Warlock's Last Ride wisoh-13

by Christopher Stasheff

  "I understand he's not terribly happy about it."

  "Sure," Rod said with a bleak smile. "Who would be? But it's part of being duke—he has to carry out his responsibilities."

  "The poacher's wife is on her way to plead with the judge—Diarmid—for her husband's life," Magnus said. "He's a squire, you see, and had a bad harvest, so he was bringing the peasants venison to smoke and store for the winter."

  "Deer?" Rod looked up. "Plural?"

  "Sixteen," Magnus said.

  Rod whistled. "Not much chance of claiming it was an accident or a drunken prank, is there? Or of promising he won't do it again."

  "Very little," Magnus agreed, "but it gets worse."

  "Worse?" Rod stared. "He's a squire who has purposefully poached sixteen deer, and it gets worse?"

  Magnus nodded. "He's Anselm Loguire's son."

  "You mean Diarmid has to pass judgment on his cousin?"

  "First cousin," Magnus said with a sardonic smile. 'Thanks for taking care of it, Dad."

  Leaves rustled and he was gone. Rod stared after him, feeling numb.

  Then he sighed and turned back to the fire, but could see only a lovely face with flame-red hair in its place. He looked upward to the patch of sky visible between branches and thought, Sorry, dear—it's going to take a little longer than I expected. Have to take care of the children, you know.

  His body warmed as though wrapped in a loving embrace, and he felt fond reassurance fill him. Then it was gone, but he knew that Gwen understood. Even more, he knew she was waiting.

  ROD HEARD THE sobbing before he could see anything but leaves. It was off to his left, but moving. "Fess, how far into the woods is that woman?"

  Fess turned his ears forward, triangulating from the space between them. "Approximately a hundred yards, Rod, but I hear also the sound of hooves—about a dozen horses, I would say—moving at the same rate as she, and in the same direction."

  "So she's riding with a small band." Rod frowned. "Just an escort, or is she a prisoner?"

  "I can only conjecture, Rod."

  "Which I know you abhor." Rod smiled. "Okay, I'll guess that she's a gentlewoman at least, riding with an honor guard. If they were her captors, I'd be hearing lewd jokes and loud conversation." Rod frowned, turning his attention to the realm of thoughts; it still didn't come as easily to him as it did to his children. Or their mother… "Actually, she's a noblewoman with her guards, and something horrible has happened to her husband; she's on her way to see him. Do you hear crunching of leaves and twigs?"

  "None, Rod."

  "Then they're coming down a road that crosses ours. Let's see if we can't get there ahead of them, shall we?"

  Fess picked up the pace, extruding the rubber horseshoes that let him move almost silently. "I can see the intersection, Rod. It is at an acute angle."

  "Then let's step into that angle and spy through the leaves."

  "Reconnoiter, Rod, please! I have always told you not to spy."

  "Yes, Mama," Rod sighed. "Just so we can see what we'll be running into."

  Fess stepped off the shoulder and found a path that required the least amount of brushing against branches or stepping on sticks. Through the screen of leaves, Rod could see a young woman riding sidesaddle with six liveried men in half-armor before her and six behind. He nodded and said softly, "Okay. To the intersection."

  They rode out just before the first of the lady's guards reached the cross-roads.

  "Ho, fellow!" barked the lead man.

  Rod turned back in polite surprise, then smiled with pleasure. "Company! Where are you bound, soldier?" Then he lifted his head as though seeing the young woman for the first time. "Oh! Riding escort?"

  "We are," growled another soldier, "and you keep a civil tongue in your head, for she's our squire's lady."

  All the other soldiers rumbled agreement even though, strictly, a squire's wife wasn't entitled to the title of "lady." This close, Rod noticed that the livery and the armor didn't quite fit the men who wore it. That, and their devotion to the lady in question, gave him a notion he was dealing with volunteers—and enthusiastic ones at that. "Good day to you, lady! Where are you bound?"

  'To Loguire, sir, to meet my husband." The lady lifted her veil to give him a close look; Rod caught his breath. The lady was gorgeous; her beauty was dazzling, even through the signs of recent tears. She seemed to decide he was relatively harmless. "And you?"

