Stasheff, Christopher - M'Lady Witch

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M'Lady Witch
M'Lady Witch
By Christopher Stasheff
ISBN: 0-441-00113-0
CHAPTER 1
"My son," said the King, "thy mother and I have decided that 'tis time thou wert wed."
"As thou dost wish, my father and sovereign." Alain bowed. "I shall inform the lady straightaway."
And he turned and strode out of the solar, leaving his parents gaping after him.
Wooden-faced, the sentry closed the door behind the Prince. The sound jarred King Tuan and Queen Catharine out of their shock.
"Who can he mean?" he asked, round-eyed.
"Who but Gwendylon's daughter?" It was characteristic of Catharine that she didn't mention Rod Gallowglass, Cordelia's father.
"The High Warlock's daughter!" Tuan had the opposite problem. "He must be stopped!" He rose from his chair. But Catharine restrained him with a
hand on his arm. "Let him be, husband. If he doth as I think he will do, he may learn a most signal lesson."
Much as she loved her son, Catharine knew him to be something of a conceited prig. Admittedly, the realization had only dawned on her this last
year, when the boy had turned twenty-one and she had finally begun to think of him as a swain going a-wooing. Looking at him in that light, she
had begun to realize that her son had some serious romantic defects. They all began with attitude, of course-but if she knew Cordelia, her son might
soon have that attitude corrected.
Alain rode the high way toward the High Warlock's castle with a high heart, enjoying the lovely spring day, the cascades of birdsong, and the ribald
chanting of his entourage-a dozen young knights in doublet and hose, their swords at their hips. He felt his whole being relaxing, surging upward in
delight. It was grand to be young and courting on a day such as this-it even made him feel moderately good-looking.
Actually, he was a handsome young man, though he had been raised with so much emphasis on modesty that he denied it to himself, relying instead
on his wardrobe. But he was well muscled, blond, with large blue eyes, a strong chin, and a straight nose; his face was open and ingenuous, though
usually too serious.
On a day like this, though, he was perilously close to admitting that he was attractive. He certainly felt so, for all the world must love a lover. And it
was such a relief to be away from Runnymede and his parents' court, from intrigue and the need to be formal and wary!
Alain didn't know it, of course, but the girl to whom he planned to propose was even more of a hot potato than a hot tomato. That wouldn't have
stopped him-he was a trouble-magnet himself; crown princes always are. Assassins and conspirators lie in wait for them, ready to seduce them into
plotting against their parents, or to kill them if they aren't seducible. That was why Alain travelled with a bodyguard of knights, and why his father
had made sure he was well trained with sword and battle-axe.
Cordelia, on the other hand, wasn't apt to have any bodyguards around; her parents cultivated the simple and humble image, as much as you can
when the King and Queen have insisted that you live in a castle. But she was easily more lethal than Alain could ever be, if she wanted to be-she
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was, in the eyes of the superstitious peasants, a witch, and a very powerful one.
Actually, she was an esper, a person born with powers of extrasensory perception and, in her case, extrasensory activity. She was a telepath, a
projective, a telekinetic ... and the list went on. About all she couldn't do was teleport.
Of course, it was possible that she might run into something that even she couldn't handle-say, an army or two. If that happened, all she had to do
was call for help from the Wee Folk, and a brigade or two of elves, pixies, and brownies would pop out of the woodwork to aid her. If anything
stopped them-such as too much Cold Iron, which tends to accumulate around knights-she could always send out a mental call for the rest of her
family, and her father would teleport to her, with her brothers right behind. Her mother would arrive a little later, by broomstick. The family had not
yet encountered any enemy that could stand against them-provided, of course, that nothing kept them apart.
Rod Gallowglass wasn't quite as adept at using his ESP powers as his wife and children were, because he had spent half his life under the blithe
impression that he was an ordinary mortal. Shortly after the birth of his fourth child, he had found out the hard way that he could work "magic," as
the local superstitious peasants called the results of his ESP work. He had decided that magic was catching.
