. He fell.

The last knight paled as he galloped toward Geoffrey, but he didn't rein in; he even managed a battle cry of bravado—a cry that turned into a yawn as Geoffrey glared at him. His eyes fluttered closed, and he fell forward in his saddle, sound asleep.

Sir Devon struggled back up to his feet, weaving and woozy, but game.

Geoffrey turned to him with narrowed eyes.

"Hold!" Alain was jolted back to his senses. "'Tis me with whom he fights! Stand aside!"

Geoffrey turned toward the Prince. "But, Highness..." Sir Devon cried.

"Aside!" Alain stormed, and the thrill of battle sang through his veins. He turned to his erstwhile friend Geoffrey with an almost savage delight; this would be the perfect outlet for the rage and frustration of Cordelia's rejection. "He is mine!"

"Then have at thee, boorish Princeling!" Geoffrey bellowed, and slammed his horse into Alain's.

But Alain had already seen the maneuver used against Sir Devon, and was braced for it. He rocked in the saddle but held his seat, and parried Geoffrey's overhand slash, then parried another, and another ... the blades rang, strokes fast and furious, the horses dancing around one another, the knights of the bodyguard crying out in anger and alarm.

Geoffrey was staring in surprise, and Alain felt a thrill of satisfaction; the Gallowglass had not expected him to be so able an opponent! The satisfaction was strong enough to urge him to use Geoffrey's own trick against him—he spurred his horse and slammed it into Geoffrey's mount with a suddenness that took the young warlock by surprise.

So did Alain's shoulder in his short ribs.

Geoffrey reeled in the saddle. Alain reached over to shove with his left hand, and with a very ungraceful scrabbling and grasping, the young warlock fell off his horse. He landed and rolled up to his feet, sword still in his grasp, face red with embarrassment and fury—to see Alain dismounting and turning to him.

"Oh, very chivalrous!" Geoffrey snarled, and was on him.

Now the blows flew thick and fast, thrust and parry and slash and counter. There was no use of horses as weapons now, but only naked steel, sword and dagger against sword and dagger. But Alain was quickly on the defensive; he gave ground, and gave ground again, astounded to realize that he was fighting for his life, that his sword was beaten back again and again, that Geoffrey's blows came so thick and fast that it was all he could do to parry, not even having time to riposte.

Sir Devon cried out and spurred in.

"Hold off, Sir Devon!" Alain cried, but not soon enough; Geoffrey leaped aside, whirled, and caught Sir Devon's foot as the knight galloped by. He heaved, and Sir Devon came crashing down from the saddle. Geoffrey spun back, ready to ward off Alain's blow, but the Prince was standing on guard. "I would not dishonor myself by striking at a foeman's back!"

"Would you not?" Geoffrey snapped. "Then your sense of honor shall cause you to be slain some day, Highness!" And he leaped in to the attack again.

Alain saw his one chance to regain the offensive, and took it, leaping aside from the blow and thrusting at full extension—but Geoffrey twisted to parry in a gyration that Alain would have thought impossible, and slashed backhanded at the young Prince's chest. Alain parried in the nick of time, then parried again and again, giving ground with each stroke. His companions howled their alarm and pressed in, but Alain bawled at them to hold their places.

Then, suddenly, Geoffrey's blade swirled around his own, his hilt twisted in his hand and wrenched against the fingers, and his sword went flying away through the air.

Aghast, he stared at the point of Geoffrey's blade, six inches from his face.

The young knights cried out in alarm and spurred their horses.

"Back!" Geoffrey roared. "Or my hand might slip!" The knights reined in, hard.

"Now," grated Geoffrey, "you shall apologize to me on my sister's behalf, Your Highness, and swear to take your apologies to her in person, or I shall witness the color of your entrails with my own eyes."

Alain tried to glare back at him, but he remembered the rash words he had snapped at Cordelia, and dropped his gaze in chagrin. "I do most humbly apologize, for those were rude words indeed that I spoke, and the lady deserved them not in the slightest." He lifted his head, looking back into Geoffrey's puzzled gaze. "As to fear of yourself or your blade, why, if you think me a coward to have apologized at sword's point, then stab with that point, and be done! You have sneered at the notion of honor, so I shall not be surprised you have so little of it yourself, that you would slay an unarmed man!"

Sir Devon gasped, gathering himself for a desperate spring—but Geoffrey's eyes only narrowed to slits. Before he could speak, Alain went on. "Yet be advised, young warlock, that your sister's words had a sting of their own, and did stab me most unexpectedly."

"Did that warrant your insults and threats of revenge?" Geoffrey countered, grim-faced.

"I spoke in anger, hurt, and shame," Alain replied. "I spoke rashly and foolishly. Surely, Geoffrey, you know that I would never dream of hurting Cordelia—and to realize that I have done so is cause for great shame! I shall apologize as honor dictates I must, apologize to the lady most abjectly!"

"Why, how now?" Geoffrey eyed him warily. "Will you do what honor dictates, when your station contradicts it?"

