"This by candlelight, or the light of the moon?"
"The moon is better," Geoffrey said judiciously, "if 'tis full, or nearly. But candles will do, and that quite well."
"But what would I say?" Alain asked.
"Why, you must praise her eyes, her hair, her lips, the roses in her cheeks," Geoffrey said. "It would help if you had written a poem to her beauty and committed it to memory."
"I have small gift for versing," Alain said ruefully. "Oh, there are poets aplenty who will scribble you a whole book of verses for a piece of gold, my friend—and if you do not trust your memory to work in her presence, you may surely bring the paper along to read."
"But will she not know that 'twas not I who wrote it?"
"She may suspect," Geoffrey said carelessly, "but she will not seek to prove it—if you do not give her occasion to. Speak of love, or if you think you have it not, speak of the feelings that rise within you when you look upon her."
"Why, there am I in confusion." Alain frowned, gazing off into space. "If I look at your sister as she stands today, I do feel most strangely within—and some of those feelings, I would not speak of to her brother." He blushed furiously. "Nor to any other being, mayhap, save my father."
"I rejoice to hear it," Geoffrey said softly.
"Yet most swiftly rises, over the image that she is, the face and form of the child she was." Alain turned to him in consternation. "For she was indeed a comely little lass, Geoffrey, as I am sure you remember."
"I would not have called her `comely,' " Geoffrey muttered.
"Nay, of course not—you are her brother. Still, the sauciness, the scoldings, the brightness of her laughter—all that arises when I look upon the grown Cordelia. It seems..." He broke off, shaking his head.
"Come now, you can say it!" Geoffrey coaxed. "Out with it! Speak it, then—nay, speak both, speak all, for I see you are a very welter of feelings now."
"Aye, and they go at cross-purposes." Alain scowled at the back of his horse's head. "On the one hand, there is the feeling that the impish girl is still within the gentle form I see before me, and although that has its attractive side, it is also somewhat repugnant—for she was ever as quick to turn and scold as she was to speak in mirth."
"I would say that child is still there within her, of a certainty," Geoffrey said slowly, "for I have heard my father say that we all are children within, and that 'tis tragedy beyond speaking if that child dies."
"Aye, I have heard our chaplain say that, too." Alain gazed off at the countryside. "That we all must strive to keep alive the child within us—for Christ said that we must become as little children if we would enter the kingdom of Heaven."
"Become," Geoffrey reminded, "not remain."
But Alain wasn't listening. "I am not sure how I felt toward that child, though, Geoffrey."
"Oh, stuff and nonsense!" Geoffrey said, with a flash of irritation. "You did trail behind her like a besotted mooncalf when you were twelve, Alain."
"Well, aye, I mind me of that," the Prince admitted, embarrassed. "I speak now of a younger age, though, when she dared to speak to me as though I were a lad with an empty head."
"Oh, aye, but she did that when you were twelve, tooand fifteen, and seventeen, and is like as not to do it again even now!" Geoffrey scoffed. "Be sure, she will. If that truly does repel you, Alain, seek elsewhere for a wife."
"Well ... I would not say `repel,' " the Prince said. "It does nettle me, though—sometimes. At others, it is as much a matter of spice as of bitter. There are thorns on the stem, so to speak—but the man would be a fool who would not brave those thorns for the beauty of the rose." Geoffrey smiled, amused. Alain did have something of the poet's gift within him, after all. "Yet what is the feeling that does counter such ardent praise?"
"Why, simply that she was near to being a sister!" Alain burst out. "Or the closest that I ever had, at least—for she was the only female child near to my own age that I saw with any frequency. How can one be in love with a sister? 'Tis against nature, when one has known a lass too well, too long, and too young. Why, there may be good fellowship, but never love—or, at least, not the sort of love that must be between a man and a wife."
"Yes, I see," Geoffrey said, nodding, "though I am not at all sure that you would think it against nature if we were speaking of peasant folk who lived in a small village, where all know one another from earliest youth. When that feeling comes upon you, try to remember in your heart the mooncalf that you were when you were twelve. Surely, you did not then seem to find her too sisterly."
"Well, there is some truth in that," Alain said. "But if I were truly in love, Geoffrey, would I not lie awake o' nights, dreaming of her face, her form? Would I not find food to be of small appeal? Life itself of no joy? Would I not spend my days in moping about and sighing?"
"Aye, if you were a fool," Geoffrey said. "In truth, whenever I see such a man, I cannot help but think that 'tis not love he feels, but sickness. What do you feel, when you lie awake dreaming of her face and form?"
"Why, I am near to crying out in madness, that she seems to entice, yet mock!" Alain burst out, then broke off suddenly, staring. "You have tricked me, Geoffrey!"
"But only for your own benefit," Geoffrey said.
Cordelia couldn't resist coming out to see her guests off. In the end, she relented, and told the guards not to expel them at noon, but to let them rest until two o'clock. She chafed and fretted at the delay in following Alain and Geoffrey—but also found herself thinking constantly about Forrest and seeing him and his men off. She told herself the strange feelings that churned within her were only nervousness, and anticipation of seeing such a gang of blackguards out her gate.
Nonetheless, as the time approached, she found herself moving across the outer bailey to where Forrest reposed, a little apart from his men, stretched out in the shade of the kitchens. But he opened his eyes as she came near, and for a moment, she found herself trapped by that ebony gaze, mischievously admiring as it traversed her from head to toe, insouciant and arrogant with the knowledge that he was attractive to her.
Cordelia knew that so surely that she also knew it must have been a sort of psychic leakage, an unconscious projection of his that was bound to make a woman want to come closer—and the most maddening thing was that it worked. She flushed and stepped closer, her voice as cold as she could make it. "You are no peasant. What do you among this gang of thieves?"
Forrest sat up, running a hand through his hair and shrugging. "I live as I can, milady."
"Surely you could live better than as a robber!"
"So I thought." Forrest drew his knees up and clasped his arms about them. "I joined a lord's retinue—but he went to war against his neighbor, and lost. Then the neighbor hunted down those of us who refused to turn our coats, to slay us—so I fled to the greenwood."
It was a harrowing tale, and Cordelia found herself fascinated as well as sympathetic. She tried not to let any sign of it show in her face. "But you are a warlock! Surely you could have found a way by the use of your powers!"
"Could I indeed?" Forrest's smile curdled. "We are not all like yourself and your brothers, milady—oh, yes, we have heard of you, all young witchfolk have heard of you, even to the farthest corners of Gramarye, I doubt not! The sons and daughter of the High Warlock and High Witch? Oh, aye, we all have heard of you! But few indeed are they who have so many talents as you, or in such strength' Myself, I can read minds, and craft witch-moss if I concentrate my thoughts with all my might, but little more."