Rod Gallowglass's late development was understandable, considering that he hadn't even known there was a planet where there were so many
espers, until he came there; he had been born and raised on a high-tech planetoid where the family business was the manufacturing of robots, and
had run away from home to spend his twenties bumming around the civilized, modern planets, looking for wrongs to right. Sometimes he wondered
how he had ever gotten into this situation. Then he would look at his wife, even now in her fifties, and decide it had just been good luck.
Being a little more honest with himself, he would admit that it had been a matter of needing a purpose in life. He had found one by becoming an
agent for the Society for the Conversion of Extraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms, an organization dedicated to spreading democracy by sniffing
out dictatorships and other forms of oppressive government, and steering their societies toward one of the many forms of democracy. Exploring the
galaxy for new totalitarian governments to topple, he had stumbled across Gramarye. Now he was assigned here for the rest of his life-because
SCENT knew how important Gramarye was going to be. Rod, on the other hand, had known how important the beautiful, voluptuous "witch"
Gwendylon was going to be, and had married her, cleaving unto her forever-and therefore, of course, to her planet and people, too.
The planet of Gramarye was the only place in the Terran sphere of colonized planets where so many espers existed. All the rest of the Terran planets
together had produced only a few rather weak telepaths-so Rod Gallowglass had a very important duty guarding the planet of Gramarye from
invasion and subversion by the agents of dictatorship and anarchy.
SCENT believed that one of the prime factors in keeping a democracy alive was speed of communications. If it takes too long to get a message from
the parliament to the frontier planets, the frontier planets will eventually set up their own governments and break away. The only way to prevent this
is to do away with democracy and resort to some form of government that keeps such a tight hold over its colonies that they can't break away-and
that tight hold always turns into oppression, in one form or another. So to keep democracy viable, the telepaths of Gramarye were going to be
absolutely essential.
Unfortunately, the future totalitarians knew that, tooand so did the future anarchists. Each of them had its own time-travel organization, dedicated to
fostering totalitarian governments (VETO) or to destroying governments altogether (SPITE)-and both were directly concerned with keeping
Gramarye from becoming a democracy.
Which meant they were out to kill Rod Gallowglass, if they could-and his family. Especially his children. They had found out, over the last couple
of decades, that they couldn't kill Rod-no matter how hard they tried, he always fought them off, and where he might have failed, his wife and her
elf-friends and children had beaten off his enemies for him. Together, they were unstoppable-but the Futurians could, at least, make sure his
influence didn't go on into future generations. They were bound and determined to kill his children if they could or, if they couldn't, to at least keep
them from having children of their own.
So far, the new SPITE chief, Finister, had succeeded in giving the eldest son, Magnus, a very unhealthy distaste for sex in any form, and especially
for women as sexual beings. As a result, he had left home to go traipsing around the galaxy, looking for wrongs to right and oppressive
governments to overthrow.
Now Finister had set her sights on Cordelia. How she would prevent Cordelia from ever being married, or even seduced, she didn't know-but she
would improvise. Half the fun of her job, she had decided, was in finding how things came out.
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So Alain rode through a golden morning, blithely unaware of the Futurian witch who was setting her sights on himself and his beloved. Not
knowing, he was able to delight in the day.
"How shall you greet the lady, Your Highness?" asked young Sir Devon.
"With cordiality and respect, Hall" It was such a pleasure to speak so freely, without all that ridiculous and unnecessary formality that the older folk
used. "Thee" this and "thou" that, when a simple "you" would suffice! "As I would greet any fine lady!"
Sir Devon didn't seem so sure. "Mayhap, Highness, you should treat her in some degree warmer than that."
"What? And have her forget that I am her sovereignto-be? Pooh, Hal! It would be beneath my station!"
Hal started to say something more, then bit his tongue. Alain saw. "Come, come! You must speak your mind with me, Hal-for if my own friends do
not, who will? What had you in mind to say?"
"Only that it is a perfect day for so joyous an occasion, Highness," Sir Devon said slowly.