"Honor is of more import than rank," Alain returned. "In truth, I cannot honestly claim royal station if I have lost honor. Nay, I shall apologize to your sister as soon as I may come to her."

Geoffrey tried to maintain the glare, but had to let it drop, and his sword's point with it. He eyed his old friend with disgust. "Why, how can I stay angry with you, if you behave so admirably? You are a most aggravating opponent, Prince Alain!"

"And you a most astounding one," Alain returned, suppressing a tremor of relief. "I have never been beaten before, save in childhood duels with yourself. You humiliated me, for you were two years my junior—and you have done so again now."

"You have deserved it," Geoffrey said grimly.

"I know that I have." Alain frowned. "Yet we have not duelled since we were twelve, for my father forbade it."

"Aye." Geoffrey smiled. "He forbade it as soon as we were old enough to be truly a danger to one another. One must not imperil the heir to the throne."

"You would not have slain me!"

"Not with purpose, no. Accidents have happened with swords ere now, though, and will happen again. 'Tis a dangerous game."

"But how could you win so easily?" Alain protested. "Partly by my own skill." Geoffrey's anger had largely abated. "The other part was your overconfidence."

"None have won against me save you!"

"Of course they have not." With friendly exasperation, Geoffrey explained, "Who among your courtiers would dare to defeat the Heir Apparent, Alain?"

Alain stared. "You do not mean they have let me win!"

"Certainly they did! Would any man in the Court dare to antagonize the future King, whose favor will determine each man's fortune?"

Alain looked away, numb and confounded. "I had thought myself the epitome of courtesy and chivalry!"

"Well, mayhap in your daily conduct." Geoffrey relented. "Yet surely not when you are angered. Your speech with my sister was somewhat less than charming, Alain." The Prince looked up again, alarmed. "Less! How rude was I, Geoffrey? I came so filled with enthusiasm and excitement that I may, ah, have overlooked the niceties."

"Niceties?" Geoffrey grinned. "Forsooth, Alain! You did not send word of your coming, you did not ask to be admitted, you virtually commanded the lady to appear and, worse, informed her that she was your choice! A lover should plead and sue, not command!"

"Should he indeed?" Alain stared. "I know naught of this."

"That," Geoffrey said drily, "is somewhat apparent" Alain's gaze wandered again. "I had never thought to court a lady! Princes' marriages are arranged for them; I did not think to have choice, nor to have to woo, and therefore never learned the way of it."

"No, you surely have not." Geoffrey felt a stab of sympathy for his friend. "A lad does not dictate nor condescend to the lady whom he loves, Alain, and well she knows it. She must be sure that he yearns for her so greatly that he will cherish her always."

Alain frowned, puzzled. "How do you know so much of it?"

Geoffrey answered with a knowing grin. "Ah, well, my friend, I am not a Prince, nor do I have so exalted a sense of forbearance as you seem to have."

"You do not mean that you have courted ladies!"

"Well, not ladies," Geoffrey allowed. "With them, I have only flirted, stealing no more than a kiss or two. With ladies of one's own station, one is apt to be constrained to become a husband, if one seeks to dally. With commoners, though, there is less expectation, and greater willingness."

"You have flirted with chambermaids and milkmaids, then?"

"I will own to that," Geoffrey admitted, "and to having won their favors."

Alain ached to ask just how extensive those favors had been, but it would have been rude. The sudden, overwhelming realization struck him: any favors he had won from women had been almost by accident—and intoxication. "Alas! If I am not the chivalrous knight I had thought myself, however am I to win your sister's love?"

"Chivalry does not always have a great deal to do with it," Geoffrey allowed. "Do you truly wish to win Cordelia, though? Or is it only that you have been ordered to?"

"I have not been so ordered!" Alain cried vehemently. "She is my choice, my heart's desire! I have known that I loved her since I was fourteen!"

Geoffrey sat still a moment, absorbing the fact of his friend's passion. Then he said quietly, "Well, well. You have kept your own counsel well, have you not?"

"So have I been bred." Alain looked away. "My father has taught me that a king must indeed do so, for his bosom will need to hold many secrets."

"You have kept this one too well. I doubt that my sister knows anything of it."

"But how am I to tell her?" Alain cried. "I cannot merely step up to her and declare it!"

Now it was Geoffrey's gaze that wandered. "No-o-o-o," he agreed. "That would be unwise. You must create the right mood for such an announcement, if you wish her to believe you."

"Why, how is this?" Alain stared, astounded. "Is there no love arising by itself, from a woman? Might not she fall in love with me ere I have even spoke a word?"

"She will, if she is your one true love," Geoffrey said. "If she is not in love with you, no persuading of yours will ever create that love, though your conduct and bearing may inspire it. When all's said and done, it is what you are that will win the lady—and if you wish to win her, 'tis a matter of what you can become."

"I cannot be anything but myself!"

