The Spell-Bound Scholar
"The porter brings word, milady, of a young peasant who has come to the gatehouse begging aid."
"Then bring him in and give him food."
"Well, we brought the food out and tossed it to him, milady, for he would not come near us. The aid he asks is healing; he says his whole village has fallen victim to a plague that none has ever seen before."
"A plague!" Gwen stiffened.
Rod rose. "We'll come."
"Indeed not," Gwen said with some asperity and laid her book aside, removing the spectacles Rod had fashioned for her from the prescription provided by his robot horse, Fess. She rose, saying, "If I cannot mend the disease by myself, it is exotic indeed. Continue writing your history, husband—it is at least important for future generations as healing is for this."
"Well, I do have to admit you know a lot more about medicine than I do, especially at the microscopic level." But Rod looked distinctly unhappy about it. "You'll call if you need any help?"
"On the instant," Gwen promised, then turned to tug a bell rope. She told the guard, "When Lanai comes, ask her to bring my medical pack to the broomport in the west tower."
"I shall, milady." The guard gave a small bow as he stood aside. Gwen swept out of the room and off on her errand of mercy.
Rod sat down slowly but glanced anxiously after her before he took up his own reading glasses again. He put them on, then frowned at the door with vague unease.
After all, who else did he have to worry about these days?
Gregory rode the forest paths, disconsolate, hoping he would find Moraga again but very nervous about it, too. His mind was open, though guarded, picking up all sorts of thoughts— faraway peasants at work, nearer ones at play, and a host of animal emotions with the occasional sharp spike that could almost be shaped into words.
Suddenly he stiffened at thoughts of bewilderment and
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fright, but also at resolution to brave whatever dangers the forest might present. The aura was feminine, the cast one of hunger for experience, especially romantic adventure. Gregory listened and probed ever so delicately, and by the time he rounded the trunk of a giant oak and saw the young gentlewoman, he was already certain that the thoughts were Mor-aga's, though carefully disguised by a consummate job of acting, so thorough as to partially deceive even herself. Only in the hard shell beneath the fictitious character was he able to sense the angry and vengeful emotions that were the young witch's signature.
The damsel he saw had a heart-shaped face of excruciating beauty, framed by luxuriant jet-black tresses that fell onto the shoulders of a stout broadcloth travelling gown of a rich blue that complemented the startling azure of her eyes. The gown was fitted so expertly as to leave no doubt that her figure was spectacular. She looked up at him, and a wave of desire rolled out from her to rock him with its intensity. There could be no doubt that she was a virgin and impatient to be rid of her state, a passionate creature who longed to experience the mystery of romance and the ecstasy of lovemaking of which she had heard and read so much but never tasted, thanks to vigilant chaperones and strict parents.
Not that she said so, of course. She shrank back against the trunk of the oak, wary but also filled with longing.
Gregory had to admire the screen of projective telepathy so complete as to convince him that he was looking at a black-haired, hungry, but virginal gentlewoman, as well as the construction of the character—not the real person, of course. It was an artful construct indeed. He reined in his horse and inclined his head in courtesy. "Good day, maiden."
"Good . . . good day, sir," the young woman said warily, but her eyes spoke of curiosity and pleasure at the sight of him.
"I am Gregory Gallowglass, and it is quite unchivalrous of me to ride when a lady must walk. If you will mount, I shall step down and lift you into this horse's saddle."
"I... I thank you, sir." The young woman stepped a few feet away from the tree. "I am Lilia, the daughter of Squire
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and Mistress Hallam—and I have indeed grown weary." Her eyes belied the last statement.
"Then ride you shall." Gregory dismounted, turned, and found himself a foot from Lilia—at least, his face was. His chest was much closer.
Her eyelids drooped, her lips seemed to thicken and moisten of their own accord; she tilted her head to the side as she breathed, "I thank you for your courtesy."