  'To Loguire, also, to speak with the reeve about my taxes." Rod fell in beside her. "I take it your husband is doing the same."

  "Nay." Her face clouded again. "Oh, he has gone there for the reeve, sure enough, but…" She choked on sobs and turned her head away.

  "That sounds as though it wasn't all his choice," Rod said gravely. "What manner of trouble is he in?"

  The lady seemed torn, wanting to speak of it but ashamed to—so a grizzled guardsman leaned forward and said, "Our people were looking at a winter of starvation, traveler. Our squire did as he should and sought to find ways to feed us."

  "Poaching?" Rod stared, then turned to the lady. "But surely, if he had a good reason …"

  "What matters that to the King?" she asked.

  "The Crown isn't unreasonable," Rod said. "Surely with someone to plead your husband's case …"

  "There is only his father," the lady said sadly, "and he is attainted."

  "Attainted?" Rod scowled, "Well, I'm not! Tell me a bit more about the case, and maybe I can help."

  The men muttered with interest, and the lady looked up at him as though afraid to hope. "If you are a knight, the reeve may hear you—but by your clothes, I would guess you to be only a yeoman."

  "Just travelling clothes," Rod said. "A man doesn't have to wear his rank openly and, personally, I believe that quality shows through the clothes, for better or for worse. I am indeed a knight, good woman, and my name is Rodney."

  "I am Rowena, Sir Rodney." Her face came alight with hope allowed. "Will you truly plead my husband's case?"

  "I can't say without knowing the facts. What kind of creatures did he kill, and how many of them?"

  "Sixteen," she said bitterly. "Stole sixteen of the King's precious deer, and must be hanged for any. Never mind that sixty good people were like to starve next winter if he did not!"

  "Never mind is exactly what the reeve may do." At least this was the party he'd come to find. "If he were a knight or a lord, he might be able to plead privilege, but a squire has far greater cause to fear the rope."

  "Not rope." The lady lifted her head with pride. "My Geordie will be hanged with a golden chain." Then, as if to explain her pride, she added, " Tis not the chain of many."

  "Yes, I know." Chains were reserved for nobility—but only someone related directly to the Crown warranted the dubious honor of being hanged with a golden one. "Your Geordie, then, is cousin to the Queen?"

  'To her husband," the lady explained. "He is the King's nephew—and first cousin to the Crown Prince."

  "A Loguire?" Rod nodded slowly. "Then there may be some grounds to plead privilege."

  "Not when his father is attainted," she said bitterly.

  Well, she hadn't married as a social climber, anyway. Geordie must be a very handsome young man to have attracted so lovely a bride when his prospects were so poor. "The harvest has been good this year, lady. Why would your people have been likely to starve?"

  "Mold in the bins," she answered, and proceeded to tell him the whole tale as they rode. When she was done, Rod said what he could to reassure her, but he had a bad feeling about the case. Unless the judge was merciful, Geordie would hang surely, and his father would lead a rebellion that none would blame him for.

  Of course, if Diarmid did grant mercy, someone was bound to cry favoritism and start a rebellion on the grounds of corruption.

  Still, one crisis at a time. Rod drew Rowena out as they rode on, and by the time they rode into the town that had grown up around Castle Loguire, Rod had decided that Geordie had unquesti
onably broken the law—but had equally unquestionably had only the best of reasons for doing so. Too bad he hadn't applied to the reeve for an official exception—but maybe he'd known he couldn't make this particular reeve listen to reason.

  Rod hoped he could.

  THE LAST ROW of wheat fell, and the men dropped their scythe-bladed cradles with a whoop of joy, then turned to help with gathering the stalks into sheaves—and there would be many kisses shared as the sheaves were stacked, as there always were.

  None for Diru, though. He found a place in the line and bent, spreading his arms wide to scoop up an armful of stalks, then took another to bind them together.

  "If people could only gather as closely as their sheaves, eh, Diru?"

  Diru looked up in astonishment. It was Ria, one of the girls of the village, actually talking to him! "Why … why, yes," he stammered, and cudgeled his brain trying to think of something to say. His tongue seemed to tie a knot in itself, though, even though Ria wasn't the beauty that Lenar and her friends were. Still, she was pretty enough, and it was an amazing pleasure to have her talking to him.