"It is that." Alain looked around him with a broad grin. Yes, it was a perfect day to become engaged, to kiss a lucky maiden for the first time. The
thought was somewhat heady-he had always more or less planned to marry Cordelia, and the notion of actually doing so made his heart sing, though
it also roused a nervous fluttering in his stomach. However, he could ignore that-as he could overlook the fact that she wasn't a princess.
He also overlooked the possibility of sending a page ahead, to announce his coming.
Gregory looked up; pale light was beginning to lend color to the leafy roof overhead. He folded up his notes with a satisfied sigh; it had been a good
evening's watching, and he had learned quite a bit about the habits of the great horned owl. He rose to his feet with a wince as cramped muscles
protested, and noted that he must not be doing enough yoga exercises. If only eight hours of immobility for a night's watch made him stiff, how
would he endure the round-the-clock spell of meditation that he knew was coming? His mind was working itself up to that-when it brimmed over
with new knowledge, he would have to go into a trance to sort it all out. He didn't dare do that when Mother and Father were home, of course-but
they travelled a good deal these days, so he was free to keep night-long vigils in the forest if he chose, or twenty-four-hour sessions of meditation.
He knew it would worry his sister Cordelia, but she would only hover over him, not interrupt.
And, of course, there was the problem of trying to contact his eldest brother Magnus, halfway across the galaxy.
He felt the need of that, too, from time to time, and it was very demanding of both body and mind. Heaven knew the lad wrote seldom enough!
His body was making its needs felt in other ways, too. Gregory felt a pang of hunger, and decided, with regret, that he would just have to devote
half an hour to taking on some food. He made his way out of the forest and off toward the nearby village, where there was an inn that would be
serving breakfast.
As he came into the inn, the serving maid looked up, then gave him a very, very warm smile; her lips seemed to glisten, her eyes to grow larger.
Gregory gave her an automatic smile in return, instantly concerned-was the girl beset with a fever? But no, on closer look, he could see no other
symptoms-the swellings in her bodice looked natural enough.
He sat at a table, asked her for ale and porridge, then instantly forgot her as he noticed the motion of dust motes in a sun-ray that hinted at a pattern
...
Something tugged at his attention; irritated, he glanced at the wench's retreating back. He noticed the exaggerated swaying of her hips, and
remembered his older brother Geoffrey telling him that when a woman walked that way, she was seeking a dalliance. Then Gregory finally
remembered that the look on her face had been one that Geoffrey had told him of, too-but he also remembered his brother's caution that the lass
might have a shallow dalliance in mind, or a very deep one, or anything in between, and that a man had to move slowly, trying to read her
intentions, for frequently she wouldn't know them herself.
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It all sounded very tedious to Gregory, and singularly unproductive. He supposed that he would have to try it some day-but just now, he had far
more interesting matters to deal with. He was only sixteen, after all. And, to be quite frank, he couldn't imagine how the physical pleasures Geoffrey
described could ever approach the ecstasy of intellectual insight, the long hours of study and meditation that led to the rapture of new understanding
of natural phenomena.
Of course, women were natural phenomena, too-but somehow, he doubted that they wanted to be analyzed. And he was quite sure they didn't want
to be understood.
The drawbridge was down, the porter sitting at his ease on a stool in the shade of the gatehouse, cutting bits of apple and nibbling at them. He
stiffened abruptly at the cry of the sentry in the tower above; then the troop of horsemen came into view, and the guards snapped their halberds
down. "Who comes?"
"Alain, Prince of Gramarye!" cried the foremost knight, and behind him, the golden Prince himself sat, cocksure and smiling, head tilted back,
resplendent in cloth of gold and velvet, with a plume in his hat.
"Your Highness!" The porter bowed, his expressionless face hiding his surprise, almost shock, at the suddeness of the Prince's arrival. "I regret that
Lord and Lady Gallowglass are not within!"
"No matter, no matter," Alain said with careless generosity, "so long as the Lady Cordelia is. Say, are there any others of the family present?"
"His Lordship and Her Ladyship are away for the day, sir. I regret there are none here but the servants, the steward, and myself, saving Lady
Cordelia."
"A most excellent notion," Alain said with joviality. "Save her ladyship, indeed-and summon her!"
