"Oh, you bet it is," Rod said softly.
The bandit troop passed out from the gatehouse and down the winding road, descending the mound on which the castle stood. There the road split, the eastern fork straggling off into the wood, toward Runnymede. They trooped off eastward with it—but as soon as they were in under the trees, there were mutterings in the ranks.
"We could go now, and none would ever be the wiser!"
"Now could we fade in among the greenwood leaves, and none should ever find us!"
Pebbles whizzed from the roadside. One clipped the last speaker on the pate as it passed, knocking his hat off. He cried out, pressing a hand to his head, then bent down to pick up his hat—and a stick popped up out of the roadway to spank him very soundly on the rump. He straightened up with a howl, pressing his other hand to the injured anatomy.
"I think the Wee Folk have not forgotten us," said Forrest. "We are not quite yet free to go where we will."
"Then when shall we be?" cried one of the bandits. "Why, you heard the lady—when we have spoken to Sir Maris!"
Sure enough, a few rods farther on, the roadway opened out into a small clearing, and there stood Sir Maris with his dozen knights at his back.
"The lady bids us bring ourselves to you for punishment, Sir Seneschal." Forrest bowed a little.
"She has done well," the old knight grated. "We are freed of any need to require thee at the King's dungeon."
"But you promised..." one outlaw burst out, before another clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Aye, I gave my word," said Sir Maris, "and gave it in Their Majesties' names—so thou art free to go. But see to it thou dost not rob, nor steal, nor poach, ever again!"
"We shall not, sir," said Forrest, and the whole band behind him mumbled hasty denials.
"Thou, sir, most of all!" Sir Maris glared at Forrest. "Thou, the son of a nobleman, lowering thyself to banditry by the roadside! Thou shouldst be red with mortification, to stand before a knight! Thou shouldst be afeard to admit thou wert ever dubbed a knight bachelor!"
"I am ashamed." Forrest lowered his head—coincidentally hiding his expression.
"Well, mayhap there is some saving grace left within thee," the old knight grumbled, leaning on his staff. "Go thou, and mend thy ways, then—and see that thou dost make better use of the life and fortunes God hath given thee! Be mindful, whene'er thou art tempted to despoil those weaker than thyself, or those come for a moment within thy power—what would any one of these men of thine give, to have been born as thou wert? Be grateful for what thou hast, sirrah, and do not berate God for not having given thee more."
A flash of annoyance showed in Forrest's eyeresentment, quickly masked. He bowed again. "I shall take your words to heart, Sir Seneschal."
"See that thou dost! Farewell—and never come before me again with complaints of misdeeds being levied against thee! Go, go one and all—into the greenwood! You are pardoned, you are free to seek honest labor within the King's domain! Go, and never stray again!" He raised staff and hands, dismissing them.
The bandits knew when to take their chance. They faded in among the trees, one and all.
Including Forrest. He picked his way through underbrush, then strode quickly over last year's fallen leaves until he was a hundred feet from the roadway. There he stopped and listened, and heard faint sounds that must have been his men gathering together again. He set off in the opposite direction. At last he was freed from their weight, hanging about his neck—at last he was freed from the need to care for them. If they still wanted him to lead them badly enough, they could come and find him.
He hoped they would not. He wanted the freedom to be himself again, to try to build his own future once more. He had decided to take Sir Maris at his word, and make better use of his time, indeed. He strode off through the woods, circling back toward Castle Gallowglass, the image of a lissome form and a beautiful face under a wreath of auburn hair burning in his mind.
He intended to court Cordelia.
CHAPTER 7
"Alain? Ala-a-ain! Alain!"
Alain opened his eyes, and the light seemed to lance through to his brain. He squeezed them shut, then forced them open a crack. The light still pained him, and that infernal voice was booming in his ears, sending pain rolling through his head. "Alain! Praise Heaven! I feared I had lost you!"
"So did I," Alain gasped. "More softly, Geoffrey, I prithee! There is no need to shout!"
"Why, I do not." Geoffrey grinned, recognizing the condition. He knelt and slid a hand under his friend's back, pulling him up. "Drink, now. 'Tis time to break your fast."
"Bury me," Alain groaned, "for I have died." But he took the tankard obediently and drank. Then the taste hit him, and he yanked the tankard down and spat. "Pah! 'Tis the same vile potion with which you slew me!"
"'Tis good country ale," Geoffrey rejoined, "and 'twill go some way toward making you whole and sound again." He was still grinning. "But wherefore did you hide ... Oh, I see."
Alain frowned. What was he talking about? He followed the direction of Geoffrey's glance, and saw the bracken flattened in what must surely be more room than he needed by himself—and saw the stockings that lay there, forgotten as the wench had tiptoed home in the false dawn. Alain stared. "But ... but I did not . .." Then memory struck, and he buried his face in his hands and groaned. "I did!"
"Why, then, be glad!" Geoffrey slapped him on the shoulder, albeit gently. "You have slain a monster, you have drunk deeply, and you have lain with a wench! You live, Alain, you are alive as you never have been!"
"I am dead, as I never have been," the Prince groaned, "or nearly. You do not understand, Geoffrey."
"Oh, but I do. Quite well."
"Nay, you do not! I am the Prince, it is given to me to take care of my people, to guard their welfare—not to use or abuse them!"
"I doubt that you did," Geoffrey said slowly. "But you have said it yourself!"
"I have said no such thing," Geoffrey replied with asperity. "I told you to be glad of what you have done, and I say it still. The wench was more than willing—she was eager! I saw myself how she passed beyond flirtation to invitation, to leading and chivvying. What happened after she led you away, I cannot say, for I did not see—but if you could remember, I think you would find that she did urge you on even then, and did never say, 'Hold!' " "Nay, she did." Alain pressed a hand to his forehead. "The memory comes now—she did say, "My lord, how naughty! You must not!' "
Geoffrey smiled slowly. "And what did you do?"
"Why, I drew back, and took my hand from her, as any gentleman would."
"And what said she to that?"
"She took my hand and pressed it back where it had been, saying, 'Nay, you must—if you wish it.' I assured her that I did..."
"And thereafter she told you where she wished you to put your hands."
Alain blushed furiously. "Aye, though not always with words."
Geoffrey shook his head. "You are wrong to torment yourself with spasms of conscience. She wished it, and you were too drunk to refuse her, or to deny your own desires. There is no cause for you to feel guilt in anything save having drunk to excess—and therein must I share the blame, for I egged you on to it."
"My guilt is my own, for whatever I have done, I could have chosen not to!"
"Yet you would not hesitate to share the glory." Geoffrey grinned, shaking his head. "Well, bear in mind the wench's name, and that of this village, so that if she does prove by child, you can see that she is provided for. That much obligation you may claim, though I would not think it necessary. Still, if she knew who it was had lain with her last night, I have no doubt she would boast of it, and raise the child with pride."