The Warlock in Spite of Himself wisoh-2

by Неизвестный

  "Eh, master?"

  "My food not good enough for you?"

  Big Tom stared, open-mouthed.

  "Come, on, come on!" Rod waved an arm impatiently. "And bring those biscuits with you; they'll go good fried in hamfat."

  Big Tom opened and closed his mouth a few times, then nodded vaguely and stood up.

  The water was boiling; Rod pried the lid off the coffeepot and threw in a handful of grounds. He looked up as Big Tom came to the fire, brow furrowed, staring.

  Rod's mouth turned down at the corner. "Well, what're you looking at?Never saw a campfire before?"

  "Thou bid me eat with my master!"

  Rod scowled. "Is that some major miracle? Here, give a drag of that ale-skin, will you? That road gets dusty."

  Tom nodded, eyes still fixed on Rod's, and held out the skin. Rod took a swig, looked up, and frowned. "What's the matter? Never saw a man take a drink? What am I, some alien monster?"

  Tom's mouth closed; his eyes turned dark and brooding.

  Then he grinned, laughed, and sat down on a rock. "Nay, master, nay. Thou'rt a rare good man, and that only. Nay, only that!"

  Rod frowned. "Why, what's so rare about me?"

  Tom threw two cakes of hardtack into the frying pan and looked up, grinning. "In this country, master, a gentleman does not take food with his servant."

  "Oh, that!" Rod waved the objection away. "It's just you and me out here on the road, Big Tom. I don't have to put up with that nonsense."

  "Aye," Big Tom chuckled. "A most wonderous rare man, as I said."

  "And a fool, eh?" Rod served up two slices of ham on wooden saucers. "Guess we eat with our knives, Tom. Dig in."

  They ate in silence, Rod scowling at his plate, Tom leaning back and looking out over the countryside.

  They were at the head of a small valley, filled now with the morning mist, a trap for small sunbeams. The sun lurked over the hedges, and the mist was golden.

  Tom grinned as he chewed and jerked his thumb toward the valley. " Tis the end of the rainbow, master."

  "Hm?" Rod jerked his head up. He smiled sourly; it was, after all, more of a pot of gold then he'd had any right to expect.

  Tom gave a rumbling belch and picked at his teeth with his dagger. "A golden mist, master, and mayhap golden girls within it."

  Rod swallowed quickly and objected. "Oh, no! No tomcatting on the side of this trip, Big Tom! We've got to get down to the South and get down there fast!"

  "Eh, master!" Tom wailed in shocked protest, "what harm another hour or four, eh? Besides"—he sat forward and poked Rod in the ribs, grinning—"I'll wager thou'lt outdo me. What lasses may not a warlock have, mm?… Eh, what's the matter?"

  Rod wheezed and pounded his chest. "Just a piece of hardtack having an argument with my gullet. Tom, for the umpteenth penultimate unprintable time, I am not a warlock!"

  "Oh, aye, master, to be sure!" Big Tom said with a broad-lipped grin. "And thou mayst be certain thou'rt as poor a liar as thou art an executioner."

  Rod frowned. "I haven't killed a man the whole time I've been here!"

  "Aye, and this is my meaning."

  "Oh." Rod turned and looked out over the fields. "Well, you might as well add lover to that list of things I'm not good at, Tom."

  The big man sat forward, frowning, searching Rod's face. "In truth, I think he doth mean it!"

  "Be sure that I doth."

  Tom sat back, studying his master and tossing his dagger, catching it alternately by the hilt and the point. "Aye, thou speakest aright of thy knowledge." He sat forward, looking into Rod's eyes. "And therefore shall I dare to advise thee."

  Rod grinned and gave him a hollow laugh. "All right, advise me. Tell me how it's done."

  "Nay." Tom held up a palm. "That much I am sure that you knowest. But it is these farm girls against which I must caution thee, master."

  "Oh?"

  "Aye. They are—" Tom's face broke into a grin. "Oh, they are excellent, master, though simple. But"—he frowned again—"never give them a trace of a hope."

  Rod frowned too. "Why not?"

  " 'Twill be thy undoing. Thou mayst love them well, master, once—but once only. Then must thou leave them, right quickly, and never look back."

