"Your Highness," she said. "How good of you to come."
Alain stared. "Highness?" What way was that to greet an old friend, a companion of childhood? But the shock gave way to a cold wave of calculation that was new to him, though quite welcome under the circumstances—the emphasis on his exalted station would make her even more aware of the honor he was doing her. "Milady Cordelia." He forced a smile.
Cordelia saw, and withheld another momentary surge of anger. Not bad enough that he had let himself show his dismay at her appearance—now he had the gall to go chilly on her! But she could play that game, too. She gave him a smile of her own, making it very obvious that she was forcing it, and gestured to an hourglass-shaped chair. "Will you sit, my Prince?"
"I thank you, milady." Alain sat and, since they were being formal, gestured to another chair. "I pray you, sit by me."
"You are too kind," Cordelia said with withering sarcasm, but took the chair that he offered her in her own solar—or her own mother's, at least. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this sudden visit, Prince Alain?"
Alain was surprised to feel relief at her use of his name. He decided to unbend a bit himself. "To the beauty of your face and the lightness of your form, Lady Cordelia." He had rehearsed that line several times on his way from his parents' castle, but the effect was somewhat marred by his choking on the words as he gazed at her smudges and stains.
Inwardly, Cordelia was fuming. How dare he praise her appearance when she knew she looked like last week's wet wash? "My thanks, Alain—but you had little need to journey so far to so little purpose."
"The purpose was scarcely small," he returned gallantly, "for you are fair as a summer's day." He said it without choking, this time. "Indeed, 'tis your beauty and sweetness that have minded me to honor you."
"Oh, have you indeed?" she said softly, outrage kindling within her.
"In truth, I have—for my mother and father have deemed 'tis time for me to wed. 'Tis you who are my choice, sweet Cordelia, and 'tis you who shall be future Queen of Gramarye!"
Cordelia sat quite still, staring at him as a maelstrom of emotions churned within her. True, she had always more or less planned to marry Alain, and the thought of being Queen one day was an interesting added fillip—but to be treated with such cavalier disregard, to be the pawn of his whim rather than the queen of his heart ... ! She felt the anger mounting and mounting, and knew she would not be able to contain it very long.
Alain frowned. "Have you nothing to say?"
"What should I say?" she asked in a very small voice, eyes downcast.
"Why, that you rejoice at your good fortune, that you are sensible of the honor I do you, that you acclaim me as your lord and master!"
I shall acclaim you as a pompous ass, Cordelia thought, but she didn't say so—yet. "Am I to have no voice in this matter, my lord?"
The return to formality was like a stiletto through him. "Assuredly, you are! 'Tis for you to say yea or nay, surely!"
"How good of you to deign to allow me this," she said, syrupy sweet.
Alain relaxed, complacency restored. She was sensible of the honor after all. "'Tis nothing."
"Oh, ave, 'tis nothing!" The anger boiled up, and Cordelia knew she could contain it no longer. "'Tis nothing to you, a woman's feelings! 'Tis nothing to you if you humiliate where you should elevate!"
"How now?" Alain stared, thunderstruck.
"I am nothing to you, am I? Only a brood mare, to .be bought at your whim when you have a moment to spare from your great concerns? Nothing to you, nothing but a minor matter that you attend to when the mood is on you?" She rose from her chair. "Nothing to you? Only a marriage, only a lifetime's union, and 'tis nothing to you?"
"Nay, certainly not!" He leaped to his feet, stung to the quick. "You twist my meaning!"
"Nay, I attend to the meaning of your tone and your actions, not to your words alone! Why, you great gilded popinjay, you puffed-up princeling!"
"I am your future sovereign!"
"Of my nation, but most assuredly—not of my heart! How could you be, when you have no thought of love or yearning?"
"Do you take me for a heartless wretch?" Alain cried. "Surely I must love you!"
"Oh, aye, surely you must, if your parents command it! Yet had you thought of it before I said the word? Had you never thought to say it, never thought to woo, to court? A fine prince are you, if you can but command!"
The absurdity of the charge struck him. "'Tis the place of the prince to command, and of the subject to obey!"
