"Aye!" Alain cried with zest. "Adventure waits!"
The road curved, and an elderly knight wearing a hooded robe stepped out to bar the outlaws' way. At his back stood a dozen knights.
The outlaws halted. "We have done as you bade, Sir Maris," said Forrest.
"'Tis well for thee," the old knight said grimly. "You are free of the King's dungeon now, and thy poaching and thievery are pardoned. See to it you do not fall into such error again."
All the outlaws muttered denials and avowals of future honesty, and Forrest said, "We will not, I assure you."
"Cease this talk of `you' and 'your'!" Sir Maris snapped. "Canst not say 'thee' and 'thou' like honest men?" Forrest composed his face gravely. "Pardon my offense, King's Seneschal."
Sir Maris eyed him narrowly, not missing the implication that if Sir Maris weren't the King's Seneschal, Forrest would thumb his nose at the old knight's demands. But Sir Maris was the royal seneschal, and had had long experience of arrogant young men, Prince Alain and Lord Geoffrey among them. "What did the young knights bid thee do?" he demanded.
"To surrender ourselves to the Lady Cordelia, at Castle Gallowglass," Forrest responded.
Sir Maris heaved a sigh of exasperation. "The folly of youth! Well-a-day, then, thou must needs go! But think not to take a single step off the road, or my men shall fall upon thee like hawks upon sparrows."
Forrest bowed, poker-faced. "Even as thou dost say, Sir Maris." He straightened up, called to his band, and led them on their way. Why should he tell Sir Maris that they were flanked by a troop of elves? Let his knights find out for themselves—preferably the hard way.
Ever so carefully, he opened his mind, listening to the babble of thought that surrounded him. Yes, the elves were still there, and rather indignant about all the Cold Iron that was going to be keeping them company. He was rather sorry that he had had to throw that fight with the two young knights—he was reasonably sure that the stockier one had been Geoffrey Gallowglass, and he would have welcomed the opportunity to try his own "witch powers" against those of the Lord Warlock's son.
Sir Maris watched the band of ruffians out of sight. He did not trust Forrest or his band an inch beyond his sight. Unfortunately, they would be many inches beyond the sight of himself or his knights; it would not do for little Cordelia to see her suitor's trophy-offering being escorted by Royal retainers. He sighed and turned back at the creaking of a cart. Now for the carter and his wife.
"Here is another florin to match that which I gave thee aforetime," he said. "Didst thou do thy part well?"
"Oh, aye!" said the wife. "The two young men believed all that we did, by the look of them."
"By the saints," said her husband, "I believed it myself!"
Sir Maris's gaze sharpened. "Did those bandits offer thee harm?"
"Nay," said the woman quickly. "Well, no more than was needful. They did not truly hurt us, sir, nor would they have meant to."
"Not with thee and thy knights so close by," the carter grunted.
Sir Maris nodded. "So I promised—so I did. But did they affright thee?"
"Aye, sir, even though I had known them from their cradles." The goodwife shuddered. "They have become rough men indeed! And all for poaching—'twas that which sent them, every one, to the greenwood! Still, I did not truly fear them—naught save that black-visaged scoundrel who was not of our village, and did call himself 'Forrest.' "
"What did he?" Sir Maris snapped.
"Naught," the carter said slowly. "Naught that he did." "Aye," said his wife. "'Twas in his look, and in his manner of speech. Though he smiled fair, there was something of the devil-may-care about his eyes, that did speak of danger. Still, he did do naught."
"Well, if he did naught, then I shall do naught to him," Sir Maris grumbled, "though I would I had some strand of excuse to hang him by."
"Nay, no cause, truly," the carter sighed.
"And the others?" Sir Maris peered at the woman keenly. "Didst thou think they gave thee true cause to fear?"
"Nay." At last, she laughed a little. "I've known them all since they were lads, and they all knew that if any among them had truly offered me harm, I would have told their mothers."
CHAPTER 5
"Milady!" The porter bowed a little as Cordelia strode in. The Gallowglass servants generally didn't do more than incline their heads, but with the mood Cordelia was in, it was best to play it safe.
"Here, Ganir!" Cordelia tossed him her cloak. "And thank you. Where are my parents?"
"In the solar, milady."
"Mercy." Cordelia paced up the stairs.
Rod and Gwen looked up as she came in the door. "I do not mean to interrupt..." she began.
"Of course you do." Gwen dimpled. "And we could wish no happier afternoon than to have you do so. Could we not, husband?"
"Of course," Rod said. "Back so soon?"
"Oh, aye!" Cordelia threw up her hands. "What else am I to do? That lummox of a brother of mine told Alain about the heroes of legend, who sent their defeated enemies to their lady-loves as proof of their worth!"
"So we are about to be hit by an invasion of defeated enemies?" Rod fought to keep a straight face.
"A troop of bandits! Ruffians! Outlaws! And I must be here to receive them, so I cannot follow as I should! What other dangerous silliness will they fall into unwarded?"
She had a point, Rod decided. For a second, he wondered if Geoffrey might have arranged it this way. Then he dismissed the thought as unworthy—such manipulating would have been far too subtle for his direct, brash son.
Gwen gave a slow nod of approval. "'Tis an honor not unworthy—to see the lambs defended and the wolves caged, in thy name."
"'Tis a plaguey nuisance! 'Tis a monstrous inconvenience! 'Tis an imbecilic imposition!" Cordelia paced to the fire, glowering down at it.
Rod thought the lady did protest too much—and indeed, as he looked at her face lit by the fire, he thought he saw some glow of pleasure, of satisfaction, albeit carefully hidden:
Gwen knew she did, and that without reading her daughter's mind—not literally, anyway. "'Tis romantic," she murmured.
"Aye," Cordelia admitted. Finally, she smiled.
They rode on through the forest, chatting of this and that—but Geoffrey did most of the chatting. Alain listened, round-eyed and constantly feeling that he should not be hearing such things. Geoffrey was telling him all the things he had never said at court, about revels with villagers and tavern brawls and willing wenches at town fairs. Alain's eyes grew larger and larger, as did the feeling that he should tell Geoffrey to stop—but he abided, partly in fascination, partly in the conviction that somehow, mysteriously, all this would make him a better suitor for Cordelia.
An hour or more they passed in this study. Then the trees thinned out, and they saw the thatched roofs of a village ahead.
"Come!" Geoffrey cried. "There will be hot meat and cold ale, I doubt not, and perhaps even that change of clothing you wish!"
Alain agreed enthusiastically—it had been a long time since breakfast—and they rode out of the forest, down the single street of the village. A peasant who saw them looked up in alarm, then gave a glad shout. "Knights!"
"Knights?"
"Knights!"
"War-men to aid us!"
The villagers crowded around, showering the two young men with cries of gratitude and relief.
"Why, what is the matter?" Geoffrey called over their clamor.
"'Tis a monster, Sir Knight! 'Tis a horrible ogre, only this morning come upon us!"