"Oh, do not! A straight face is like the side of a cold fish, and seriousness might be mistaken for ardor! No, you must let your amusement show, but like this . .." He gave a low and throaty laugh.
Alain tried to imitate him, but it came out as a rusty chuckle. Nonetheless, Geoffrey nodded encouragement. "Well begun! Now, you must speak of her eyes and her cheeks, saying the former are like stars and the latter like roses ..."
"Even I have heard those a thousand times!"
"So has she, friend, and will protest such, but in truth, she never grows tired of hearing them. Still, if there is more novelty in your saying, she will like it all the better. Mayhap you should take her hand upon your own, and tickle the palm whilst you nip the fingers with your lips... "
"Surely I could not!" But Alain's eyes were glowing now, the color was rising in his cheeks, and his seriousness seemed banished for the moment.
Encouraged, Geoffrey went on. "... and you shall tell her that her skin is smoother than the current of a placid stream and as cool, though it inflames your blood..." And on he went, manufacturing extravagant compliments by the yard. Alain clung to his every word, filing each away for future use. They rode through the forest, Geoffrey explaining the multitude of gallantries available for the courting of a lady, up to and including the way in which the knight Don Quixote had sent his vanquished enemies to his lady Dulcinea as proof of his valor and the purity and intensity of his love.
However, he did not tell Alain that Don Quixote had been mired in delusion. All lovers are, so it did not matter. Of course, Geoffrey was not in love when he flirted—but he hoped ardently that Alain would be. For, although love had touched Geoffrey only once or twice, he knew the signs, and knew also that he saw them in Alain. In fact, he knew that he had seen them for several years.
On the other hand, he also knew that Alain had been busily denying them. He seemed to think that such emotion, being swept away on such a tide, was unworthy of a man destined to be a king. His tutors had done their job too well. Geoffrey was determined to undo it.
Then a woman screamed, ahead of them on the trail. Men shouted, and there was the clack of quarterstaves. Alain and Geoffrey stiffened. Then Alain gave a gleeful shout. "So soon!" He drew his sword.
"Be sure which side is in the right before you strike!" Geoffrey was already spurring his horse.
"Do not slay unless we must!" Alain called back from half a length ahead.
They crashed through the brush screen just as some outlaws knocked the quarterstaff spinning from a carter's hands. One of their number leaped in to seize his wrists and force them up behind him, bending him almost double. Two others were pulling a woman down from the seat of the cart with lascivious, gloating laughs. She was still screaming.
There were at least a dozen bandits, and only the one carter with his wife.
"No doubt who has set upon whom!" Alain whooped and rode into battle with Geoffrey a step behind him. The outlaws turned, startled, but set themselves quickly. Most had swords—badly nicked or honed down thin, but swords nonetheless, with bull-hide shields.
The others had bows.
Arrows flew about the two knights. They ducked and dodged. Then they were in among the bandits, laying about them with their swords.
Alain knocked a blade aside, then stabbed down. The bandit, a young fellow in a jerkin with a mane of black hair and a beard, raised his shield to block, as Alain had expected. The Prince's sword pinned the target, holding it up as he kicked a foot free of the saddle and lashed it lightning—quick into the bandit's jaw. The outlaw's eyes rolled up as he fell, almost wrenching the sword from Alain's grasp.
But quick though the Prince had been, another bandit had been quicker. He landed on Alain's back with a howl, arms hugging the Prince's neck, pulling him backward. Alain fought to keep his seat even through the choking and swung back with his blade—back and around with the flat of it. The outlaw cried out, and abruptly the pressure was gone. Heart singing, Alain turned—to see a sword jabbing up at his belly with a grinning bandit behind it. He rolled aside, but the blade sheared through his doublet, staining it with blood. Pain stung hot along his ribs, and fueled fear—but also anger. Alain shouted and caught the blade in a bind as the outlaw tried to riposte, circling his own sword, twisting and sending his enemy's blade whirling away. Other outlaws cried out, ducking the spinning steel, as Alain turned to the next opponent.
A staff cracked against his skull.
The world spun about him; pain wreathed his head. Alain fought to stay in the saddle, to keep his hold on his sword. Dimly, he heard a yell of triumph, felt hands seize his legs ...
Fortunately, they seized both legs, and the tug-of-war lasted long enough for the world to steady about him. Then he slapped down with his sword and pounded down with his left fist. Both blows connected, and the outlaws fell away. Alain turned to follow up with the point of his blade ... And saw all the outlaws rolling about on the ground, groaning and clutching their heads, or out cold.
Alain sat still and stared for a minute that seemed to stretch out to ten. Then he looked up across the collection of moaning men to Geoffrey, sitting smugly across from him, winking. Alain grinned like an idiot.
Then he remembered his duty and his dignity, and composed his face gravely, turning to the carter and his wife. "Are you well, goodman, goodwife?"
"Aye, thanks to thee, Sir Knight." The middle-aged couple huddled together, his arm about her. The woman was weeping, but through her tears cried, "Bless thee, bless thee, good sirs!" Then she saw the red streak along Alain's side and gasped, "Thou'rt hurted!"
"Hurted?" Alain looked down—and stared, shocked. He had never seen his own blood before. But he remembered himself, and forced a smile. " 'Tis naught, belike."
"Aye, but let us be sure!" The woman hurried over to him, drying her tears on her apron. She pushed the slashed cloth aside and probed carefully. "Nay, naught but the skin is cut. Still it must be dressed, good sir!"
"I shall tend to that," Geoffrey assured her.
She looked up at him doubtfully. "Knowest thou aught of nursing, Sir Knight?"
"As much as a knight must know," he assured her. "You may trust him to me, goodwife."
She subsided, stepping back to her husband, but didn't look convinced.
"Tell us thy name, that we may boast of thy deed and spread thy fame," the man urged.
Alain opened his mouth to tell him, but felt a nudge in his short ribs. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Geoffrey frowning, with a shudder that could be interpreted as shaking his head. That was right, Alain remembered—they were supposed to be incognito. He turned back to the carter. "I may not tell you my name, good folk ... um . .."
"Until his quest is done." Geoffrey stepped smoothly into the breach.
"Even so," Alain said with relief. But how then were they to gain glory?
"Say that 'twas the Knight of the Lady Cordelia who gave you rescue." Then Geoffrey remembered that his sister had not given Alain permission to claim her as his sponsor, and that their last meeting had certainly indicated anything but. "Or one who would be hers, at the least."
That made the woman look up to stare in wonder; then she began to smile, softly.
Women and romance, Geoffrey thought with exasperation, but reflected that his more clumsy friend was scarcely any better off. He turned to the outlaws. "What shall we do with these?"
That brought Alain to his senses. He turned; staring down. "What indeed?"
"They must be gaoled," Geoffrey prompted.