Again, his gaze raked Cordelia, making her feel as though he had touched her, lightly, caressingly.
She tried to hide a shiver. "Nay, you are not," she said tartly. "Still, you could have accepted service with the Crown!"
Forrest grinned. "I have said it was the eldest who was taken to Court to learn manners and love of the King and Queen, milady, not the youngest. No, I found myself resenting them highly, they who had shorn my father of respect, and myself of opportunity."
"I had not thought..."
"Did you not think the King and Queen were merciful? They did not behead the rebel lords for traitors, after all. By custom and precedent, they could have hanged or beheaded all the lords, scattered their armies, and attainted their wives and children, so that none might inherit."
"Aye." Forrest shrugged. "How could you, when the only witchfolk you have met have been those of the Royal Coven, or the few who dared to try to seize all that they might, no matter whom they hurt? They had the power, milady, that most of us lack." He shrugged. "Too little to be of use, too much to let us feel safe in our likeness to others—that is your garden variety of witch."
Cordelia longed to tell him that the proper word was "esper," for those born with psionic talents, but knew she must not, to anyone who did not already know of the great civilization on the Terran planets outside of Gramarye.
"But you are a gentleman, at the least, and more likely the son of a lord, if I mistake you not!"
"You do not." Forrest inclined his head. "But I am a youngest son, and my father is a lord attainted in the first rebellion against Queen Catharine, before either of us were born."
"The Crown did let the rebel lords keep their lands and titles..."
"But they were ever suspect thereafter." Forrest raised a finger. "And their eldest sons were taken as royal hostages, to learn loyalty to the Crown—but not their younger. My father told me with regret that I had my own way to make in the world, though he would help me as he could."
"Surely there were many positions open to a lord's son!"
"Honorable positions?" Forrest shrugged. "I had a choice between the church and the army—anything lesser was not honorable, and I am not cut out to be a priest. The former can be of value in telling me when my enemies are coming, but that does not always guarantee victory. The last is too exhausting to be of much use as more than an amusement."
Cordelia's heart went out to him. "But you are still branded with the sign of difference."
"Only figuratively, praise Heaven!" Forrest grinned again. "And then only if I let it show. I have become expert in dissembling. Indeed, I warrant you would not have guessed, had you not been a witch yourself."
"Aye, I know, and given the estates to those who had supported them loyally in the war." Forrest nodded, chagrined. "They were merciful, even as you say—but the shame of the parents clung to the sons, and it was no great boon to me to have my eldest brother set even higher above me."
Cordelia remembered how brothers could vie against one another, and had heard of families in which the rivalry was much sharper than in her own. "You did not at least lack for meat, nor a roof over your head! In truth, you did not lack for comfort!"
"'Tis true," Forrest admitted, "but only till I was grown—which is to say, sixteen. Then was I set on mine own, for my father died, and my eldest brother had no great love for me. You may say 'twas bad luck that I pledged troth to the wrong lord and had to run for my life, making a living by my wits—or you may say 'twas mine own recklessness that drove me to the greenwood. I could not argue, in any case." He looked up at Cordelia, and suddenly, his eyes seemed huge, seemed to devour her, and with alarm, she felt herself turning weak inside, felt a warming and a thrilling in the blood, far worse than she had felt for the very first time so short a while ago—or far better—and his words made it even sharper. "Were I not so attainted and so ashamed, were I not cast down to banditry and poverty, I might dream of suing and sighing, of wooing and courting so beautiful a lady as yourself."
The blood roared in her ears, but she knew extravagant flattery for what it was—and loved it, in a part of herself that she tried desperately to deny. She heard herself saying, as though from far away, "A man's lot is never lost. Faith and industry, and honest striving, can resurrect the fortunes of any nobleman, no matter how low he has fallen. You must never give up hope, sir."
His eyes fired with that hope she had spoken of. "Surely, my lady," he breathed, "if you say it, I shall hope—and strive to clear my name, and prove myself worthy of regard." She stared at him, stiff, her face burning.
He added, softly, "The regard of my King, of course." But he fooled neither of them—nor did he intend to. They stared at each other for seconds that seemed to last for an uncountable time, until Cordelia felt she must break from the strain. Clutching her hands at her waist, she said, "Then go, sir, with your men, and prove your proud words."
He stood up slowly and stepped close. His scent seemed to enfold her, the scent of sweat and dust—and something else, some musk she did not know. He towered over her, so close, so close, but not close enough... "If you say it, my lady," he breathed, "I shall." And he held her gaze for one more long, long moment until finally she gave ground, stepping back a little, to break the strain.
Forrest smiled sadly, and turned to bawl at his men. They came to their feet with groans, most shaking themselves from sleep, and a scullery boy passed among them with a bucket and a ladle. Another stepped behind him with a basket of rolls. Each outlaw took a roll, took a drink, and looked up at Cordelia in gratitude, muttering, "Mercy, Lady."
"Gladly given," she answered in her most lofty manner, wondering for the first time, with desperation verging on panic, why her mother and father didn't come out to help her with this.
Then Forrest bawled orders at his men, chivvying them into some sort of order and shooing them out through the gatehouse. But before the shadows swallowed him up, he looked back for a long, last look at Cordelia, and his eyes seemed to glow.
Then he turned away, and was gone.
The whole of the outer bailey seemed to exhale in one vast sigh of relief.
All except Cordelia, who stood rigid, staring after him. Above, at the solar window, her mother beamed down, and her father scowled.
"She did that rather well, my husband," Gwendylon said. "Yes, she did," Rod answered. "And so, unfortunately, did he."
"Ah, yes." Gwen's voice was entirely too cool. "He doth seem to have gained her interest. However, it will do her no harm to find some other suitor after her affections."
"Well ... if you say so." Rod did not look convinced. "But I don't like the look of him."
"Or the look he gave our daughter? I cannot say I am surprised. Yet be easy in thine heart, mine husband—she is warded against those who would use her, as well as any maiden may be."
"And no better. Why didn't you go down there and help her out?"
"Why did not you?"
"Mostly because of your hand on my arm restraining me, every time I started for the door."
"Well, that is true." Gwen smiled, dimpling. "After all, 'twas to her they were bound to surrender, not to us."
"True," Rod admitted. "Still, I think she could have used a little support."
"She is experienced with those who would do her harm, and is quite ready to deal with them herself, mine husband. We cannot always shield her—but I will admit 'tis best for her to experience such men as he, when we stand near."