M'Lady Witch

by Christopher Stasheff

  Geoffrey took his time framing the reply, choosing his words carefully. "They want something more than the pleasure of their senses, that is true. But marriage? Nay! No peasant woman truly believes a lord will wed her, Alainno woman of sound mind, at least. In this instance, what they want is a night with a hero, that his glory may adhere to them afterward."

  "Aye, and expect him to adhere to them, too, for all their lives!"

  "Hope for it secretly, mayhap—so secretly that they admit it not, even unto themselves. If they see him again, they will hope for at least a nod, a few tender words, a half-hour's intimate talk. But, `expect'? Nay. Unless she is mad, no peasant wench would truly expect a lord to marry her."

  "Still, secret or not, expectant or not, there will be mayhem done to her heart, whether she knows it or not!"

  "Or will admit it or not?" Geoffrey shrugged. "There, I cannot say without reading her mind far below her surface thoughts—and even I shudder at so profound an invasion of privacy. If she knows it not, neither do L I can only judge by her actions, by the deeds and the farewell smiles of those I have seen, by the boasting, covert or overt, among her friends."

  "Surely a woman would not boast of being used by a man, even a hero!"

  "Well, I have never heard a woman boast of a bedding," Geoffrey admitted, "though I have seen them cluster about a hero, and hint most plainly to be admitted to his bedchamber."

  "Mayhap." Alain scowled. "I cannot deny it. But does not each lass hope that he will cleave unto her forevermore, no matter how plain it is that he will not—that to him, she is only one among many?"

  "Mayhap," Geoffrey sighed. "I cannot say. There is no accounting for the daydreams women may spin for themselves, nor may men truly comprehend them. I only know that I count it no shame to take what is offered freely, and think that if it is so offered, I give no pain."

  But Alain only shook his head as he buttoned his doublet, muttering, "I cannot believe it!"

  As he followed the Prince out of the mill and back toward the village common, Geoffrey reflected that Alain's attitude paid credit to his upbringing, but not to his understanding of the world as it really was.

  The village common was decked with streamers of cloth and bunches of flowers around trestle tables. The village girls, decked in bright skirts, dark bodices, and white blouses, were just finishing putting up the decorations, chattering and exclaiming to one another. The village youths and men raised a cheer as the two young men came in sight.

  "Hail the slayers of the monster!"

  "Hail the saviors of the child!"

  "Hail the courageous and mighty knights, who have saved our village from peril!"

  Alain looked about as they closed in, applauding and cheering him. He was dazzled by all the adulation. He, who was used to the deference and flattery of the court, had never received so much heartfelt praise due only to his deeds, not to his station. He turned from one to another with an incredulous, widening smile ...

  And a village wench planted a kiss on his lips, firm and deep.

  He jerked his head back, shocked, but she was turning away herself by that time, and another was taking her place. Alain looked up to Geoffrey for help, saw him with a girl in his arms, mouth to mouth, and mentally shrugged. What harm could a kiss do? And would not the girls be insulted if he refused? Surely, he did not want to hurt their feelings! He turned back to give the peasant lass a courteous peck on the cheek—but she had other ideas, ones that took a bit longer. So did the next girl, and the next.

  Alain finally managed to reclaim his lips and, yes, his whole mouth, from the last admirer, dazed and incredulous to hear the men still cheering all about him. Were none of them jealous? Were there no sweethearts among the girls who had just kissed him? He realized, with a sense of amazement, that he was rather enjoying the whole affair.

  They ushered him to a table and sat him down. Before him, a whole pig was roasting over a fire. The aroma reached him, and he breathed it in eagerly, suddenly realizing how hungry he had become.

  And how thirsty. A girl thrust a flagon into his hand and her mouth against his—only this time, however it may have looked to the outside world, her tongue trickled fire slowly over his lips.

  Then she straightened up with a glad laugh, and to cover his confusion, he took a deep draft from the tankard. It was new ale, nutty and strong. He came up for air. Geoffrey slapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. "Drink deeply, my friend, you have earned it."

