M'Lady Witch

by Christopher Stasheff

  "My pleasure, I'm sure. We shall have to at least begin the dance, though, or you will have a dozen young boobies claiming your hand."

  The music began, and they moved in time to its strains—but Geoffrey steered them closer and closer to the tall windowed doors that opened onto the terrace. There he stopped, offering his arm, even as she had taught him to, years before. She took it with a pang of nostalgia and affection, and they stepped out onto the flagstones.

  She breathed in the cool air with a shuddering gasp. "It has been—a very exciting night ... my brother." She looked up at him. "But where is Alain?"

  Geoffrey smiled, with a glint in his eye. "Why, you have danced with him twice this evening."

  "Twice?" She stopped still, staring up at him in shock. Then her mind reeled, reviewing all the men she had danced with that evening. No, she could not possibly say which one had been Alain; they had all been too gallant, too heroic; none looked like him in the slightest. "Nay, tell me which one he was, brother!"

  "I most certainly shall not!" Geoffrey drew himself up, offended. "It is half the delight of the game, sister, not to know with whom one dances. After all, how else are we to discover our feelings?"

  Cordelia frowned up at him. "Why, how do you mean?" she said dangerously.

  He gazed down at her, dropping his lofty manner, letting himself be serious for the moment. "How are you to know whether you are truly in love with Alain, if you do not let yourself enjoy the dance with any other man?"

  "Who said I was in love with Alain?" Cordelia snapped, hands on her hips. "Indeed, I seem to recall telling you that I was not!"

  "And if you are not," Geoffrey said gently, "surely you should be sure of it, so that you can continue to refuse his suit."

  Cordelia turned away. "I did not say I would refuse his suit—only that I did not love him."

  "Being Queen is not worth a loveless marriage." Cordelia stiffened. "I could be a good Queen to him. I could be a good wife."

  "But if you did not love him," Geoffrey murmured, "you would cheat him, as surely as he would cheat you."

  "Be still!" she blazed, turning on him. "What do you know of it? You, who are not married, and who claim never to have been in love!"

  "But I have heard what love is," he said. "I can imagine it, and long for it. Aye, even I, who am so busy changing partners that I scarce have time to tread the measure."

  Cordelia looked up, eyes wide in sudden panic. "But if I might discover that I truly love someone else, might he not discover the same?"

  "He might," Geoffrey said gently, "and it is far better for him to learn that now, than after you are wed." Cordelia turned away, thinking of the gold-and-scarlet young man, thinking of Forrest. "Yes," she said, her voice very low, "I suppose that is so. Tell me—is Alain enjoying the evening?"

  "He is," Geoffrey said, carefully noncommittal. "Does he flirt with other ladies?"

  "He does."

  "More than one?"

  "Aye, more." Geoffrey smiled, guessing which "one" she meant. "And quite successfully, I might add."

  She could hear his pride in his student, and turned on him. "Geoffrey, why could you not have left me to my own affairs? My life is my own; I did not need your meddling!"

  "Perhaps," he said softly, and looked straight into her eyes. "Could it be, sister, that you have found that you, too, are enjoying this ball? The dancing, the flirtation?"

  "Should I not?" She thrust her chin up. "Have I not the right to enjoy being a woman, to enjoy my youth?"

  "Every right," he said softly, with total conviction, "and I rejoice to see it at last. Nay, you have also the right to be in love. I could wish you no greater joy, sister. I hope that you shall be."

  Cordelia stared at him, shaken by his sincerity.

  Then she turned away. "Let us return to the dance, brother. I think I am quite refreshed now."

  "Ready for more dancing?" Geoffrey grinned, the seriousness dropping from him like an ill-fitting garment, like a dark cloak. "Aye, sister, so am L"

  She paused at the doors. "Geoffrey..."

  "Aye, sister?"

  "The man in scarlet and gold ... the tall one, with blond hair..."

  "I have seen him." His voice was carefully neutral. "Spy upon him for me this evening, will you not? And see if he reaches out to other women with his mind, to touch theirs as he dances with them."

  Geoffrey frowned. "A strange request—but surely, sweet sister, I could deny you nothing."

  "As long as it was something you had planned to give me already?" Cordelia smiled, remembering the puppy he had given her for her tenth birthday. "Surely, brother. Shall we dance?"

