The Warlock's Last Ride (31 page)

Magnus was still for a minute, thinking it over. Rod was surprized that his son didn't seem to have considered the issue before. "Not a relevant question?"

Magnus shrugged. "She met me before she met the wild-dog pack. I had to pretend to ignore her except to leave food where she could take it but still have a head start if I tried to attack."

Rod nodded. "She couldn't know you were safe, after all."

"She must have had some suspicion of the sort," Magnus said. "She travelled near me for the next few days until she plucked up the courage to talk with me—and I had to be very careful not to say or do the slightest thing that could even seem to be threatening."

"But you were a stranger, far too tall to be one of her own kind," Rod said, "and, I take it, too short to be a giant?"

"For once in my life, yes." Magnus smiled.

"So it must have taken a great deal of courage to trust you at all."

"Great courage indeed." Magnus nodded. "That was what I first admired in her—her bravery in facing the wilds by herself: the savage animals, the unknown, the unexpected …"
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"Including you," Rod said. "How well could she survive by herself now?"

"Oh, very well," Magnus assured him. "She knows how to fight, bare-handed or with a staff, and knows how to find food in the woods. Then too, she turned out to have some psi talent—how much, I'm still not sure …"

"Which means it must be considerable."

"Exactly. She has learned how to use her powers enough to be formidable in her own right—and she's sharp-tongued enough to scare off any animal that can understand speech."

Rod glanced up quickly, looking for signs that Magnus had suffered the sharp edge of that tongue, but the young man's face was tranquil as he gazed into the fire, giving away nothing. "No chance she's an emotional basket-case?"

"Not once she recovered from the shock of betrayal and the two days' abuse that followed," Magnus said. "She grew up in a loving and supportive home—or so I'd judge from the odd comment she has made about her parents. Apparently she was devoted to them because they were devoted to her."

"Not because she was starved for approval?"

Magnus shook his head. "If anything, her parents made her feel so special that she had no idea how cruel the world could be."

Rod wondered if he and Gwen had been guilty of that, then remembered his own rages with greater guilt. Maybe it would have been better for them all if he had left—but no, he'd considered that at the time, even tried it for a while when the delusions hit. "Your opinion of her seems to have grown with time."

"Oh, it has." Surely it was the reflection of the fire that glowed in Magnus's eyes. "Herkimer dug up enough material on the healing process to give me some idea what to expect, so I was able to endure the
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months of anger and insult. Then on planet after planet, her courage showed clearly, then her loyalty and her willingness to try to understand the people we met, to learn what was best for them and work for it, and finally her aptitude for caring re-emerged, for trying to help other people. Sometimes I don't think she's even aware she's doing it."

Rod studied his son's impassive face, hoping for some sign of his feelings. "Added to which, she's a handsome woman."

"Once she recovered from abuse and exposure, yes. Once she was able to wash off the dirt and eat decently again." Magnus's voice sank low. "Very handsome indeed." Then quickly, as though he had revealed too much, "More importantly, she's a valiant shield-mate and fiercely loyal."

"Maybe that is more important." Rod's shield-mate had been beautiful as well as ferocious and fearsome. Then he realized that Magnus's was, too. "You can't really be thinking that she's only a travelling companion."

Magnus was quiet a moment, then turned to him with a frown. "I wouldn't say that a shield-mate was that small a thing to be."

"Agreed," Rod said. "But you must realize that you care about her much more deeply."

"I care about her immensely, of course," Magnus said, frowning, "but still only as the closest of my friends."

Rod studied his face and decided that he'd hit the point of diminishing returns. "Then you're planning to take her home."

"She doesn't want to go back to Midgard. She says that since her parents died, she has no home there."

"So you're planning to find her one here?"

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Magnus turned away, shaken, and Rod saw that his son hadn't considered Alea's falling in love with someone else—but Magnus said gamely, "Of course."

"Well, then, you'd better pay attention to what she means as well as to what she says." Rod ignored his son's puzzled look. "Just don't forget that you can't accuse a friend of not being willing to give if you aren't willing to take."

"No, of course not," Magnus said, even more puzzled.

"Good." Rod filled himself a bowl of stew. "Care for seconds?"

Magnus stared, then laughed and shook his head. "No thank you, Dad. One bowl was enough to tide me over. I do have to get back to the castle." He looked up with a quizzical frown. "I thought I had come to ask your opinion about my siblings' insistence that I not give them orders."

"They're grown up now." Rod smiled. "Are you?"

Magnus laughed again, and loudly. He stood, nodding. "You're right—I'll treat them as I've treated all the other adults I've met on my travels."

"Meaning that you'll manipulate them with respect." Rod smiled and set his bowl down. "Instead, we talked about something that must matter more to you. I take it you're planning dinner with Alea."

"Of course." Magnus must have realized that he sounded domestic, because he said quickly, "Oh, and Dad—Alea picked up word of a little problem in Loguire."

"Yes?" Rod looked up with interest. "What kind of problem?"

"A poacher who's about to be hanged," Magnus said, "and it's Diarmid who has to pass judgement on him.

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Twenty-One

"OF COURSE," ROD SAID SLOWLY. "HE'S THE duke now, so any capital case would be referred to him."

"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."

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"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?"

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"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 surprize, 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?"

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"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."
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"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
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Prince."