  And Alain did, wondering whether country ale always tasted so good, or if it was only so after a feat of valor. Indeed, all his senses seemed to be heightened—the village lasses seemed to be prettier, their cheeks redder, their eyes brighter and more inviting. The aroma of the roasting meat seemed almost solid enough to bite, and the piper's notes sounded far keener than they ever had, stirring his toes to movement. He took another draft of ale; then a girl was pulling him up from the bench, laughing, and another took his other arm. They led him to a flat, level green, and began to dance. Alain knew the steps—he had seen them often enough, at festivals, and his parents had seen him schooled in the more stately steps of the court dances. He began to imitate the girls' movements, slowly and clumsily. Then he noticed that other girls had stepped out to dance with the young men, and he could copy the boys' movements. He did, with increasing sureness and speed, turning back to his partner. Her eyes glistened, her teeth were very white against the redness of lips and tongue as she laughed, and he found himself caught up more and more in her movements and his own, thought suspending, sensation claiming.

  Then, at some unseen signal, the girl whirled away, and another took her place. She leaned forward to give him a quick kiss, clapping his arm about her waist, and moved through the same steps, but much more quickly now. He gazed down into her eyes, feeling his own grin widening, and let himself be swept up in the movements of the dance. Dimly, he noticed that Geoffrey was dancing, too, but it only seemed to be of passing interest.

  Then, suddenly, the dancing was done, and the girls were leading him back to the place of honor, thrusting another tankard of ale into his hand. He took a long, thirsty pull at it. As he lifted his head, Geoffrey scoffed. "Pooh! That is no way to drink village ale, Alain! You do not sip it as though it were a rare vintage—you pour it down your throat!" So saying, he lifted his own tankard, tilted his head up, and drank it down—and down, and down. Finally the tankard exploded away from his lips and thumped down onto the table, empty.

  "Aye, that is the way of it!" a village youth next to him cried with a laugh, and lifted his own tankard to demonstrate.

  "Come, confess it!" Geoffrey cried. "You cannot even keep pace with these stalwarts!"

  "Oh, can I not!" Alain retorted, and tipped up his own tankard. The ale was good, very good—but he did begin to wish he could breathe. Nonetheless, he was hanged if he'd admit defeat, so he hung in there, swallowing the rich dark tide, until suddenly he gulped air. He thumped the tankard down, drawing a very deep and welcome breath, and was amazed to hear the villagers all cheer. He looked up, smiling, not quite believing it, then grinning as he saw they were delighted to see him enjoying himself. A fresh tankard appeared next to his hand. Across from him, Geoffrey raised his mug in salute, and Alain felt a sudden surge of determination not to be outdone. He clinked his tankard against Geoffrey's, then copied his motions as he swung the vessel up. He swallowed greedily, though to tell the truth, he was liking it less than he had at first. When the tankard was done, he slammed it down, almost in unison with Geoffrey. The two young men stared each other in the eye, and Geoffrey grinned. After a moment, so did Alain.

  Then the tankards were whisked away and full ones set in their place, but Alain was saved, because a trencher of sizzling pork was slapped down in front of him. "Eat, as a hero deserves!" someone cried, and he did.

  He ate, he drank, and the notes of the pipes filled his head, along with the scents of the meat and the ale. Things seemed to be blurring together a bit, but the villagers were
such warm and friendly folk that it didn't worry him. He chewed the last sliver of pork, and a girl was pulling him from his seat, laughing, out to the dancing. Laughing, too, he feigned reluctance, then fell into the steps with her, mimicking the extra sinuousness with which she moved, and if she took advantage of the dance to thrust herself against him, why, it seemed only polite to return the gesture.

  Then Geoffrey's face was there again, laughing, raising his tankard in salute, and Alain was raising one in return, the nut-brown ale cascading down his throat, then the tankard gone, and the girl back, her eyes heavy-lidded, her smile inviting, her body constantly against his as the dance moved them, till they seemed to churn as one. Fire threaded itself through him, tingling in his thighs, his hips, wherever his body touched hers.