The porter blanched at the thought of "summoning" Lady Cordelia. He decided to summon the steward instead, and let him deal with the lady. After
all, porters were not paid that much.
Cordelia was in the stillery, brewing medicines to replace the stock depleted by the winter chills and agues and fevers of all the peasants on the
Gallowglass estates. She enjoyed the work, but it was tiring, not to say messy-her apron was spotted with the extracts of various herbs and the
mauve and purple from the juices of various berries. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, to keep loose strands from being caught in the
glassware. Her face, too, was smudged with touches of extract, bits of charcoal, and smudges of soot from tending the burners. The solution in the
alembic had just begun to boil up into the cooling tube when ...
...the steward stepped through the door and announced, very nervously, "Milady, Prince Alain has come to call on you. He awaits you in the solar."
"Blast!" Cordelia cried, instantly furious. "How dare he come unannounced! How durst he enter just as my brew has come to the boil!"
The steward stood mute, stretching out his hands in bewilderment.
"Well, there's no help for it!" Cordelia snapped, gaze going back to the cooling tube. Drops of distillate had begun to drip into a beaker. "Tell him I
will come directly." The steward bowed and left, relieved.
She would come as soon as the retort was empty and the beaker full, Cordelia decided-two hours' preparation would not be thrown away on a man's
oafish whim! As to appearances, well, he would just have to take her as she was.
Still, she patted her hair, wishing she had time to arrange it properly-not to mention donning a pretty gown and washing her hands and face.
Actually, she had very little cause for concern. Cordelia had grown into a very beautiful woman, though she gave it very little thought. There was so
much to do-peasants with illnesses, children who must be taught, women who must be aided in their daily burdens. Now and then, she might snatch
a few minutes to think about a new dress, or even steal an hour to work at making one. There were even odd moments when she would experiment
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with a new hairstyle, though those tended to be very, very early in the morning, and only on Sundays.
Makeup? She never thought of it-and never thought it would do her much good, either.
She was half right. Her complexion was flawless, her cheeks rosy, her lips so red that no paint could improve upon them. Her features were those of
the classic beauty, and the curves of her body were generous and perfectly proportioned. Her legs were long, her posture straight, almost regal.
Of course, these last were almost always hidden under a work-dress of strong, serviceable fabric. There was, after all, so very much to do.
Even the rough cloth could not hide her loveliness, though-from anyone but herself. Cordelia, of course, did not know she was a beauty.
"How dare he?" she fumed to herself, watching the last of the solution boil out of the retort. "What the devil could send him here at such a bad
time?"
Alain paced the solar, fretting and chafing. What could be keeping Cordelia so long? His sunny mood was beginning to cloud over, exposing the
nervousness underneath. He was remembering that he was proposing a liaison that would last twice as long as he had already lived, and was
beginning to wonder if he really wanted that. Still, his lieges, sovereigns, and parents had told him he should wed, so he would.
He consoled himself with the thought that Cordelia had no doubt rushed to dress in her finest and arrange her hair. It wasn't at all necessary, he
assured himself-but it was flattering.
So he was jolted to his boot-soles when she bustled into the room, unannounced and without ceremony, in a stained white work-apron and blue
broadcloth dress, her hair disordered and her face smudged. He stared in shock as she curtsied, then managed to force a smile. He didn't know which
was worse-the annoyance that rippled over her face as she looked up at him, or her distracted air, as though she had something more important on
her mind. More important than him!
"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."
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"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!"
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"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.
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"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.
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"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
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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.
Geoffrey turned to him with narrowed eyes.
"Hold!" Alain was jolted back to his senses. "'Tis me with whom he fights! Stand aside!"
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M'LadyWitchM'LadyWitchByChristopherStasheffISBN:0-441-00113-0CHAPTER1"Myson,"saidtheKing,"thymotherandIhavedecidedthat'tistimet\houwertwed.""Asthoudostwish,myfatherandsovereign."Alainbowed."Ishallinfo\rmtheladystraightaway."Andheturnedandstrodeoutofthesolar,leavinghisparentsgapingaf\terhim.Wooden-fa...

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