  "Maybe we're all like stalks of wheat," Ria said, "no use unless we're all bound together."

  "I… I suppose that's what a village is," Diru stammered.

  "A good thought." Ria nodded with approval.

  Approval! of Diru!

  "But if we're a sheaf, then we ought to press against each other, shouldn't we?"

  Dim couldn't stop staring. She couldn't really be flirting with him! Not with him! But he told himself that it would be rude not to answer and said, "I suppose that's what we all want."

  "All?" Ria's eyelids flickered. "Folk say you're happier alone, Dim. Are you sure you want other stalks to press you?"

  "Oh, very sure!" Dim said fervently, then realized he was being too forthright. He tried to pull away a little. "I mean, I wouldn't want to be a hermit living alone in the woods."

  "How about a hermit with someone else living with you?"

  Dim couldn't believe his ears. She couldn't be hinting that she found him attractive. No woman could—could she? "I—I suppose that if you have someone living with you, you're not a hermit."

  "Still, it sounds lovely, being just two people alone out in the woods." Ria scooped up an armful of sheaves and went to carry them to the shock.

  Diru scooped up his own sheaves and hurried to keep up with her. "It would be good enough if we could all pull together the rest of the year, as we do at harvest."

  "But there should be some times when people can be alone together." Ria set her sheaves against the shock; as she turned away and Diru stepped up, her breast brushed against the back of his hand.

  Diru stood frozen an instant. No woman had ever touched him, let alone a touch like that! Then he hurried to set his sheaves and turned to catch up with Ria. "I've felt sorry whenever I've heard of a hermit," Diru said. "People aren't meant to live alone."

  "And they're not always meant to be serious." Ria turned to him with a smile, eyelashes flickering. "We're meant to do things together—aren't we, Diru?"

  Diru's heart leaped. "Why … of course," he stammered, "things like the Festival tomorrow night." He screwed up his courage and burst out, "Will you dance with me there, Ria?"

  "Dance with you?" He saw the delight in her eyes, and for a moment, his hopes soared.

  They came crashing down as she threw back her head and laughed. The other young folk looked up at the sound, already grinning.

  "Why, Diru!" she said very loudly. "Are you flirting with me?"

  Diru tried to answer, his mouth moved, but no words came.

  "Diru's flirting with me!" she called to the other young folk. "He's asked me to dance with him tomorrow night!"

  Hoots of derision came from every side, howls of laughter, and Diru's face burned.

  "Getting ideas a little above your station, aren't you, Diru?" Lenar came forward, eyes alight with merriment.

  "Yes, Diru!" one of her friends said, giggling. "You should be asking someone with your own kind of looks. An elk, perhaps?"

  "Oh, an elk's far too pretty!" another girl cried. "Diru should flirt with a bear!"

  "Yes, Diru!" Hirol stepped up behind Lenar. "Maybe a she-bear would let you cuddle up to hibernate with her!"

  "Yes, somebody must want you to cuddle!" Arker stepped up beside Ria and slipped his arm around her shoulders. "Nobody human, of course, but somebody." Ria laughed with him, clinging to his arm and pressing against him, eyes mocking as she looked at Diru.

  Diru's face burned, but he burned hotter within, standing there in the middle of a ring of mocking laughter and realizing how they had laid their trap, and how eagerly he had fallen into it. It had all been a joke, a great big joke, to see Diru make a fool of himself—the beginning of the Harvest Festival merriment. He could see it all—it had been Lenar or Hirol who had thought of it, but Ria had been quick to agree, since she wanted so badly to be part of Lenar's circle—all the girls did, and this had been her chance. Then they had told all the other young people about their wonderful jest, one destined to be famous in the village for a lifetime—how pretty Ria made a fool out of ugly Diru!

  Wordless, he turned and blundered his way out of the circle, the laughter of mockery filling his ears. He stalked away, but they kept pace with him for a hundred yards as the anger within him swelled and swelled—but he knew what would happen if he lashed out, for the boys had given him beatings enough before. In misery, he waded through that torrent of laughter until the trees enfolded him with their blessed coolness and the sounds of merriment began to fade behind him. There was little point in following him into the woods, of course. One last taunt came behind him: "Oh, leave him alone! He's gone to propose to that bear we told him about."