  "Why? I'll be turned into a pillar of salt?"

  "Nay, thou'It be turned into a husband. For once given the merest shred of hope, master, these farm girls will stick tighter than leeches, and thou' It never be rid of them."

  Rod snorted. "I should have a chance to worry about it! Come on, drink up your coffee and mount up."

  They doused the fire and packed up, and rode down into the red-gold mist.

  They had gone perhaps three hundred yards when a long-drawn alto voice hailed them.

  Rod looked up, tensed and wary.

  Two big peasant girls stood with pitchforks at the base of a haystack in one of the fields, laughing and waving.

  Big Tom's eyes locked on them with an almost-audible click. "Eh, master! Pretty little mopsies, are they not?"

  They were pretty, Rod had to admit—though certainly anything but little. They were both full-hipped and high-breasted, wearing loose low-cut blouses and full skirts, their hair tied in kerchiefs. Their skirts were girded up to their knees, to keep them from the dew on the hay.

  They beckoned, their laughter a mocking challenge. One of them set her hands on her hips and executed a slow bump-and-grind.

  Big Tom sucked his breath in, his eyes fairly bulging. "Eh, now, master," he pleaded, "are we in so much of a hurry as all that?"

  Rod sighed, rolling his eyes up, and shook his head. "Well, I'd hate to see them suffering from neglect, Big Tom. Go ahead."

  Tom kicked his horse with a yelp of joy, leaped the ditch, and galloped full tilt into the field. He was out of the saddle before the horse slowed past a trot, catching a girl in each arm, lifting them off the ground and whirling them about.

  Rod shook his head slowly, saluted Big Tom and his playmates, and turned away to find a neighboring haystack where he could catnap in peace.

  "Rod," said the quiet voice behind his ear.

  "Yes, Fess?"

  "Your conducts disturbs me, Rod. It's not natural for a healthy young male."

  "It's not the first time someone's told me that, Fess. But I'm methodical; I can't keep two girls on my mind at once."

  He found another haystack just over the next hedge. Rod parked in the shadow and unbridled Fess, who began to crop at the hay, to keep up appearances. Rod remounted and jumped from the horse's back to the top of the haystack and wallowed down into the soft, fragrant hay with a blissful sigh. The pungent smell of new-mown hay filled his head, taking him back to his boyhood in the field of his father's manor, during haying time; a real Eden, without any soft, nubile problems to run around creating havoc. Just robots.

  He watched the gilt-edged clouds drifting across the turquoise sky, not realizing when he dozed off.

  He came wide awake and stayed very still, wondering what had wakened him. He ran through the catalog of sensations that were apt to start the alarm clock ringing in his subconscious.

  Somebody was near.

  His eyes snapped open, every muscle in his body tensed to fight.

  He was looking into a very low-cut bodice.

  He raised his eyes from the pleasant pastoral view, a task which required no small amount of willpower, and saw two large sea-green eyes looking into his. They were long-lashed, moist, and looked worried.

  Their surroundings came into focus: arched eyebrows, a snub nose sprinkled with freckles, a very wide mouth with full, red lips, all set in a roundish face framed in long, flowing red hair.

  The full red lips were pouting, the eyes were troubled.

  Rod smiled, yawned, and stretched. "Good morning."

  The pouting lips relaxed into a half-smile. "Good morning, fine gentleman."

  She was sitting beside him, propped on one hand, looking into his eyes.

  "Why do you sleep h
ere alone, sir, when nearby a woman awaits your call?"

  It felt as though someone had just poured bitters into Rod's circulatory system; a thrill, and not completely a pleasant one, flooded through him.

  He smiled, trying to make it warm. "I thank you, lass, but I'm not feeling gamesome today."

  She smiled, but there was still a frown between her eyes. "I thank you for your gentleness, sir; but I scarce can credit your words."

  "Why?" Rod frowned. "Is it so impossible that a man shouldn't want a frolic?"

  The girl gave a forlorn half of a laugh. "Oh, it might be, milord, but scarce is it likely. Not even with a peasant, and even less with a lord."

  "I'm not a lord."

  "A gentleman, then. That, surely, thou art. And therefore, surely, thou wouldst never lack interest."