The wave of desire swept out to enfold Gregory, pulling him forward even more strongly than his natural reserve pushed him back, and his lips brushed hers.
It was as though an electric spark jumped from her to him, then welded their lips together. Hers trembled beneath his, then opened, beginning to nibble. With a sigh, she relaxed into his embrace. The tip of her tongue caressed his lower lip, and his whole body stiffened.
At that, alarm won over attraction, and Gregory backed away, gasping for air. "Your . . . your pardon, mistress. I. . . I have no idea what overcame me."
"I have," she whispered, swaying closer again, "and I only wish it would overcome us both."
But Gregory was on his guard now and caught her around the waist with both hands, lifting so that her own momentum helped boost her up to the saddle. Perhaps it was a mistake, for his hands seemed to burn at the feeling of the resilient body beneath the cloth, and he marvelled that his grip could encompass so much of her waist but feel so much more hip beneath them. He let go quite quickly but still found himself staring up at a view even more tantalizing than before as she blinked down at him in surprise.
At least her lips were safely out of reach.
"I... I thank you, sir," she said reluctantly.
"And I must thank you, and very deeply." Actually, it had been Gregory's first kiss, and his emotions were as turbulent as a dozen modulated waveforms in constant interference. He recovered his poise by resolutely ignoring his feelings. "But how does a damsel as gentle as yourself come to be alone in such rough woodlands as these?"
"Oh, my parents are impossible!" Lilia burst out. "They
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must ever keep me close at home, and when they do let me visit a dance or a meeting, they have my old nurse ever at my shoulder! There is no chance for fun, no chance to taste the delights that are the right of youth!"
"Indeed," Gregory said, shaken. "But it is quite dangerous for you to be alone in the greenwood with none to guard you."
"I shall chance whatever dangers come!" Her eyelids drooped again. "Are you a danger, sir?"
"I? No, never!" Gregory protested in shock.
"That is unfortunate." Lilia leaned forward, lips seeming to swell and moisten again. "I would you were a danger to my maiden state."
Gregory stared, wordless.
Lilia leaned farther forward, then suddenly fell with a little shriek. Automatically, Gregory reached up and caught her waist. She fell right against him, he felt her breasts pressing against his chest, her thighs and hips against his, and his body's reaction was so embarrassing that he involuntarily stepped back.
But she stepped with him, still pressed up to him, lips smiling up, parting, eyes dreamy under heavy lids, head tilted to the side, voice husky as she said, "You are handsome and gentle and, I doubt not, patient, and likely to touch a woman with delicacy. I wish very strongly that you were a danger to my innocence."
It was the wrong word; Gregory protested in alarm, "Such a thing would be quite wrong, maiden! That pleasure is and should be reserved only for those who are wed!"
"Reserved? I think not." Smiling lazily, Lilia pressed even more tightly against him. "I have known many who shared a bed without benefit of clergy."
"And were they not shamed before all the world?" Gregory stammered.
"Not at all, for the lasses had drunk of a potion given them by a wise woman," Lilia said, "as have I. None needed know of it save the couple themselves."
Even with his emotions churning, Gregory's mind
caught the logical flaw. "Surely not so, damsel! For if these women
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were not exposed to public shame, how could you have come to know of them?"
"Servants gossip," Lilia breathed, and her breath was heated perfume. "Servants boast—and no, not the men alone! I have even heard three wantons arguing about who had bedded a handsome plowboy first!"
Gregory found that hard to believe but knew better than to question her veracity. "But. . . but not people of your class! Servants perhaps, but not young gentlewomen!"
"Pooh!" Lilia scoffed. "Why should they have all the fun? Come, sir, explore new delights with me!" She caught his hand and pressed it to her bosom.
Gregory tried to pull it away, but she held his wrist with surprising strength—or was it his weakness that was surprising?
"Come, sir, a beautiful woman invites you," she breathed, "and if you turn her away, she must suspect that you, too, are a virgin and afraid of real pleasure."