  They went in through the door.

  Her eyes immediately sought out the tall young man in gold and scarlet. She could see him dancing with an older woman, bantering and laughing. She felt something twisting within her. Had he only been being polite, then?

  She turned away, and her gaze sought out Forrest. She could only stare in shock.

  He was dancing with Delilah, the two of them molded so tightly together that they seemed almost to be one entity. His gaze never left her face, or hers his, and even this far removed, there was an almost palpable energy about them, a tension that seemed to crackle all the way across the room.

  Cordela turned away, shaken. Was he, then, a man for all women, and she no more important to him than any other? Then suddenly, the dance was ended, and the gold-and-scarlet young man was there, elbowing his way through a crowd of her admirers, taking her hand, saying words that pressed her into dancing. The other young men clamored for her attention, but she let herself move into his embrace, into the movements of the dance, let his lips touch hers, his mind reach out to mingle with hers—not thoughts, no, but emotions, his exultation at having her once again in his arms, his joy at the feel of her body against his, giving her a thrill of pleasure such as she had never known before this night.

  Therefore, she insisted on dancing once again with Forrest, and as she did, she watched the gold-and-scarlet young man across the hall, dancing with Delilah, hearing his laughter clearly, saw that they were chatting, saw Delilah's flirtatious glances becoming more and more sensuous. The young man only laughed, though, and swung her about, with every appearance of enjoying the dance for its own sake—but without the slightest sign of seeking to enjoy Delilah's favors.

  So she danced once more with the gold-and-scarlet cavalier that night, and once more with Forrest. Both times she began with her defenses up, but the music and the movements swayed her, to make her yield to the moment. Somehow she had the feeling she might never know such pleasure again in all her life, so she revelled in the delight of the moment, almost desperately.

  Then, suddenly, a great brazen gong was chiming, and a brazen voice with it, booming, "Twelve strokes! Twelve strokes! Midnight! Midnight!"

  It was the majordomo, his stentorian tones blending with those of the gong. "'Tis midnight, and the hour for unmasking! Let truth be known! Let faces be bared, names be declared!"

  All the guests clustered together at the center of the hall, giggling and chuckling in anticipation, wondering who would be revealed as whom.

  "Let us first introduce our guests!" The august king in purple robes and pasteboard crown, who had been announced as the fabled Charlemagne, stepped up onto the dais at the end of the hall. "You have heard, my friends and neighbors, the occasion for our celebration—my daughter's safe return, thanks to the rescue and protection of two stalwart knights, a gentleman of the greenwood, and a most enchanting lady who did chaperone my daughter. Let me call them now, summon them forth, so that we all may thank them! Sir Geoffrey!"

  Geoffrey stepped up beside him on the dais and took off his mask. There was applause all through the hall, and cheering.

  "Sir Forrest Elmsford!"

  Forrest stepped up beside Geoffrey, unmasking. In the crowd, several ladies were murmuring and "oooh"ing outright.

  "Sir Alain!" Sir Julian cried. No one stepped up.


  "Is Sir Alain not here?" demanded Sir Julian. "Seek him out, some of you!" And while the young men turned to the hunt with a cheer, Sir Julian called, "The Lady Cordelia! Step up beside us, and unmask!"

  Most of the young men turned back to watch—every woman was a source of fascination, until they knew who "Lady Elaine" was.

  Cordelia stepped up onto the dais, and the young men ripped loose a cheer—but as she lifted her hand to her mask, she saw the scarlet-and-gold young man moving toward the doorway.

  What! Didn't he even care to learn who she was?

  It seemed he did; he was frozen in place, staring at her. Their gazes met; she lifted her mask.

  The young men cheered again. The gold-and-scarlet cavalier stared, then moved toward the doorway again. Cordelia pointed, her arm a spear. "Stop him!"

  The young men shouted, all too glad to obey her whim—but it was Delilah who laid hold of him first, catching his arm and dragging him back. The young man still struggled, seeming to be almost in a panic, but she worked her way hand-over-hand up his arm to the shoulder, undulating as she came.

  "Have we found him, then?" Sir Julian called. "Sir Alain! Unmask, young sir!"

  The gold-and-scarlet cavalier froze, and Delilah lifted his mask.

