The Warlock's Last Ride (33 page)

Anselm cried out in anguish and gripped the hilt of his sword, and the man at his side leaned in to mutter more urgently—but the attainted lord only stood trembling.

"Kind lord, can you not remit the law?" Rowena cried.

"If laws are cast aside, the kingdom shall fall into chaos and all shall suffer," Diarmid told her.

"I am with child!" Rowena cried.

Anselm groaned, and Geordie let out a cry of his own.

Twenty-Two

"ALAS. THAT MY HUSBAND MUST LEARN OF IT thus!" Tears flowed down Rowena's cheeks. "But I am sure of it—I shall bear a babe in seven months' time! Must I birth an orphan?"

"Oh, my love! Geordie started for her, but the guards yanked him back. He turned on them with savage fury, bound hands or no, but one of them caught him in a wrestling hold, and he could only struggle and curse.

"I grieve for you," Diarmid said solemnly, "but so long as I am duke of Loguire, neither you nor your child shall want for anything. Go back to your estate, lady, and tend your babe."

She stood and turned away, sobbing, to Anselm, who embraced her and cried over her head,

"Heartless prince! Can you show no mercy even to your own cousin?"

"It is because he is my cousin, my lord, that I dare make no exception to the law," Diarmid returned.

"Shall the people say that there is one law for the common folk and another for the Crown and its relatives? Surely not! There must be justice for all!

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"Justice, yes." Rod mounted the stairs, saying, "But sometimes the law must be tempered with mercy to yield justice."

"Gallowglass!" Anselm cried in anger and despair, and Rowena look up in horror to discover that her traveling companion had been her family's arch-enemy.

"Lord Warlock!" Relief washed over Diarmid's face but was quickly hidden. "How come you here?"

'To plead the cause of justice, Lord Duke." The relief Rod had seen in Diarmid's face reminded him how very young the man really was. "The forest laws are well and good, since they keep the deer from all being killed, and allow only enough hunting so that they don't gobble up their food supply and starve—but is not this enforcement too rigid? Is not the whole purpose of maintaining the deer herds so that they are there to feed hungry people if they are needed?"

"A sound rationale," Diarmid said thoughtfully. "History tells us the Forest Laws were made only to save the deer as sport for the great lords—but you give them far greater purpose, Lord Warlock."

Anselm stared, unable to believe Rod was pleading his family's cause—but Geordie stared, stunned, and Rowena looked at him with a sudden wild hope.

"Surely that purpose should be considered here," Rod said. "Is sport for the few more important than the lives of peasants?"

The crowd began to mutter, and the soldiers shifted uneasily.

Rod pressed the point. "Is the law more important than good governance?"

"The law is the key to good governance, my lord." Diarmid frowned, puzzled.

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"Then good governance is the purpose?"

Diarmid lifted his head slowly, beginning to understand Rod's direction. "Aye, Lord Warlock, good governance is the purpose of the law."

"Then it is a purpose the law must serve." He turned to Rowena. "Lady, has your husband ever failed in his duty?"

"Never, my lord!" Rowena said fervently. "He has always been diligent and just in his care of his peasants! He is ever about the estates assuring that all is well! The welfare of his people has ever been his constant concern!"

"Even to making her quarrel with him," growled one of her guards, in a voice too loud to be a mistake.

Diarmid turned to the man—and to the whole dozen of her escort. "Surely a wife will speak well of a husband she loves—but what of his retainers?" He saw the man's furtive glance at Anselm and sharpened his tone. "Come, man, you've naught to fear! You shall have a place in my own retinue; you and your family shall have cottages on my estates to shield you from the anger of Sir Anselm! If there is anything to be said against Squire Geordie, speak!"

"Not one word!" the grizzled peasant cried. "Not one word is there to be said against him, my lord, and everything for him!"

"Aye!" cried a younger man. "He is beside us even at the plow to be sure the furrow is straight! He marches out with the sowers to broadcast the seed!"

"Aye!" cried another. "When the harvest comes, he is ever beside us with scythe and flail! If a plowman is sick, it is he who sneezes!"

