The Warlock in Spite of Himself - Warlock 01 (29 page)

He unbuttoned Rod's doublet. Rod's nascent protest was cut off by a gasp of agony as Loguire snapped the doublet open, tearing the scab off in the process.

'Let it bleed freely a moment,' Loguire growled, jerking the doublet off the injured shoulder.

Then Gwendylon came up with a handful of some sort of herb and a small wineskin - trust Big Tom to have one on him, Rod thought - and perhaps five minutes later, Rod swung her onto Fess's saddle and leaped up behind her. He dug his heels into Fess's sides. Gwendylon started at the muted clang, and, as Fess sprang out into a gallop, she twisted to frown, puzzled, at Rod.

'That's why I call him Old Ironsides,' Rod explained. 'Just relax and lean back against me. It's going to be a long ride.'

'But, my lord, I have no need to-'

'There're only three horses, Gwen. Somebody has to ride double. Don't worry, Fess won't even notice the difference.'

'But my lord, I-'

'Hush. My Lord Loguire!' he called back over his shoulder. 'Lead us, my lord; you know this land best.'

Loguire nodded mutely and spurred the big bay; it speeded a little, and passed Rod. Rod followed him, listening to the drum of hooves from Tom's mount behind him.

'Believe me, my lord, there is no need for-'

'Time enough to talk later,' Rod growled. 'We're leaving a trail as clear as Polaris. We've got to get far enough away fast enough so it won't matter if they follow us.'

Gwendylon sighed. 'Look behind you, my lord.'

Rod turned, and saw a crowd, of at least a hundred elves lined along their trail with miniature brooms, sweeping away

every trace of their passing - even straightening the grass the horses'

hooves had flattened.

Rod squeezed his eyes shut. 'No. Oh, no-Why me, Lord? Why me?'

He turned back to Gwendylon. 'Gwen, did you call out these Gwen!'

The saddle was empty. She was gone.

'Gwen!' he shouted, and sawed back on the reins. 'Really, Rod,'

protested the murmur in his mastoid, 'I must ask you that you attempt to control-'

'Gwendylon!' Rod yelled.

A cry like the mew of a seagull drifted down from, the sky. Rod looked up.

The osprey. The same one. He was willing to swear to it. Anyway, he was willing to swear.

The bird plummeted low and circled Rod's head, mewing urgently. How the hell could she make a fish hawk sound so feminine? The osprey shot away in front of him, skimming low over the ground after Loguire's horse.

Then it wheeled back, circled his head again, then lit out on the straightaway again.

'Yeah, yeah,' Rod growled, 'I get the message. I should quit holding up the party. Fess, follow that bird! Fess? Fess!'

The horse stood stiff-legged, head swinging between the fetlocks. Oh, well, it had been a strain on Rod's neurology, too. He slapped at the reset button.

They rode the moon down, slowing to a trot after the first half-hour. Loguire was slumped in his saddle, almost too exhausted to stay on his horse, by the time the air freshened with dawn.

Rod, frankly, wasn't in much better shape. He reined in beside the Duke. 'There're haystacks in that field over there, my lord. We must pause to rest, it will be dawn soon, and we dare not travel by day.'

Loguire lifted his head, blinking. 'Aye. Aye, most certain.' He reined in his horse. Rod and Tom followed suit.

They broke through the hedge at the roadside and trotted for the nearest haystack. Rod dismounted and caught Loguire as he all but fell from his saddle. Big Tom unsaddled the horses and turned them out to the field with a slap on the rump as Rod half-led, half-carried the old nobleman to the top of the haystack.

He lowered Loguire into the hay, stepped back, and murmured, 'Fess.'

'Yes, Rod.'

'Get those nags far away from here, someplace where it's not too likely they'll be noticed, will you? And bring them back at sundown.'

'I will, Rod.'

Rod stood a moment, listening to the fading drum of hooves. He looked down at Loguire; the old man was out cold: the strain, and a long night ride, to say nothing of how long it had been since he'd slept.

Rod pulled hay over the sleeping lord to hide him. Looking for Big Tom, he saw shins and feet disappearing into the side of the haystack. The saddles and bridles had already disappeared into the hay. The feet were likewise removed from sight; then there was a protracted rustling, and Tom's ruddy face popped out of his burrow-hole. 'Thou must take this'll from sight right quickly, master. 'Twill be sunrise ere long, and the peasants mustn't see us.

'They won't come near this stack?'

'Nay. This field is far from the keep, so 'twill be some days yet ere they take in this hay.'

