M'Lady Witch

by Christopher Stasheff

  So, for that matter, was the manor house itself.

  They had come late; Delilah had already managed to work Alain off to the side of the conversational grouping. Seeing Delilah, Cordelia felt dowdy all over again, for the hussy was attired in a demure gown of pink and cream, considerably looser than her riding dress, only hinting at the lush contours beneath. It complemented her blonde hair so well that Cordelia automatically felt dimmed by comparison. But she lifted her chin; she would not be outdone!

  Even as Cordelia watched, though, the vixen took another step toward the far corner. Alain perforce stepped with her, to hear what she was saying. He began to respond gravely, but Cordelia could tell, from the color of his face, that her suggestion had not been entirely decorous. Her flirtations had become even broader than on their journey.

  Cordelia leaned over to Geoffrey and murmured, "Brother, would you see if you can distract the Lady Delilah from my inconstant suitor?"

  Geoffrey looked up, then smiled. "He is constant, Cordelia, or he would not be blushing. Naetheless, I am certainly more than delighted to do as you ask." He stepped away.

  But Cordelia stopped him with a hand on his forearm. He turned back, eyebrows raised in polite inquiry. "Only flirtation, mind," Cordelia said sternly.

  Geoffrey grinned. "I make no promises." Then he was gone, moving over to join Alain and Delilah. She looked up with a flash of annoyance, which turned very quickly into a sensuous stare which she even more quickly broke, turning to Alain with a silvery laugh.

  Cordelia turned half away from them, satisfied; Delilah certainly would not be able to keep her mind on Alain now. She reflected that a brother with overabundant hormones could have his uses.

  For herself, she must not appear to be watching too closely ...

  "Lady Cordelia! How beautiful you are!"

  She turned, warmed by the sincerity in the voice—then caught her breath.

  Forrest stood beside her, resplendent in a doublet of the same cut and period as Geoffrey's, hose clinging to his legs to show his magnificent calves and thighs to advantage. Cordelia scolded herself; she should not be noticing his legs so, even if they were remarkably well turned. Or the feeling of his lips on her hand, though they were amazingly soft, amazingly sensuous ...

  He looked up, gazing into her eyes, and she managed to find enough voice to say, "You sound surprised, sir. Is it so rare that I am ... presentable?"

  "Nay, not in the slightest!" He grinned, white teeth flashing. "You are rare indeed, my lady! Surely there cannot be another like you!"

  "Oh, is there not?" Cordelia began to feel a bit better. "And to how many damsels have you said that, sir?"

  "Never, milady, not to a single other woman!" Forrest reflected that he had also never been given so good a cue line. "I have never seen you in those colors before. Surely they bring out highlights in the glorious auburn of your hair that I would never have known, though 'tis so great a pleasure to see your hair unbound in the sun's rays that come through this window."

  Cordelia blushed. "You extol my charms too much, sir."

  "I speak honestly." He stepped a little closer. "Would you have me prevaricate?"

  He was so very near, the aroma of him so masculine, so compelling ... and the strange feelings had begun within her again... "I would have you speak only as a gentleman should, sir!"

  "Alas! Must I be a gentleman, then?"

  "You must be as you were born!" They both looked up, startled.

  Alain stood by them, looking stern, wearing a russet doublet, again of the antique cut, and fawn-colored hose. Cordelia could not help but notice that his legs, too, looked very well, perhaps even better than Forrest's ...

  "Why, so I must!" Forrest turned to Alain with a dangerous glint in his eye. "But who are you to tell me what I must and must not do, sir?"

  Alain began to answer, but caught himself in the' nick of time.

  Forrest noticed the pause, and lifted an eyebrow. "Only a knight," Alain said, still stern, "but as such, 'tis my duty to remind you of your duty to knighthood."

  "Am I still a knight, then?" Forrest cocked his head to the side. "I, who have broken the law?"

  "You are still a knight!" Alain snapped, more sternly than ever. "You are a knight, who can redeem himself, and behave as a knight should once more."