"We would follow Geordie to the death, my lord." The old peasant made it half a threat. "Call him to battle, and we will follow him all, man and boy, because we know that our welfare is his concern."
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"It is for our sakes he is here!" cried the youngest. "When the grain rotted in the bin, he swore we would not starve though it cost him his life! I pray you, my lord, let it not do so!"

Now Anselm shook off the man who was whispering in his ear and stepped forward. "My son has always been an excellent steward of the land and governor of his people, Lord Diarmid. If it is justice you seek, you should reward him for his diligence and care, not take his life!"

"There's truth in what he says, my lord." Rod turned to Diarmid. "People are more important than deer."

"They are, Lord Warlock." Diarmid was beginning to show a touch of excitement which, for him, was amazing. "But by your own argument, if we do not enforce the Forest Laws, how shall we feed our people with game in time of famine?"

"It is because famine looms that Geordie has slain deer to feed his people," Rod countered. "But money will serve to buy food as well as a bow and arrow will. Might I suggest a fine—say, a thousand pieces of gold?"

The lords gasped in horror and began to talk furiously among themselves.

"Very wise, Lord Warlock." Diarmid nodded slowly. "A fine that would build a manor house—or feed fifty villages through a hungry winter! Yes, so high a fine would make even a duke think twice about hunting out of season, and would surely deter any lesser lord."

"I shall give you all I possess!" cried Rowena. "All my dowry, land, and jewels worth a hundred gold pieces!"

"Rowena, no!" Geordie cried.

"What use is a dowry without a husband?" she retorted, and turned back to Diarmid. "I can offer no
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more than that!"

"I can!" One of the earls shot to his feet. "I offer one hundred pounds and ten!"

"And I a hundred and fifteen!" A baron leaped up beside him.

"A hundred and twenty!"

"A hundred and thirty!"

Rod stood, amazed, as the auction mentality took hold. Diarmid only nodded, keeping mental score, and when the bidding stopped, called out, "That is eight hundred fifty, my lords, but not enough!"

"Then I shall offer a hundred and fifty of gold!" Anselm cried. "Remember, my lord, you said it would go to feed the hungry!"

"And so it shall!" Diarmid stood up. "I shall lock it in a separate coffer and shall open it as soon as Squire Geordie's folk find themselves short of bread!" He turned to the assembled noblemen. "My lords, I thank you! May we all show as much generosity and care for our fellows as you have shown today!"

The lords stared at one another; charity had certainly been the farthest thing from their minds when they set out on this trip.

Diarmid turned to advance on Geordie, drawing his dagger.

Voices shouted in anger, but Diarmid only stepped behind Geordie and severed his bonds. Geordie raised his hands, rubbing his wrists in amazement, and the shouting died. Then Diarmid reached up, shook the chain to unhook it, caught it as it fell, and handed it to Geordie. "Use this to buy food for your people—and if they are ever in need again, tell your duke rather than taking up your bow!"

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Rowena ran to throw her arms about her husband, and the crowd cheered.

In the midst of the shouting, Anselm stepped up to Rod with his hand on his sword. "If my son had been slain, Lord Warlock, I would have rebelled—and this time, I swear, I would have torn down my overweening little brother and his arrogant Queen!"

"Even though they sent you a judge who had sense enough to see that Geordie was an invaluable asset?" Rod asked.

" 'Tis not Diarmid who saw sense, but you who showed it to him!"

"Why, thank, you, Sir Anselm," Rod said slowly.

Anselm stared, realizing that he had paid Rod a compliment. Then he recovered and demanded,

"There may be truth in that—but rumor says you have left your post to wander the land as a doddering knight-errant! Who shall temper the Crown's justice now, if the Lord Warlock has left his position to roam at his pleasure?"

"Why, my son Magnus," Rod told him, "though I doubt he'll be needed. Alain embodies all the mercy the Crown will ever need. No matter what you may think of your relatives, Sir Anselm, your nephew has a positive genius for sound judgement."