"That. . .that is so."
Lilia stared up at him, her hold loosening. "You feel no shame in saying it? But all men jeer at those who have never known the delights of a woman's embrace! None will admit it!"
"I will." Gregory began to feel a little confidence returning. "I have far greater interest in books than in sport, damsel, and I doubt that I would be a lover of any skill. I know nothing of how to give pleasure to a woman."
"Then learn with me," she breathed, pressing close again. "Let us learn together. Do you not hunger for experience?"
"Not at all," Gregory said quickly. "My ... my hunger is only for knowledge!"
"Then this is a whole realm of human knowledge of which you are innocent." Lilia's smile broadened again. "What manner of scholar could you be if you do not truly know what so many books tell? You may have as fine a chance as this again, sir, but never a better—and I am quite willing to risk clumsiness if I can be certain of gentleness!"
"No ... no one can be certain if a man loses his senses."
"Nay, with me you shall find your senses, or their true
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purpose, at least." Her voice was husky again. "Do you think a virgin wishes to marry a man who has no idea how to make love?"
It was the wrong tack; the argument Gregory had learned from monks came to the fore. "I never mean to marry, damsel—but if I did, I doubt not that marriage would badly need the power of that first lovemaking, which can be a bond of great strength between new wife and husband—and surely every such binding is vitally necessary to make a marriage last. The wedded state has need of every bond it can have, for there are so many strains upon it."
Lilia actually drew away an inch in repugnance. "If so, then perhaps that marriage should not endure! What strains are these that you imagine?"
"Why, poverty and bondage, but most of all the pressures of two people living side by side every day—two people trying to live with the fear of losing themselves in the whirlpool of family life, fearing even more to lose freedom, pride, and their ability to govern themselves."
"You mean fear of being dominated or enslaved!" Lilia drew farther away, anger sparking in her eyes.
Gregory shuddered within, for she was at least as beautiful in the one passion as in the other, and caught between the two, as she was at the moment, she was absolutely spectacular.
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"Even so," Gregory confirmed. "Mind you, I have seen many pass that barrier and forge a solid home in which each of those fears proved illusory, for they gained as much as they lost and more—but the strains were mighty and needed every bond to surmount them."
"Where did you hear of such things?" Lilia demanded.
"From the monks."
"Then to the monks you may go, sir! In truth, their sterile cloister is certainly the dessert of any man who has dispelled a romantic mood as thoroughly as you have! Go to the monks and do penance for the rest of your life, for the chance you have lost this moment!" With that, Lilia turned on her heel and stalked away. In seconds, she was gone around the curve of the road.
Gregory stood rigid for ten minutes more; then, sure she was out of sight and not apt to return, let himself crumple, collapsing to sit on the ground with his back to the oak, head bowed, whole frame trembling with the aftershock of the emotions she had roused in him. He assured himself frantically that the pleasures she promised must be far greater than anything she could actually provide, for her sensuousness was an illusion no doubt far more vivid than the reality could ever be—but his self still doubted, still longed to believe in that glamour.
He was very much aware that the woman was succeeding in rousing desire he had always been able to suppress or sublimate. He tried to be amused by the irony that she had ignited the very interest in sex that she had intended to eradicate in him; left to his own devices, he would probably have become a confirmed and celibate old bachelor, content with the com-
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pany of his books and always able to quell whatever minor hankering for feminine companionship arose.
Now, though, he wasn't sure. When he had finally managed to deliver Moraga to Runnymede and the judgement of the royal witchforce, when he had finally managed to purge his life of her, he was very much afraid that he would actually fall in love after all, and waste his energy and his intellect in lovemaking and caring for a family, like the tens of thousands of generations of men before him. He consoled himself with the thought that they must surely have been far happier woven into the fabric of their families than they would have been as lone and easily broken threads, but such joys were only rumors to him, the stuff of gossip and fiction, and with no experience of his own to corroborate them, he had difficulty believing.