  Cordelia stepped a little closer to him. Yes, sometimes Alain was insufferable, overbearing, and his holier-than-thou attitude did grate upon her now and then—but she felt safer next to him, somehow. The troubling feelings inside her were so much less in his presence ...

  She glanced up at Forrest, and knew a moment's longing. If only he were as proper a man, as morally sound and steady a man, as Alain!

  Though if he were, she wondered, would he be so attractive?

  Then Sir Julian was offering her his arm, and leading her to the head table. "Surely you will allow your host the benefit of your beauty and charm, my dear, if only for the space of this dinner."

  "I shall be honored, my lord." But even as she said it, Cordelia wondered if this was a ploy to get her away from Alain, so that Delilah might work on him at her leisure. A glance out of the corner of her eye showed her that she had no need to worry, though—the lady was sandwiched between Geoffrey and Alain, and Geoffrey was definitely occupying most of her attention. Alain was looking none too pleased about it, but he glanced up at Cordelia longingly.

  She found it very reassuring.

  She turned back to Sir Julian. "I thank you, my lord."

  "Then sit! Sit! And we will dine!" Sir Julian sat down, and immediately, the servants began laying in front of them the huge slices of bread that served as plates. Behind them came another server, laying thick slices of beef on the trenchers.

  Sir Julian picked up his knife and began to cut at the meat—the signal to begin.

  Cordelia found it slightly disturbing that he did not start with a blessing over the meal, but she had no choice other than to abide by the custom of the house.

  "I must honor you, my daughter's rescuers!" Sir Julian said, lifting a cup. "Honor you with a toast tonight, and a ball tomorrow night!"

  "Ball?" Cordelia stared, appalled.

  "Indeed. I have sent word to my neighbors, bidding them come rejoice with me." He laid a hand over hers. "You must not be upset, lady. We are rude folk here in the country, taking any opportunity that offers to celebrate Life—and if our dress is not elegant, why, we make up for it with exuberance."

  "My sister has left many beautiful dresses behind her," Delilah said, all sweetness. "I shall bid my maid show them to you."

  Cordelia was certain that Delilah's maid would not show her anything that was too lovely.

  "Or if you wish," the lord said, "I have bolts of wonderful cloth, yards of laces. Only say what you wish, and a seamstress shall labor all this night and all tomorrow, to make a gown that will delight you."

  "Indeed she shall," Delilah said. "My own seamstress, if you wish it, my dear."

  Cordelia had a brief vision of the kind of dress Delilah's seamstress would make for her, and smiled sweetly. "How good of you, Lady Delilah! It will not be necessary, though. However, my lord .. ." She turned back to Lord Julian. "I would see your cloths and your laces. It may be that I myself can craft a dress to my taste."

  "Yourself?" The Lady Delilah tittered behind her hand. "Why, I had thought you a lady high-born, Cordelia surely not one who plies needle and thread in her own right!"

  "Why, my dear, do you not embroider?" Cordelia asked, all innocence.

  Delilah stared at her, paling. "Aye, most assuredly, and most excellently!"

  "Why, then, so do I," Cordelia said, "and my mother was quick to teach me the crafting of a gown—for, she said, I must know how 'tis done, if I wish to make sure my seamstress does it well." She turned back to Lord Julian. "Yes, my lord, I shall see your cloths."

  CHAPTER 12

  The cloth, at least, was every bit as beautiful as Sir Julian had promised. She chose an emerald gree
n lawn, almost as fine as silk, for the gown itself, then selected yard after yard of intricate lace to adorn it. She was tempted to take some long strips of embroidery they showed her, but decided that she would not be able to compete with Delilah in ornamentation; indeed, she remembered her mother's dictum, that when a woman resorts to an abundance of decorations, it is because she does not believe in her own beauty. Unfortunately, Cordelia did not.

  Still, she would never admit that. The lace would have to do—the lace, and the wonderful cloth that showed her hair and eyes to such advantage.

