"Neither," she said, "will I."
And her lips drifted up toward mine, parting, drawing mine down toward them...
Just then, a trumpet blew.
We got up, turning to look.
Queen Alisande was standing over Gilbert with a drawn sword—and he was kneeling, with his head bowed. Threat! I leapt for them, my heart in my mouth.
But Matt clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Easy, easy. She means honor, not harm."
I hesitated—and in the delay, the Black Knight, next to the Queen, cried out, "Know ye all that this squire, hight Gilbert, of the Order of Saint Moncaire, hath proven himself in combat! By striving and arduous campaigning, he hath given evidence of his tenacity, of his virtue, and of his dedication to goodness and God! Therefore on this day, here in the place of battle, the queen of Merovence shall do him honor!"
Alisande laid the sword on his left shoulder, then on his right, intoning, in that clear alto voice that made me realize what Matt saw in her, "I hereby dub thee knight!" Then she lifted the sword—and slugged him with a quick left hook. His head rocked, but he held still.
I didn't. I almost leapt for her right then. Fortunately, Matt still had hold of my shoulder—because she went on to cry out, "Rise, Sir Gilbert!"
My erstwhile squire rose, flushed with pleasure and honor, and bowed low to his queen.
I relaxed and joined in the cheering.
When it slackened, the queen beckoned—and Frisson stepped up!
"Until we can find the last legitimate scion of your last legitimate monarch," Queen Alisande called out, "I shall be your queen!"
A huge massed cheer went up.
I wondered how long they would feel that way. What was the dividing line between liberation and conquest, anyway?
"Yet I cannot stay to govern you in person!" she cried. "Therefore I shall appoint for you a viceroy, to rule in my place, and the place of your own king—one who has proved his wisdom in this long struggle to displace the usurper, and proved his steadfastness and loyalty to right. I give you the Viceroy Frisson!"
This time the yell was even more heartfelt than before. Frisson looked about him, damn near panicking—then saw me and gave me the most doleful, pleading look of his life. I smiled, nodding, hoping I looked as reassuring as I intended, trying to make him realize I'd stand by him. It must have worked, because he relaxed, just a little, recovered his composure, and turned to wave at the crowd. In fact, I saw him straightening and seeming to grow larger and more poised, even as they cheered.
The shouting died, Frisson stepped aside—with alacrity, if it must be told—and Friar Ignatius stepped forward. He raised his hands, crying, "Let the infirm of body, but affirmed of heart, step forward!"
Everybody drew back, no one wanting to get in the way of the sick ex-witches. They tottered forward and knelt.
"I shall hear all your sins and shrive you all one by one," Friar Ignatius declared, "but for fear that some might die even while I spoke, I conferred upon you all conditional absolution. Yet now we must heal your bodies, that your pain may cease. Master Saul, come forward!"
"What? Me? What for?" I demanded.
"Why, to heal them, of course!"
"Oh, yeah, sure! Come on, Frisson!"
I stepped forward—and the witches cheered, then began to chant, "Hail the Doctor of Witches! Hail the Witches' Doctor!"
The crowd took it up. "The Witch Doctor! The Witch Doctor!"
I just stared, thunderstruck. "Not me!"
Matt frowned at me. "You mean you didn't know?"
And then he began to laugh.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
"A wandering Catholic, aye,
A thing of texts and catches."
Early in life, Christopher Stasheff found a catch in almost every point of Catholic dogma except the main ones, and was been spiritually wandering ever since. He had a lot of doubts about the Church, but only questions about the faith.
One day, he realized that most of the medieval fantasies he read seldom mentioned the Devil, and never God. He vehemently maintained that wasn't the way medieval Christians really saw the world—they saw God everywhere, in everything, and the Devil always lurking, looking for an opening—and that authors really ought to write their fantasies a little closer to reality. Then he realized that, being a fantasy author, he was stuck with writing his next story that way.
Christopher Stasheff spent his early childhood in Mount Vernon, New York, but spent the rest of his formative years in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He always had difficulty distinguishing fantasy from reality and tried to compensate by teaching college. When teaching proved too real, he gave it up in favor of writing full time. He tried to pre-script his life, but couldn't understand why other people never got their lines right. This caused a fair amount of misunderstanding with his wife and four children. He wrote novels because it was the only way he could be the director, the designer, and all the actors too.
More Kobo eBooks by Christopher Stasheff...
Escape Velocity
The Warlock's Grandfather
The Warlock in Spite of Himself
King Kobold Revived
The Warlock Unlocked
The Warlock Enraged
The Warlock Wandering
The Warlock Is Missing
The Warlock Heretical
The Warlock's Companion
The Warlock Insane
The Warlock Rock
Warlock and Son
The Warlock's Last Ride
A Wizard in Absentia
M'Lady Witch
Here Be Monsters
A Wizard in Absentia
A Wizard in Mind
A Wizard in Bedlam
A Wizard in War
A Wizard in Peace
A Wizard in Chaos
A Wizard in Midgard
A Wizard and a Warlord
A Wizard in the Way
A Wizard in a Feud
Her Majesty's Wizard
The Oathbound Wizard
The Witch Doctor
The Secular Wizard
My Son, the Wizard
The Haunted Wizard
The Crusading Wizard
The Feline Wizard
Saint Vidicon to the Rescue
Mind Out of Time
The Crafters (volume 1)
The Crafters (volume 2)
The Witch Doctor Page 47