Quicksilver rode into the courtyard with five warrior women behind her. As a concession to her fiance, they wore trousers and jerkins of stout brown broadcloth with cuirasses and greaves—Geoffrey had been so worried for her safety that he had threatened to escort her everywhere if she did not wear a little armor, and something to protect her fair skin from thorns and briars. Much though she loved the notion of having him with her wherever she went, Quicksilver loved even more being able to rise and go whenever she wished, so she wore tin clothes to please him. Besides, she would never have admitted it, but trousers did make for more comfortable riding than bare legs.
She dismounted, looking about her with a frown, but saw only Cordelia hurrying up to her. "Where is that gadabout brother of yours?'' she demanded, then remembered her manners. "Hail, lady."
"Hail to you, too, lady and captain." Cordelia stopped beside her and drew breath. "Your fiance has gone with mine— or mine with him, more accurately/' She laid a hand on Quicksilvers arm. "Rinse the dust from your face and come into the garden. We shall have a glass of wine while I tell you the manner of it."
Quicksilver frowned, but considered only a moment before
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she turned back to her squadron. 'Take your ease while you may, ladies. We may ride again ere long."
Fifteen minutes later, with Quicksilver washed, perfumed, and luxuriating in a silken gown, they sat in the walled garden beneath the solar. It was fifty feet square, crowded with curving flower beds on the sides, a fountain surrounded by more flowers in the center, and fruit trees espaliered against the walls. Half a dozen gardeners were at work, still planting new seedlings and dividing bulbs.
The two young women sat sipping spring wine and discussing the perfidies of young knights-errant who go haring off to save the peasantry with no thought to the ladies they leave behind.
"They have both gone gallivanting, then?" Quicksilver asked.
"Aye, to save a damsel in distress."
"Oh, have they indeed?" Quicksilver's eye glittered with jealousy. "And did not wait for me? How rude of them! Was the damsel comely?"
"She was, underneath the dust of her journey and the ashes of her hamlet—but I think they took little not
ice of that. They were fired with zeal to protect a whole village."
"That, at least, is worthy," Quicksilver admitted. "Still, they were fools not to bid you fly above to watch over them."
"Indeed," Cordelia said, her lips tight.
"Well, I shall rest an hour, then don my armor again and ride after them." Quicksilver tossed off the rest of her glass and refilled it.
"I am not sure that would be the wisest course," Cordelia said slowly.
"Wisest?" Quicksilver frowned. "With a baron and all his men to set about them? Surely they will need every sword they can find!"
"True, but surely Geoffrey can disable or confuse many of them with his magic," Cordelia said, "and there is always the chance that this baron, no matter how unscrupulous he is, will have the wisdom to heed the words of the heir apparent."
"I would say it was more apparent that he would give
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Alain the air!" Quicksilver eyed her future sister-in-law narrowly. ' 'Surely you do not say that simply because they have not asked our help means that we should not give it!"
"I am not truly worried about their health," Cordelia said. "Besides, should they be truly outnumbered, Geoffrey can summon me, and I may surely fly there quickly enough. Moreover, Gregory can be by him in an instant."
"Gregory is bound to escorting that hussy Moraga," Quicksilver reminded her, then looked past Cordelia to a gray-haired gardener. "Come, fellow, why choke on your own laughter? Let it out—and while you are about it, share the jest with us."
Cordelia turned in surprise, then frowned at the man's mirth. "How are you called, fellow?"
"Why, Tom Gardener, milady." The man knelt up straight and pulled his cap off his head. Then his face buckled with humor again and he dropped his gaze.
"We must be amusing indeed," Quicksilver observed.
"I shall remember what I have said, to divert Their Majesties," Cordelia replied with sarcasm, then turned back to Tom Gardener. "Speak, sirrah! Is our concern for our fiances so amusing as all that?"
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