  Petticoats and kirtles the maid was glad to bring her, presumably from the sister's store. Cordelia did not even stop to think of the wonderful coincidence that they should be almost exactly the same size.

  Then she sat down with pen and paper to make a rough sketch by candlelight—but the more she sketched, the more excited she became, till finally, she heard a clock somewhere tolling midnight, and told herself sternly that she must desist; she would have to have a good night's sleep, or she would be incapable of doing anything tomorrow, certainly not be able to be as charming as she must be at the ball.

  And so to bed.

  At last, Cordelia was able to lie down to sleep, dressed in a nightgown that she had found laid out on her bed. She nestled into the softness of the featherbed, luxuriating in it after a night on pine boughs. She burrowed deeper, letting her mind roam free, letting images arise and fade of their own accord—but the images were not of lovely gowns, or even nightmares of the extravagant dresses Delilah might wear to the ball tomorrow night, but of Alain ... and then Forrest ... then Alain again, then Forrest, then the two of them side by side, then Forrest alone, looming over her, his eyes bright, his lips moist ... She was only a little afraid of the feelings that the picture of him aroused, almost unafraid at all, considering that he was not really there. There was something about his gaze, his stare, and (be honest!) his body, his muscular build, that raised those tingling, tickling feelings inside her, and she admitted to herself at last that it was a longing she felt, that perhaps she was beginning to be able to understand the desire that seemed to drive Geoffrey.

  But there was something that repelled her about Forrest, too—the very recklessness that made him appealing was also threatening, in its way. She found herself wishing that she could marry Alain for security and friendship, but still have Forrest for romance ... romance, and the pleasures of his attentions ...

  She sat bolt upright in bed, staring into the darkness, realizing what she had been wishing for, blushing furiously in the privacy of night. Then, completely ashamed of herself, she burst into tears and buried her face in her pillow.

  The campfire was a spot of cheer in a very dark night. It was chill indeed, very odd for August. Rod and Gwen shared his cloak, staring at the flames.

  "I don't like this," Rod said. "The three of them could be at the mercy of whoever owns that manor house. How long has it been here, anyway?"

  "By appearances, a hundred years, at least," Gwen answered.

  "By appearances," Rod agreed. "But people can build things to look old."

  "Indeed." Gwen was thinking of some of the wonders of modern technology she had seen in her brief sojourn off-planet.

  A squat shadow detached itself from the darkness under the trees and came toward them.

  Rod looked up. "Any news, Brom?"

  The dwarf sat down on a rock by the fire, holding his hands out toward the flames. "I have sent elves to keep watch throughout the house. If anything untoward occurs, we will know of it within minutes."

  "How long do the local elves say the house has been here?"

  "Only these last two years—nay, some months less. A crew of strangers came to build it. They cleared the land here in the center of the forest, where none might see them. The tools with which they cut down the forest were magical, say the elves, and the job was done in a day."

  Rod pricked up his ears; he knew the sound of high technology. "Anything about beams of fire?"

  "Summat of the sort. They builded the whole of the house in a month, again with sorcerous machines, and gave it the appearance of age, though it was new."

  Rod nodded. "Do they have any idea who lives there?"

  "A lady and her retainers," Brom answered. "A most beautiful lady, slender, not very tall." He shrugged. "That is all they can say. Her face doth seem to change from time to time, as does the color of her hair. She doth bear herself as one well born, but they do sense a maliciousness about her."

  "Anything definitely bad to say about her?"

  "Not from without—and they have had no wish to enter inside that house. Not that it houseth fearsome deeds, mind you, nor doth it repel them in any wise—'tis that it hath no interest for them. They have other fish to fry."

  "No interest?" Rod stared. "Elves, with no curiosity?" Gwen frowned. "That doth sound little like any elf I've ever known. Indeed, a brownie's natural curiosity would send him prying into every corner. Or are these elves only, and no brownies among them?"

  "What difference?" Rod said. "Elves are just as curious as brownies. Not so inclined to go indoors, I'll admit, but still..."

  "There do be brownies among them, and they too have no interest in the house," Brom verified.