  It was Alain!

  He stood frozen, staring at Cordelia, aghast.

  She stood frozen too, staring at him and feeling as though the floor had dropped out beneath her. Alain? She had been flirting with Alain?

  Alain, being so gallant, so passionate—Alain, with kisses of fire!?! Alain, with his mind touching hers?

  Her Alain, flirting so deeply with a strange woman, one whom he had known only as the most beautiful at the ball? Flirting so earnestly, his desire fuelling him with such ardor that his mind had reached out to enfold hers? Alain, an empath?

  She dropped her gaze in confusion, unsure whether to rejoice or to curse, and Alain stood frozen, his face drained of all color.

  CHAPTER 14

  "How could he! How could he?" Cordelia paced back and forth, wringing her hands. "How could he pledge his troth to me, but pay court to a stranger whom he did not even know? How could he do it!"

  "Why, with my encouragement," Geoffrey said, leaning back and toying with his wine goblet.

  "Your encouragement!" Cordelia turned on him. "Sir! Will you cease to meddle?"

  "In this case, no." Geoffrey chose his words carefully. Cordelia glared at him, taking in the unbuttoned doublet, the chessboard in front of him, the bottle on the table at the side. It seemed odd to her that he should play chess against himself—it was more the sort of thing she would have suspected her little brother Gregory of doing—but still, he did. She noticed the other glass beside the bottle, but dismissed it, being preoccupied with her own difficulties. Surely he only wanted it in case the first glass broke.

  He was sitting there grinning at her in his insolence and his arrogance, and she would have liked to scratch his eyes out—but then, she had felt that way about him before. He was, after all, her brother. "How dare you meddle in my romance!"

  Geoffrey looked down into his wine goblet, reflecting that for her to use the word "romance" in relation to Alain was a definite improvement. "Let us not put too fine a point on it, sister." He looked up. "Alain has never been a terribly exciting man. In fact, one might almost say he is stuffy."

  "Well ... there is that," Cordelia agreed. "But tonight, he was not!"

  "No, not tonight." Geoffrey looked straight into her eyes.

  Cordelia stared at him a moment, feeling the blood rush to her face. Then she said, "So that is why you encouraged him."

  "Of course, that is why." Geoffrey twirled the glass's stem between his thumb and his forefinger. "And it would seem to me that it succeeded quite well, sister mine. Was he not more enjoyable? Almost, one might say ... exciting?"

  Cordelia turned away, remembering the touch of the gold-and-scarlet stranger, of his lips on hers, of his arm about her, of his mind ... She shivered, wrapping her arms tightly about herself. "But he did not know it was me! He thought that I was... some strange wench. He cared not!"

  "Oh, be not such a goose," Geoffrey said crossly. "He knew it was you."

  "What!" Cordelia spun around. "How could he know!"

  "Why, the simplest way imaginable," Geoffrey replied. "I told him."

  Cordelia stared at him in outrage, growing redder and redder. Then she exploded. "Will you cease to meddle?" She stalked over to her brother, pounding at him with little fists.

  Geoffrey laughed, holding up his arm to fend her off. "Nay, sister, nay, I prithee! Think not of the havoc I have wrought, but only that I had most excellent intentions."

  "And we all know which road is paved with those!"

  Cordelia relented, seething; her fists did no good against him, anyway. "At least tell me—what of your spying? Did he make advances to any other woman?"

  "We-e-e-e-ell . .."

  "The truth, turtle of turpitude!" Cordelia stormed. "Do not plague me, do not torment!"

  "I shall not," he sighed. "Oh, Alain had a great deal of fun flirting with other ladies—but only by words, and the occasional touch of a hand. He certainly never sought to kiss one, and never held another close."

  Cordelia quieted surprisingly there, staring into his eyes. "Was there ... ardor?"

  "No, not a bit," Geoffrey assured her. "Only a sense of play, a sense of fun. It is the first time I have seen that in Alain. Not even when we were children did he seem to have fun at his games. He was always so deadly serious that he must win, or die." He shook his head. "I cannot understand it."

  This, from a man who would rather die than lose, Cordelia knew—but you did expect it from Geoffrey, and she had to admit that he had always had a great deal of fun at his games.