  Then she was holding up another mug of ale, and he was drinking it down, lowering it to look into her eyes, and they seemed to be huge and seemed to draw him in, and her lips were red and moist, so moist, but she was not holding them up to him now, but drawing him by the arm, out and away from the dancing, away from the fire, to a place where shadows gathered, where their bodies crushed soft bracken beneath them, and the music of the dance was distant, so distant, but her mouth was warm, very warm, encompassing him, and her touch thrilled him, so it seemed only right to return that thrill, if he could.

  CHAPTER 6

  The whole castle was agog, bubbling with excitement, for the elves hadn't made any pretense of keeping a secret. A brownie had popped up at the kitchen door to announce that their unwelcome guests were almost upon them.

  Cordelia hurried out into the courtyard and took up her position in a patch of sunlight, doing her best to look stern and regal. She was resplendent in a white damask gown; the sunlight glowed in her auburn hair, carefully set off by a plain bronze circlet.

  The bandits trudged in through the gatehouse, stumbling with weariness and coated with dust. Cordelia stared, appalled. Had they walked all night?

  Then the foremost bandit looked up, saw her, and stared. Suddenly, the weariness fell away from him. Cordelia gazed back, amazed. Her first view of the bandits hadn't prepared her at all for this. He was quite the most handsome man she had ever seen—though that may have been as much due to the hint of wildness in his face as to the actual set of his features.

  Or it may have been some other attribute; there was a lot of him to admire, more than six feet, and most of it muscles. His legs were exceedingly well formed, she thought dizzily, and that sleeveless jerkin left one in no doubt as to the bulging muscles in his shoulders and arms, though she did have to guess at the massive chest beneath it. His face was open, his black eyes large and long-lashed, his nose straight though perhaps a little short, his lips full and red through the black jawline beard which blended into the wealth of black curls on his head. His teeth flashed white as he smiled, and the dangerous gleam in his eye as he looked at her struck like a crossbow bolt, arousing sensations inside her that she had never been aware of before, and wasn't at all sure she liked.

  Of course, she wasn't at all sure that she didn't like them, either.

  She stood a little straighter and tilted her chin up, looking down her nose at him. "What do you here, sirrah?"

  "Why," said the bandit, "my men and I have come to surrender ourselves to the Lady Cordelia Gallowglass at the behest of him who defeated us in battle."

  "Indeed," Cordelia said, with her best attempt at frostiness. "And what is his name?"

  "Ah! My lady, that would he not tell us!" the bandit chieftain lamented. "He said only that he was a knight who sought to be worthy of you, and would not use his name in public until he has proven his worth."

  Cordelia stared. Such a poetic flight was quite unlike Alain—and coming from the lips of this rogue with the tilted eyebrows and the knowing smile, it set up strange quiverings inside her. "Indeed! You have walked all night to tell me this, sirrah?"

  "Alas! We have—for the Wee Folk would not let us rest. Whene'er we sought to halt, or to sit for more than five minutes, they were upon us with pinches and stings."

  Cordelia tried to glare at him while she considered. "I might pity you, if there surely had been no reason for..." She withheld Alain's name, not quite knowing why. ". . . for the young knight of whom you speak to beset you so harshly. What misdeed had you done?"

  "Oh, no greater than to seek to rob a poor carter of his goods," the bandit said, trying to look apologetic.

  "And to reive his wife of her virtue," squeaked a small voice near Cordelia.

  Her eyes widened, glaring. "How durst you, sir!"

  "Ah!" the bandit said, the very picture of remorse. "I would have stopped my men ere long! We had first to subdue her husband, though, and must needs see that she not seek to aid him."

  Cordelia's indignation boiled over. "You have deserved every pinch and every sting that the elves have given you, sir, and far worse, I doubt not. Mayhap I should give you some more of them, myself!"

  The bandit chief stepped back, alarmed. He had some notion of what Cordelia might be able to do if the spirit moved her. He braced himself, ready to defend against a telepathic attack.

  Her eyes widened; she felt the stir of his mind against her own. "You are a warlock!"

  An incredulous muttering sprang up behind him. He glanced back at his men, then shrugged and looked up at her. "I had not sought to make it a matter of general knowledge, my lady—but yes, I am a warlock."