  And one last burst of laughter.

  Diru ploughed ahead toward the depth of the woods, not really knowing where he was going or why, filled with misery and rage. Some day he would have his revenge, on Ria and Lenar and Hirol and Acker—on all of them, the adults who had always sneered at him, the youths who had mocked him since childhood. How, he had no idea, but he would have revenge!

  Then the idea struck, and he froze, staring off into the trees, realizing just how he could have that revenge—and not a year or more from now, but tomorrow! He set off through the woods again, but with a sense of purpose now, going as quickly as he could toward the river.

  THEY RODE INTO the town square, a rough circle perhaps a hundred feet across, surrounded by half-timbered three-story houses, each with a shop of some sort on the ground floor—but all were shut, and the townsfolk glum as they gathered around the scaffold set in the center of the square, its raw wood rough and uneven. At its left end rose a set of bleachers, separated from the scaffold by ten feet of space and fifty men-at-arms, their spears bristling—but their liveries were not those of Loguire. They matched the rich colors of the robes of the men who sat on the board seats, fine clothing of satins and velvets that displayed their wealth and power, and the swords at their sides proclaimed not only their military training, but also their readiness to use them to start a war if they didn't like the verdict.

  Rod drew breath, chilled as he realized a rebellion could break out right here—or a civil war; he saw a dozen knights sitting on their horses at the far end of the scaffold with a score of men-at-arms behind them and many more sprinkled throughout the crowd. The judge had taken military precautions, but his own armed force wasn't going to prevent a battle. Only clear thought and keen judgement could do that.

  Between the judge's high chair at the one end of the scaffold and Anselm and his allies at the other, stood the gallows. The late afternoon sunlight glistened on the golden chain hanging from it.

  Rod stared. "I hadn't known we had come to witness Geordie's execution!"

  "Nor had I." Rowena slipped off her horse's back; several of her guards leaped down to help her, but she was already climbing the rough stairs. "I must plead for him!" She almost ran to the young
man who sat in the seat of judgement and threw herself to her knees, head bowed— but Rod took one look at that young man and knew how slim her chances were. Diarmid Loguire was supremely logical, and prided himself on his ability to banish emotion in his consideration of a problem.

  Rod felt a chill wind blow that did not stir the leaves of the surrounding trees and had nothing to do with the weather. If clear thinking and sound judgement were all that could prevent a war from beginning here, they could all be in deep trouble. Rod had faith in Diarmid's ability to think clearly, but he wasn't so sure about his sense of judgement. Diarmid was not a people person.

  Quickly, Rod scanned the others who stood on the platform. Nearest him stood three older men, all looking grim. In their center was a lean, clean-shaven, gray-headed man with a bitter face. Rod recognized him—the King's elder brother Anselm, attainted for treason, demoted to the rank of squire, and doomed to live out his life in obscurity. Rod had heard that Anselm had wed and would have loved to have met his wife, to see the amazing woman who had married a man doomed to a life of shame. She must have really loved him.

  Behind Anselm and his colleagues stood a dozen men-at-arms in his livery. Rod felt his scalp prickle.

  Then, looking toward the center of the platform, he saw a young man standing bare-chested with his hands tied behind his back, beneath the golden chain—a black-haired young man who was amazingly handsome. That must be Geordie, and suddenly Rod could see why Rowena had been attracted to him. Anselm's wife must have been a very unusual woman indeed, one who could have married much better than an attainted nobleman who could give her no better life than any yeoman could—for she must have been radiantly beautiful. Geordie certainly didn't get his looks from his dowdy father.

  "Mercy, kind judge!" Rowena threw her veil back, looking up at Diarmid with wide eyes that glistened with tears, giving him the full benefit of her astounding beauty. "Have mercy on my husband, I beg you!"

  There was a stir and a murmur among the lords behind Anselm—and another to answer it, among the men-at-arms, even from the knights and troopers behind Diarmid. In fact, the whole crowd seemed to breathe as every man sighed with admiration and longing. Lady Rowena's beauty moved them all, and her tragic tears and vulnerability made every man there long to leap to her defense.