"That is true," Geoffrey agreed, "and you were best to wait for the lady who loves what you are, rather than try to become what she loves. But you may have sterling qualities that would inspire her love, if only you could show them. When all's said and done, winning a lass is a matter of how you present yourself. That, and learning to be romantic."

"What is this `romance'?" Alain asked, frowning. Geoffrey spread his hands, at a loss. "'Tis as much a fantasy as a reality, my friend. The troubadours know it'tis not a matter of lying, exactly, but of making the plain facts more appealing, of surrounding the bare bones of life with a pleasing form. 'Tis this that awakens desire in a lady—candlelight, and viols playing, and a dance that whirls her away."

"You speak of deliberate planning, of cozening," Alain protested. "Must I persuade her that what I say is true?" Geoffrey shrugged. "Her future, her entire life, depends upon it, Alain. She must be sure."

"Then however am I to win her?" Alain cried in despair. "For I have no gift in persuasion, no silvered tongue, no ability to charm! I am only a blunt, plain-spoken soldier who knows how to guard his words!"

"Guarding one's words is not altogether what the ladies want," Geoffrey advised him, "though you must choose those words well. They wish you to be borne away by a flood of passion so strong that tender, caring words burst out of you."

"And all my training has been to keep words in!" Alain turned away in misery. "I shall never win her love, then! I shall never win any woman's love!"

Now Geoffrey felt the first faint twinges of alarm—of concern for his friend but, moreover, for his sister. He knew Cordelia had always thought of Alain as her personal future property, and frankly, the young Prince was the only man whom he thought worthy of his sister—not because he was the future King, but because he was as dependable as a rock and, beneath all his pomposity, goodhearted and warm. Geoffrey didn't doubt that, if they were married, Alain would treat Cordelia like the precious thing she was. He felt a sudden need to boost his friend's ego. "It is nothing inborn," he said, "no quality within you. It is only that all your life, all your experience, has been spent in the safe confines of your parents' castle, the controlled and artificial world of their court."

"Artificial!" Alain looked up, amazed and affronted.

"'Tis quite a work of artifice, a thing made by people, not by God," Geoffrey explained. "Hunger and ugliness are banished and kept out; oppression and cruelty are veiled and harnessed by custom and manners. You have never faced real danger without others to ward you, nor dealt with the world on its own terms."

"What terms do you speak of?" Alain demanded sharply.

Geoffrey realized that there were suddenly more concerns than Cordelia on his mind. "Terms of danger, my Prince—the danger of cruel men who murder and steal, the dangers of famine and disease. You have never seen how your future subjects live, nor to what authority they must answer. You have never gone through your kingdom solely as Alain, not as the Prince."

"Why, thou dost paint me as a stock of a man, a painted stick, a hollow effigy!"

"Even so; you have said it."

"How dare you!" Alain cried, the anger of his defeat finally bubbling over. "How dare you speak so to your Prince!"

Geoffrey nodded with grim satisfaction. "Even now you do it—even now you seek refuge behind your title. As to how I dare, why—I have only answered the questions you asked. Do you truly ask me how I dare to answer them honestly?"

Alain stared at him, then spoke, seeming numb. "No. I cannot fault you for that, can I? Indeed, I should praise you for the truthfulness all others near me do lack."

Suddenly he turned away, once again in despair. "But how can I ever face her again? If I am truly so shallow, so puffed-up and pompous, how can I ever hope to win Cordelia's heart? How, if I am so superficial and vain?"

"Become a true man," Geoffrey answered, "one of flesh and bone, with hot blood in your veins."

"Why, how can I do that?"

"Go off on a quest of your own, friend, to discover what you truly are—with none to ward you, and no sign of your true rank."

"I would not know how to bear myself, nor where to go," Alain protested.

Geoffrey threw up his hands in exasperation. "Why, then, I shall show you! Come, and we shall go adventuring, you and I—but come straightaway. Do not go to your home to shift your clothes, nor to pack your gear, but come away now!"

"'Tis even as you say; my parents would never hear of it." With sudden resolution, Alain said, "Why, then, I shall learn the way of it—of courting, of living, of being true! Come, old friend, let us go!"

Sir Devon watched, amazed, as the two young men rode off into the forest side by side. Clearly, the Prince had forgotten Sir Devon. The knight felt a moment's rage before he remembered how preoccupied Alain had been, how sunk in gloom; then Sir Devon's resentment melted like ice in tea, for he had been raised on romances like any other young gentleman of Gramarye, and knew that all can be forgiven the lover who is driven to distraction. He allowed himself a moment for a sad smile, then sighed and called his horse. Alain might have been forgiven, but Sir Devon still had his duty—to report what had happened to Their Majesties.

He rode away down the road. Scarcely had he passed beyond the first bend when Cordelia came shooting into view on her broomstick. From her higher vantage point, she could see a break in the trees, where Alain and Geoffrey were riding away together. For a moment, she stared; then a hot surge of indignation reddened her cheeks, and she banked into a sharp turn, heading back toward Castle Gallowglass, growing angrier and angrier with every mile she flew.