  She turned away. "Why has he not told us he is an esper?"

  "Why, because he does not know it!" Geoffrey said. "Nay, do not look evilly at me! If he cannot hear thoughts, but only feel emotions, how should he know that he has any talent at all? Oh, aye, he may feel what others feelbut any person can be empathetic, if he truly cares about others. Any person who is at all sensitive to others can read the host of unspoken signals in their bearing and demeanor. How should Alain have known that he could do more, that he could actually read their feelings, as you and I read thoughts?"

  "Or make another feel his?" Cordelia's voice was very small.

  "Ah, that is a greater gift," Geoffrey said softly. "But surely, he could not know that he had done that." He paused a second, watching her face, then said, "Can he?"

  Cordelia was still a moment, then gave a very short nod. "Well, well, well," Geoffrey breathed. "Mayhap there is hope for our clay-footed suitor yet." He watched his sister for a minute, but she said nothing, only stood with eyes downcast. Geoffrey smiled. "Even so, he would not know that he can sway a person to him, wrapping her in his feelings, whirling both up into..." He broke off, seeing her shiver again. "And it may be that he cannot project emotions unless he feels them very strongly. Indeed, he may not realize that he does it at all—for all he knows, 'tis what everyone feels. So if he has the talent, sister, he probably knows it not."

  "How is this?" Cordelia cried. "As he usually is, as he has always appeared, I do not find him at all appealing but I have found him very much so tonight! Never before has he appeared so handsome, so gallant! Never before has he reached out to touch me with his mind!"

  "Never before has he danced with you," Geoffrey murmured.

  "Oh, he has, in the Christmas reels—but always with only the set, formal steps, never with such ardor! Indeed, he did become, as you say, exciting. Was it simply because he wore a mask?"

  "A mask," Geoffrey said judiciously, "and because I insisted that he drink three glasses of wine."

  Cordefa frowned. "Surely three glasses of wine are not enough to ... Oh!"

  "Yes," Geoffrey confirmed. "I boosted the alcohol content considerably."

  "Alas!" Cordelia looked down into
the depths of Geoffrey's wineglass. "Is he only to be a man of romance when he is drunk, then?"

  "The wine could not bring it out if it were not there to be brought." Geoffrey looked down into his glass, too. "Be honest. Alain is ordinarily tremendously dull—not a bit of fun, and deadly serious, and far too concerned with his moral rectitude."

  Cordelia reflected that a bit more such concern could do her brother a world of good—but she had to admit it was rather overpowering, in Alain.

  Geoffrey looked up at her. "I attribute it to his having been reared with far too great a sense of his own importance as Heir Apparent, and too much insistence on developing his sense of responsibility. No doubt it will make him an excellent king . .."

  "Yes," Cordelia said sadly, "but a very boring person."

  "And," Geoffrey said, very, very softly, "a stultifying husband." He clucked his tongue. "Beware, sister—or you may lose him to Delilah."

  "Oh, I do not wish that! Not that at all!" Cordelia cried, distraught. "Not for my sake alone, no, but for his also!"

  "If he could only become fun ... ?" Geoffrey suggested. "Exciting," Cordelia agreed. "But if he becomes romantic only when he is half drunk? Oh, no, Geoffrey! I cannot have that!" She turned away, chafing her hands. "Yet I would not see him the victim of Delilah, for I know what a vampire that woman must be!"

  Geoffrey tilted his head to the side, considering her. "Is that the only reason you do not wish to see him united with the lady?"

  Cordelia blushed, embarrassed. "I do not know. Oh, Geoffrey, do not ask me! I do not know!" And she' fled in confusion, away out the door.

  Geoffrey sighed, gazing down into his wine. Then he shrugged, drank what was left in the glass, and reached out for the decanter. His gaze lighted on the other goblet, and a gleam came into his eye. He lifted the bottle and poured, but only a small amount.

  Cordelia fled back to her bedroom and sent out her own clarion call. Mother! Awaken, I pray you! I have need of you! Then, a little less stridently, Mother! Mo-o-o-o-ther!

  The answer came, as though Gwen were still swimming up through layers of sleep to consciousness. Yes, daughter. What troubles thee? There was no irritation, no resentment. Weariness, yes—but also alertness, and concern, lest her child be hurt.