"Perhaps once he is King," Anselm allowed, brooding, "but that could be twenty years or more. Who shall temper the Queen's judgement until then? Surely she will not listen to her own son!"

Rod could have pointed out that Tuan had always been the voice of moderation that had kept Catharine from turning into a tyrant, but he knew Anselm's resentment of his brother's mercy and position were so intense as to only make him erupt in anger—so he said instead, "She may not listen to her own son, Sir Anselm, but she will listen to mine. It's time for us to start trusting the children we've worked so hard to raise wisely and well. Don't you trust your own boy?"

"Aye!" Anselm said fiercely. "There's none better in all the land!"
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"But quite a few just as good," Rod countered. 'Trust your own boy, Sir Anselm—but trust mine as well. After all, Geordie will."

"HE DIDN'T LOOK convinced," Rod told Diarmid as they watched Anselm ride away beside his son and daughter-in-law. The grandfather-to-be was leading a riderless palfrey, because Geordie and Rowena, for some strange reason, had decided to share one horse.

"Perhaps, but he did not strike out," Diarmid said, and shuddered. "Till you mounted those stairs, I thought a rebellion would begin here and now!"

"One of the nastier little problems with being a duke," Rod commiserated. "In fact, Your Highness, I've always had the impression that you hated administration."

Diarmid laughed. "You know I would far rather spend the time with my books, Lord Warlock!"

"Yes, I do." Rod nodded. "Just like Gregory. But Geordie would rather be out and about the estates, checking to make sure his peasants are doing well and that everything is running smoothly."

"I wish I had some small share of that gift!" Diarmid sighed.

"Comes from his mother, probably. Just think, if Anselm hadn't rebelled, Geordie would be saddled with running the duchy of Loguire now, instead of you."

"More's the pity he is not!"

"Yes, but the law is a funny thing," Rod said, musing. "I know attainder is usually not only for the traitor, but for all his descendants as well—but an exception might be made, if there were cause to believe the son might be as loyal as the father was treasonous."

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He waited.

After a few seconds, Diarmid nodded. "There is merit in what you say, Lord Warlock. I shall have to discuss it with my father."

He'd let Tuan discuss it with Catharine, though—after thirty years of moderating her harshness, Tuan had become a past master. Rod smiled. It might not be strictly according to the law for Geordie to become duke of Loguire, but it would surely be in the best interests of the people.

Including Diarmid.

"HOW COULD YOU!" Durer raged, pacing back and forth. "How could you let him stop it! We were on the verge of civil war, you could have seen it start right there, but no! You had to let that smooth-tongued villain talk you out of it!"

"I was doing all I could to goad Anselm Loguire to draw his sword," the agent protested, "but that blasted Gallowglass managed to pull the fuse on the bomb I had so carefully primed!"

"Blast Gallowglass! Blast him to bits! Draw and quarter him! Roast him over a slow fire!" Durer raged, then stopped dead, leaning on his desk, gasping for breath. Then, slowly, he raised his head. "We have to kill him. That's all. We have to—and be ready to rise the second he's dead!"

"We've been trying to kill him for thirty years," the agent protested.

"Yes, but now he's off on his own with none of his brats to protect him! Get a Home Agent, one of those Gramarye-born telepaths we've managed to raise and recruit! Surely one of them must be able to lay an illusion that will snare him! Get a telepath! Lay a trap! And when it closes, kill him where he stands!"

ROD SAT ON a fallen log by his campfire, plucking minor chords from his lap-harp and chanting (because he knew he couldn't stay on key) of a wanderer grown old searching for the woman he had seen once, then lost—but as he sang, he saw a low branch sway at the side of the clearing where there
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was no breeze and heard an owl call a challenge. Wondering why the elves hadn't warned him, he laid aside the harp and came to his feet, hand dropping to his dagger-hilt, and called, "Who lives?"

"A friend." The branch swung aside, and a tall young woman stepped into the firelight—very tall, more than six feet, with a staff even taller. "A friend seeking counsel."