  "Oh?" Rod raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

  She smiled, sadly. "Why, milord, a peasant might fear forced marriage; but a lord, never."

  Rod frowned again and studied the girl's face. He judged her to be a little younger than himself, about twenty-nine or thirty.

  And for a peasant girl in this kind of society to be unmarried at thirty… ^

  He threw out an arm. "Come here to me, lass."

  There was hope, for a moment, in the girl's eyes; but it faded quickly, was replaced by resignation. She fell into the hay beside him with a sigh, rolling onto her side to pillow her head on his shoulder.

  Hope, Rod mused, very conscious of her breasts and hips against the side of his body. Hope to be tumbled, and thrown away…

  He shuddered; and the girl raised her head, concerned. "Art chilled, milord?"

  He turned to her and smiled, a sudden wave of gratitude and tenderness surging up to clog his throat.

  He clasped her tight against him, closing his eyes to better savor the touch of her body against his own. An aroma filled his head, not rose-oil or lilac, but simply the salt-sweet scent of a woman.

  A pain was ebbing away inside him, he realized, faintly surprised, a pain that he had not known was there till it began to leave him.

  She clung to him, fists clenched in the cloth of his doublet, face pressed into the angle of his neck and shoulder.

  Then, gradually, he began to relax again, his embrace loosening. He lay very still, letting the focus of his mind widen, open him again to the world around him; faint in the distance he heard birdsong, and the gossip of the wind through the hedges and trees. Somewhere near his head, a cricket chirped in the hay.

  Her embrace had loosened with his; her arms and head lay leaden on him now.

  He kept his eyes closed, the sun beating down on the lids; he lay in crimson light, "seeing" the world with his ears.

  There was a rustle, and her body rose away from his; she had sat up now. She would be looking down at him, hurt aching in her eyes, lower lip trembling, a tear on her cheek.

  Pity welled up in him, pity for her and, close behind it, anger at himself; it wasn't her fault that all he wanted just now was peace, not romance.

  He opened his eyes, rolling onto his side and frowning up at her.

  But there was no hurt in her eyes—only a grave, deep acceptance, and concern.

  She raised her fingertips to his cheek, shyly, not quite touching the skin. He caught it, nestling the palm against the line of his jaw, and was amazed at how small her hand was in his own.

  He closed his eyes, pressing her hand tighter.

  A cow lowed far away; the wind chuckled in the grain.

  Her voice was low, and very gentle. "Milord, use me as you will. I ask no more."

  I ask no more… . Love, she must have love, if only for a minute, even if desertion came hard on its heels; even if looking back, she must know that it was lust, and not love. Even if it brought only sorrow and pain, she must have love.

  He looked into her eyes; they held tears.

  He closed his eyes again, and Catharine's face was before him, andTuan's face next to hers. A part of him stood back, aloof, and contemplated the faces; it remarked on how well they looked together, the beautiful princess and the gallant young knight.

  Then his own face came up next to Tuan's, and, compare, the aloof part of him murmured, compare.

  Rod's hands tightened, and he heard the peasant girl give a little cry of startled pain.

  He let go his grip, and looked up at her; and Catharine's face swam next to hers.

  He looked on the two of them, the one bent on using him, the other bent on being used by him, and anger suddenly burned in a band across his chest, anger at Catharine for her self-righteousness and determination to bend her world to her will; and at the peasant girl for her mute acceptance and deep resignation, for the depth of her warmth and her gentleness. The band of anger across his chest tightened and tightened, anger at himself for the animal in him, as his fingers bit into her shoulders, and he drew her down in the hay. She gasped with the pain, crying out softly till his lips struck hers, crushing and biting and bruising, his fingers clamped on the points of her jaw, forcing her mouth open and his tongue stabbed hard under hers. His hand groped over her body, fingers jabbing deep into the flesh, lower and lower, gnawing and mauling.

  Then her nails dug into his back as her whole body knotted in one spasm of pain. Then she went loose, and her chest heaved under him in one great sob.

  Half his anger sublimed into nothingness; the other half turned about and lanced into him, piercing something within him that loosed a tide of remorse.