  "For shame, sir! A warlock, and one nobly reared, for so I can tell by your speech alone! For you, who were born gifted in both rank and talents, to abuse your powers thus, by preying upon the weak when, by virtue of birth, you had ought to defend them!" Cordelia blazed.

  "I know." The bandit chieftain bowed his head. "I had meant to spend my life in defense of they who could not defend themselves, my lady, to use my gifts for the general good—but circumstance has decreed otherwise."

  "Circumstance? Nay, tell me!" Cordelia bit off the words sharply. "What circumstances could these be that would turn you from the obligations of your station?" She reddened, suddenly incensed as she realized what the rogue was doing. "You seek to play upon my sympathies! Be sure, sir, I am not so easily gulled as that! But what shall I do with you?"

  She narrowed her eyes. "What mischiefs might Puck himself invent? Can I be as ingenious as he?"

  "I do not doubt it!" the bandit said quickly. "But I pray you will not! Nay, if there is a gram of woman's pity in you, forbear! Send us to the King's dungeon, if you willset us to a year's hard labor—but do not seek to emulate the Wee Folk in your treatment of us, I beg of you!"

  Cordelia gave him a look of contempt. (She thought she did it rather well.)

  The bandit only looked up at her with wide, pleading eyes, and a look of intense remorse.

  Cordelia made a sound of disgust. "Well, indeed, we shall see that the punishment does fit the crime! Get you to Sir Maris, the King's Seneschal, and tell him of your deeds. Tell him, too, who has sent you. Then, whatsoever punishment he shall give you, see that you bear in patience."

  "Aye, my lady." The bandit chieftain bowed his head to hide his relief. "You are generous."

  "Begone," she said, "before I forget my generosity."

  "Begone?" He looked up and, for a moment, his face was drawn, exhausted. Then he recovered his poise, forced himself to straighten, and inclined his head. "As you wish it, my lady. Come, my men." He turned away.

  "Oh, bother!" Cordelia stamped her foot, hands on her hips. "Nay, do not play the martyr! I will not be so cruel as to seed you out with no rest at all. Go, go sit down against the courtyard wall! Guards!"

  The Captain of the Guards stepped up beside her. "Aye, my lady?"

  "Keep watch over these men, and if they seek to move more than a yard from the places where they sit or lie, have at them! Steward!"

  "My lady?" Everybody was on hand, of course, watching and waiting to be called upon.

  "See to it these men are given gruel and water. Let them rest till n
oon, then send them out."

  "In the heat of the day, my lady?" The steward looked appropriately horrified.

  "Aye, even in the heat of the day!" Cordelia declared, with some heat herself. "'Tis the least they deserve, who have sought to wreak havoc on the weak." She turned back to the bandits. "Rest then, and begone." And, in a whirl of skirts, she turned and stalked away into the castle.

  Forrest watched after her, reflecting that, if this was not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, she was certainly not far from it. The vivacity, the fire within her, made her quite the most fascinating female he had ever encountered. And she was a witch!

  He had heard stories of the delights that lay in store for those who lay in love, warlock and witch, their minds melding as their bodies did. He wondered if such ecstasy awaited those who found themselves in such an embrace, even if they were not in love.

  Then, with a start of dismay, he realized that for himself, at least, the question was academic. He fell in love easily and frequently—and he knew the signs well. He had fallen again ... And from the look in her eyes when they first saw each other, he thought that Cordelia might have, too.

  "You make it sound as though it were a trade to which a man might be apprenticed, Geoffrey!" Alain complained—almost, Geoffrey thought, scandalized.

  "Well, 'tis not quite so methodical as that," he said, grinning. "'Tis more a matter of an art for which one must have a talent."

  "As you have, to be sure," Alain said wryly. "But even given that talent, there still seems to be a great amount that is simply knowledge."

  "Knowledge for some men, instinct for others." Geoffrey shrugged. "If you enjoy the game for its own sake, you learn it quickly enough. If you do not, you shall never play it well, no matter how many years of study you invest."

  "It can be learned, then!"