"Oh, my apologies, sire!" Cordelia dropped an elaborate, exaggerated curtsy. "Assuredly, if you order me to marry, I must obey, must I not? If you command, my heart must obediently adore you!"
"Why, you heartless witch, you storming shrew! I am your Prince, and I do command you!" Alain shouted, then drew himself up and glared down at her coldly. "I command you to answer me straight! Will you be my wife, or no?"
Cordelia dropped her prettiest curtsy, bowed her head, smiled up at him, and said, quite clearly, "No."
Then she turned on her heel and stalked off back to her stillery.
She slammed the door behind her, leaned against it, and burst into tears.
Alain stared at the doorway through which she had gone, thunderstruck, distraught, and dismayed. Then he remembered that a steward was apt to step through that doorway at any minute, and masked his hurt in a scowl. The scowl raised up a torrent of anger in its wake. He stalked through the archway, and the steward stepped up. "May I fetch you anything, Your Highness?"
"A modicum of sense in a woman's heart," Alain snarled. "Aside, fellow! I shall seek my horse—'tis a fairer creature than the Lady Cordelia!"
"Surely, Highness!" The steward moved aside with alacrity, then signalled to a footman, who stepped to the stairs and signalled down to the porter.
Alain didn't see; he was aware of nothing but a red haze, his feet following the steps down to the Great Hall automatically. The porter yanked the door open as the prince came to it, and he stormed out,' his face thunderous.
In the courtyard, his escort raised a cheer that cut off as though it had been sheared. Sir Devon stepped up, his face dark. "Have they offered you insult, Highness?"
" `They'?" Alain cried. "No, not 'they'—only she! An arrogant chit of a girl who holds her liege and lord in little esteem!"
"Assuredly she has not spurned you!"
"Spurned me? Aye, as a tyrant would spurn a dog! I shall be revenged upon her, upon their whole house!" The leader looked shocked for a second, then masked his sudden fear with narrowed eyes and a hard face. He turned back to his fellows. "They have offered our Prince grave insult, sir knights."
He was satisfied to see the same momentary dismay on every face—all of them knew of the magical powers of the Lord Warlock and his family. Moreover, all of them knew Cordelia's brother Geoffrey to be the best swordsman in the kingdom. But even as their leader had done, they all grew stone-faced, and reached to touch the hilts of their swords.
"Say the word, Highness, and your revenge shall be executed," the leader said.
"Oh, not so quickly and easily!" Alain roared. "I shall see humiliation and shame ere I see blood! 'Tis insult I've been given, and dire insult must answer! Away, good friends! For I must think long and hard on the manner of this vengeance! Away!"
Out they thundered through the gatehouse. The sentry on the wall looked up, ready to give the porter the signal that would begin their revenge for the insults given their young mistress. His heart sank at the thought, for he knew that if they raised their hands against the Heir Apparent, the Royal Army would have them sooner or later, and they would all be drawn and quartered. But loyalty was loyalty, and Cordelia was his young mistress, and the daughter of the Lord Warlock, to whom he had sworn his allegiance.
Besides, he was more than a little in love with the lady, as most of the younger men of the castle were.
The steward, however, was older, and a bit more practical. More
to the point, he had seen enough of life to recognize rash words that would probably be atoned for in time, and to know that young people frequently say things they do not mean. He only shook his head—so the drawbridge stayed down, and Alain and his young knights rode. out unharmed, across the drawbridge, and down the road to the plain.
"What revenge is this he speaks of?" the sentry demanded. "For if I must choose between the Lord Warlock and the King, I know where my loyalties lie!"
"Your loyalty, and my lance," the steward agreed. "Still, he does not speak of action yet, and the time has not come to draw blades."
"But to speak of it to the lady?" the sentry asked, his face uncertain.
"Not to the lady," the steward rejoined. "If I know her at all, she is probably in tears over so disastrous an encounter. Nay, we will. speak of it, to Lord and Lady Gallowglass, or to either of their sons, should they come home sooner."
Geoffrey came home sooner.
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.
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