Rod nodded. He threw up his hands and jumped, sliding down the side of the stack. He turned to see Tom's burrow fast closing. He grinned.

'Good night, Big Tom.'

'Good morn, master,' answered the muffled voice within. Rod chuckled, shaking his head, as he went to the nearest other haystack. He climbed to the top, mashed the hay down into a bowl, and stretched out with a blissful sigh.

There was a soft mew, and the osprey dropped down beside him into the hay. It fell onto its side, its form fluxed and stretched, and Gwendylon was lying beside him.

She smiled mischievously and began to untie the strings of her bodice.

'Twenty-four hours, my lord. Sunrise to sunrise. You ha' said you would obey my commands for so long.'

'But - but - but. . ., Rod stared and swallowed as the bodice fell open and was thrown away. The blouse began to inch upward. He swallowed again and stammered, "Bu-but somebody's got to keep watch!'

'Never fear,' she murmured. The blouse went flying. 'My friends shall do that.'

'Your friends?' In a detached sort of way, Rod noted that in this culture the concept of the brassiere was not yet developed. Gwendylon was, though.

'Aye, the Wee Folk.' Skirt and slippers joined the discard pile with one smooth, sinuous motion.

The setting sun turned the straw blood-gold as Rod's head poked up out of the hay.

He looked around, sniffed the cool, fresh evening breeze, and expelled a sigh of great satisfaction.

He felt immensely well.

He thrust the covering of hay aside with one sweep of his arm and reflected that it had been a busy day, as his eyes traveled slowly and lovingly over Gwen's curves.

He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers for a long, deep kiss. He felt her come awake beneath him.

He drew back; her eyes opened halfway. Her lips curved in a slow, sultry smile.

She stretched, slow and feline. Rod was surprised to feel his pulse quicken. His opinion of himself went up a notch.

His opinion of her was altogether too high already. With a twinge of alarm, Rod realized he was regretting that he was a traveling man. He also realized something was gnawing at the base of his conscience. She looked into his eyes and sobered.

'What saddens you, lord?'

'Don't you ever worry about being used, Gwen?'

She smiled lazily. 'Do you, lord?'

'Well, no. . .' Rod frowned at his palms. 'But that's different. I mean, I'm a man.'

'I would never ha' guessed,' she murmured, biting his ear lobe in the process.

He grinned and twisted, trying to retaliate; but she wasn't done with his ear yet.

'Men are fools,' she murmured between bites. 'You are forever saying what is not instead of what is. Be done with the night, and live in the evening while you are in it.'

She eyed him then through heavy lids with a somewhat proprietary joy, looking him up and down slowly.

Oh, well, Rod thought, so much for my one attempt to be honorable. . .

'Camera!' After all, there was only one way to wipe that smug smile off her face.

Big Tom chose just that moment to call, 'Master! The sun has set, and we must away.'

Rod let go of Gwen with a disgusted growl. 'That boy has definitely the greatest sense of timing . . .' He started puffing up his hose. 'Up and away, my dear!'

'Must we, lord?' she said, pouting.

'We must,' he answered. 'Duty calls - or at least Big Tom. Onward for the glory of France! or something like that. . .'

Two nights of pushing the pace, alternating canter and walk, brought them back to the capital.

As they came to the bridge over the river that curved around the town, Rod was surprised to see two foot soldiers armed with pikes, torches flaring by their sides in the darkness of the seventh hour of night.

'I shall clear the way,' Tom muttered, and spurred his horse ahead of Rod and Loguire. 'Stand aside,' he called to the guards, 'for my masters wish to enter.'

The pikes clashed as they crossed, barring the bridge. 'Who are your masters?' retorted the one of them. 'Be they rebels? Or Queen's men?'

'Rebels?' Tom frowned. 'What ha' passed in the Queen's Town while we ha' been to the South?'

'The South?' The guard's eyes narrowed. ''Tis the lords of the South that rebel.'

'Aye, aye!' Big Tom waved the objection away impatiently. 'We ha' been there on the Queen's affairs - spies, i' truth. We bear word that the lords of the South rise in revolt, and the name of the day that they march; but how has this news come here afore us?'

'What is this badinage?' snapped Loguire, riding up with Rod at his side. 'Stand aside, sirrahs, that a man of noble blood may enter!'

The guards' heads swiveled to stare up at Loguire; then both pikes jumped forward, their points scarce an inch from his chest. 'Dismount and stand, Milord Duke of Loguire!' The first guard's voice was firm, but deferential. 'We must hold you in arrest, on command of her Majesty the Queen.'