  "It doth smack of enchantment," Gwen said, "of witchpower, and mighty, too."

  "Even so," Brom agreed. "It doth bespeak one who hath laid spells of disinterest on all who come nigh."

  "Is there danger to Cordelia, or to Geoffrey?" Gwen asked.

  "Or even to Alain?" Rod finished.

  "There is no sign of danger yet, to any one of them," Brom said. "There is hazard only in that they are amidst strangers who are themselves unknown in their desires or goals. But there is no present danger in evidence. Be sure that if there is, the elves will warn them—and, if need be, protect them with their own magics."

  "But if there are witches in that house," said Gwen, "elfin magics may not suffice."

  Rod shivered.

  "They will bear word to us, will they not?" Gwen asked.

  "Be sure that they shall," Brom promised her. "Be very sure of that."

  Morning came lustrous, cool and moist—like herself, Delilah thought. She stretched luxuriously, treasuring the feeling of rest, of satiation of sleep, knowing that Cordelia was probably red-eyed and weary, her hair in disarray and her mouth stuffed with pins, trying vainly to cobble together some sort of dress. It made breakfast in bed so much more tasty.

  Her modiste, of course, had been up all night, and was still busy with a fabric-bonder, computer, design program, and a ROM library of medieval style plates.

  Delilah rose for her first fitting.

  Cordelia had risen an hour earlier, her heart singing as she gazed at the cloth and lace. Then she noticed the breakfast tray by her bed, still steaming. So that was what had waked her—the servant. She felt an instant's panic, but found her sketches still carefully hidden away in her boots—in her enemy's house, there would be spies everywhere.

  Boots! Yes, she would have to make slippers, too. Then she donned the riding dress, pleased to notice that the dust had been brushed from it. Clad once again in her working clothes, Cordelia buckled down.

  Delilah came out of her bedroom into the sitting room of her suite as her modiste was finishing running the hem through the molecular bonder. "Nice timing, Chief." She held up the completed dress.

  Even Delilah couldn't withhold an exclamation of delight. It was a daring confection of a dress, all pink and gold, that would set off her peaches-and-cream complexion and blonde tresses to perfection. "Quickly! I must see it!" She slipped into her petticoats and stood impatiently while the modiste fastened the gown around her. No need to trouble with a brassiere—the Middle Ages had not had them, and any reasonably civilized planet in the Third Millennium had them built into the garments with tiny electronic devices that enhanced buoyancy and line.

  Of course, Delilah thought smugly, she did not really need enhancing—but it ne
ver hurt to fire a broadside. The modiste finished the last fastening—primitive, but they had to be something that could have existed in the Middle Ages, whether they truly had or not—and Delilah whirled away to stand in front of the doorway to her bedroom. The modiste pressed a button, an electronic circuit closed—and the surface of the doorway swirled into silvery reflectance. Delilah gazed at her reflection in the electronic mirror with smug satisfaction, posing side view, back view, three-quarter profile. That snob, Cordelia Gallowglass, could never match such a gown, not even with the most talented seamstress on Gramarye! She was, after all, limited to medieval technology, and certainly, mere needle and thread were so far from the devices available to Delilah's modiste that Cordelia could not have produced even an indifferent dress. But she would have tried—oh, yes! She would have stayed up all night and would stay up all day! Her hands would be raw with pinpricks, her skin pale with fatigue, and her eyes red. She would be snappish and insecure with weariness.

  Even if her dress were presentable, though, it could never come within a mile of Delilah's for allure. But then, she thought with complacency, Cordelia could never have matched her for voluptuousness in any case. Delilah was, after all, a projective telepath, and a very talented and very skilled one at that—but the greatest of all her talents was the projection of sexual desire.

  Cordelia was digging into her task with verve and glee. Never had she had such beautiful fabrics to work with! It seemed such a self-indulgence, when there were peasant women on her own estates who had only the one blouse and skirt, and those patched. No matter how her parents urged her, she had never been able to bring herself to indulge in outright luxuries.