  He rolled to the side, taking his weight off her. His lips were suddenly gentle, warm and pleading; his hands were gentle, caressing slowly, soothingly.

  She drew in breath, her body tensing again. Fool, the detached voice within him sneered, Fool! You only hurt her the more!

  Ready to turn away from her in shame, he looked up into her eyes… and saw the longing burning naked there, craving and demanding, pulling him down into the maelstrom within her. Her lips parted, moist and full and warm, tugging and yielding, pulling him down and down, into blind, light-flooded depths where there was no sight nor hearing, but only touch upon touch.

  Rod levered himself up on one elbow and looked down at the girl, lying naked beside him with only his cloak for a rather inadequate coverlet. It clung to her contours, and Rod let his eyes wander over them, drinking in the sight of her, fixing every feature of her body in his mind. It was a picture he did not want to lose.

  He caressed her, gently, very tenderly. She smiled, murmured, closing her eyes and letting her head roll to the side.

  Then her eyes opened again; she looked at him sidelong, her lips heavy and languid.

  "You have emerald eyes," Rod whispered.

  She stretched luxuriously, her smile a little smug, wrapped her arms around his neck, and hauled him down to her, her kisses slow, almost drowsy, and lasting.

  Rod looked into her eyes, feeling enormously contented and very much at peace with the world. Hell, the world could go hang!

  He raised himself up again, his eyes upon her; then, slowly, he looked away and about them, and the blue of the sky arching overhead… and a mound of clothing to each side.

  He looked down again; there was nothing in his world now except her, and he found, vaguely surprised , that he rather liked it that way. The peace within him was vast; he felt completely filled, completely satisfied with the world, with life, at one with them and with God—and with her most of all.

  He let his hand linger over the cloaked curve of her breast. She closed her eyes, murmuring; then, as his hand stilled, she looked up at him again. Her smile faded to a ghost; concern stole into her eyes.

  She started to say something, stopped, and said instead, almost warily, "Are you well, lord?"

  He smiled, his eyes very sober; then he closed them and nodded, slowly.

  "Yes. I am very well."

  He bent to kiss her again—slowly, almost carefully—then lifted away. "Yes, I am well, most strangely well, more than I have ever been."

  The smile lit her f
ace again, briefly; then she turned her eyes away, looking down at her body, then up at him again, her eyes touched with fear.

  He clasped her in his arms and rolled onto his back. Her body stiffened a moment, then relaxed; she gave a little cry, half sob and half sigh, and burrowed her head into the hollow of his shoulder and was still.

  He looked down at the glory of her hair spread out over his chest. He smiled lazily and let his eyes drift shut.

  "Rod." Fess's voice whispered behind his ear, and the world came flooding in again.

  Rod tensed, and clicked his teeth once in acknowledgment.

  "Big Tom is dressed again, and coming toward your haystack."

  Rod sat bolt upright, squinted up at the sun; it was almost to the meridian. Time and distance nagged him again.

  "Well, back to the world of the living," he growled, and reached out for his clothes.

  "Milord?"

  She was smiling regretfully, but her eyes were tight with hurt—a hurt which faded into the deep acceptance and resignation even as he watched.

  "The memory of this time will be dear to me, lord," she whispered, clasping the cloak to her breast, her eyes widening.

  It was a forlorn plea for reassurance, a reassurance he could not honestly give, for he would never see her again.

  It came to him then that she was expecting refusal of any reassurance, expecting him to lash out at her for her temerity in implying that she had some worth, that she was worthy of thanks.

  She knew her plea would bring hurt, yet she pled; for a woman lives on love, and this was a woman near thirty in a land where girls married at fifteen. She had already accepted that there was to be no lasting love in her life; she must subsist on the few crumb's she could gather.

  His heart went out to her, somewhat impelled by the jab of self-reproach.

  So, of course, he told her one of the lies that men tell women only to comfort them, and later realize to be very true.

  He kissed her and said, "This was not Life, lass, it was what living is for."

  And later, when he mounted his horse and turned back to look at her, with Big Tom beside him waving a cheery farewell to his wench, Rod looked into the girl's eyes again and saw the desperation, the touch of panic at his leaving, the silent, frantic plea for a shred of hope.