And the other guard bawled, 'Captain! Captain of the Guard!'

Loguire stared in disbelief. Rod nudged his way past the lord and glared at the guard. 'Name the crime for which the Queen holds Milord Loguire in arrest!'

The guard's eyes flicked from Loguire's face to Rod's, and back; then, dubiously, he answered, 'Most high treason to the body and person of her Majesty the Queen.'

Loguire's jaw sagged. Then his lips pressed thin and his brows beetled down, hiding his eyes in caves of shadow. His face seemed bloody in the torchlight.

'I am most sternly loyal to her Majesty the Queen!' he exploded. 'Be done with your impertinence and stand aside!'

The sentry swallowed and stood his ground. 'It is said Loguire leads the rebels, milord.'

'Soldier.' Rod spoke quietly, but with the tone of an old field sergeant.

The sentry's eyes jumped to him, but the pike didn't waver. 'You know me,' and Rod's voice held the veiled threat of non-com authority. It had more effect than all Loguire's lofty phrases. The soldier licked his lips and agreed, 'Aye, master.'

'Who am I?'

'You are Master Gallowglass, late of the Queen's Guard.'

'Still of the Queen's Guard,' Rod corrected, still softly. 'Sent to the South a week agone, to guard Milord Loguire.'

Loguire's head jerked up; his eyes blazed at Rod. 'We ha' known that you were gone,' the soldier mumbled.

'And now you know why.' Rod kept his voice under careful control, managing to imply that the Queen's Own Wrath would fall on the guard's miserable head if he disobeyed. 'My Lord Loguire cries sanctuary from his kinswoman and suzerain, her Majesty the Queen. She would be wroth to hear him detained. Let us pass.'

The guard took a firmer hold on his pike, gulped, and thrust out his jaw stubbornly. 'The order ha' gone forth that Milord Loguire be held in arrest in the Queen's dungeon, good master. More than that I know not.'

'Dungeon!' Loguire thundered, beet-red. Am I a tuppenny footpad, to be crooked from a hedgerow to a dungeon cell? Is it thus that the Queen would acknowledge her vassal? Nay, nay! The blood of Plantagenet hath not ebbed so low! Knave, I'll hale thy lying tongue from thy head!'

His hand went to his dagger, and the soldier cowered back; but Rod's hand stayed the nobleman's.

'Calm yourself, milord,' he murmured, ''Tis Durer hath sent this word here before us. The Queen could not know of your loyalty.'

Loguire checked his temper with vast effort, subsiding into a sort of gurgling fury. Rod leaned over and whispered to Tom.

'Tom, can you find someplace to hide the old man where he'll be safe?'

'Aye, master,' Tom frowned down at bins. 'With his son. But-why...?

'At the House of Clovis?'

'Aye, master. 'Twould take all the Queen's men, and great bombardments, to hale them forth from the House.'

'I would have said a good strong wind would've done it,' Rod muttered,

'but I guess it's the best we can do. So...'

'Speak so that all may hear!' shouted a new voice.

'That had a familiar ring,' Rod muttered, looking up. Sir Mans strode forth between the two vastly relieved guardsmen.

'Well done, Rod Gallowglass! Thou hast brought - most pernicious rebel to the safekeeping of our stronghold!'

Loguire's narrowed eyes stabbed hate at Rod.

'Do not speak among yourselves,' Sir Mans went on; 'I forbid it. And hearken well to my orders, for there are twelve good crossbowmen with their quarrels aimed at your hearts.'

Loguire sat back in his saddle, tall and proud, his face composed in the granite of fatalism.

'Twelve?' Rod gave Sir Mans a one-sided mocking. smile. 'Only twelve quarrels, to kill the Loguire? Good Sir Mans, I must think you grow rash in your old age.'

The granite mask cracked; Loguire darted a puzzled glance at Rod. Rod dismounted and stepped out toward the bridge, away from the horses. He shook his head woefully. 'Sir Mans, Sir Mans! My good Sir Mans, to think that-'

Suddenly he whirled, with a high, piercing cry, slapping at the horses'

chests. 'Turn and ride!' he shrieked. 'Ride!'

Sir Mans and his men stood frozen with surprise as the horses reared, wheeled about, and sprang away. An instant later, twelve crossbow bolts bit the ground where they had been.

One archer had been a little quicker than his fellows; his bolt struck Fess's metal hindquarters with a clang and ricocheted off into the river.

There was an instant's shocked silence; then the whisper ran through the ranks, swelling with fear: 'Witch horse! Witch horse!'