Geoffrey glanced about, trying to discern some hint as to why the damsel wept—and why a lady of gentle breeding should be alone by a riverside. He did see a palfrey, tethered to the willow, grazing beneath its branches. Other than that, there was no sign.
"Lady, we shall protect you," he called out. "How is it you have come here alone?"
"Alas, good sirs!" She stepped forward timorously, coming out from beneath the branches of the willow—but only a little way. "There was a man—my true love, I thought—who bade me meet him here this morning, as the sun rose. But the dawn has gone, the sun nears the noon, and he has not come."
Geoffrey frowned, having something of a nasty suspicion as to what had happened—but when it came to a motive, he could only understand the most obvious, and it didn't make sense. "Wherefore would a gentleman fail in rendezvous with so beautiful a lady as yourself?"
The lady lowered her eyes, blushing, then looked up with a sigh. "Ah, sir! I can only believe that he is a true love turned false, or was never a true love at all! I blush with shame to think that he only toyed with my affections!" And she heaved another sigh.
Alain caught himself staring; the heavy sigh had done wonders. Her gown clung to her figure, after all, and her figure was very much worth clinging to. He found a desire to do so himself.
Indeed, a very great desire.
"The man who forswore a tryst with you must have been a fool indeed," he breathed.
"A fool," Geoffrey agreed, "or a very shrewd villain. Have you a sister, milady?"
"Aye, sir—a younger sister." Her eyes were wide in wonder. "How could you know?"
"You have no brother? It is the firstborn grandson who will inherit?"
"Nay, sir—it is she who weds first." Then the maiden gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "You do not believe..."
"How did word of this tryst come to you?" Geoffrey asked.
"Why, from my sister! 'Twas she who brought me word from my lord ... No! You cannot think that my own sister would betray me!"
"And that she even now importunes upon him?" Geoffrey shook his head sadly. "It has happened before this, and will happen again."
"But wherefore should she deal so cruelly with me?"
"Why, to have your lover for her husband, and your father's estates for her own," Alain said gently, his eyes full of sympathy.
The damsel stared in shock, then burst into tears.
Alain leaped down off his horse and ran to take her in his arms, patting her back, soothing, making comforting noises. He looked up and glared at Geoffrey over the damsel's head.
Geoffrey felt a surge of annoyance, and fought to keep his face impassive. Was the man truly so great a fool as that? Or, perhaps, merely inexperienced.
Geoffrey knew that Alain had had very little acquaintance with girls his own age, and that only under the very rigid rules of court formalities. But perhaps he was not so great a fool after all, for it was he who was holding the beautiful maiden in his arms—and she certainly was a beauty.
Geoffrey tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace of distaste. "Come, maiden," he called. "Where is your home?"
The damsel's sobs had slackened. Alain stroked her hair, murmuring inanities, looking stunned. "There, now—life shall go on, and you shall find a truer love than he. Come, let us dry these tears." He pulled a handkerchief from his own sleeve and dabbed at her cheeks. "Five years since, you shall look back on this day with amusement, and bless the mischance, the betrayal, that held him from you—for you shall find your true love, I doubt not, and discover him to be a far better man than he who turned from you to your sister only because you were not there, and she was."
The disturbing thing, Geoffrey decided, was that Alain really meant every word of it. In this case, it was not that he had acquired the gift of flattery—it was a genuine sympathy, a real caring for a person who was suffering. .
Though, Geoffrey reflected cynically, Alain's sympathy might not have been quite so strong if the damsel had not been quite so beautiful.
"But has he truly turned to her?" she cried, eyes brimming full again.
Alain stared down at her, feeling his heart turn over in his breast—but it was a heart that was pledged to Cordelia, as his conscience reminded him.
Well, no—it wasn't, really. After all, she had rejected his suit—spurned him, in fact. He felt a certain kinship with this maiden, who had sought her true love and been disappointed by him.
He shook the thought from him. It was unworthy of a knight. "It may be that he has not turned to another," he said. "It may be that he remains true to you."
"Oh, can you truly think so?" She stepped back from him a pace, looking up, eyes brightening with hope.
"It may be," Alain said solemnly, "though it may be as we suspect, too. Only by returning to your father's house shall we discover the truth. Come, tell us—where is your home?"
"Yonder, sir." She pointed down the roadway. "In the West, a day's ride."
"So far as that?" Geoffrey crowded his horse up near them. "You have come so long a way by yourself, unescorted, through half the night, alone?"
"Aye." She looked up at him, shuddering. "I did fear; I did start at every noise. I thought every moment to see a band of outlaws step forth from the greenwood, to assail me."
There was every chance that exactly that would have happened, Geoffrey knew, and that her purse would have been the least of which they would have reft her—if, by good luck, he and Alain had not sent the local gang packing. "But by good fortune, they were all abed, and you came here untouched, to wait for the dawn. You hid till daylight, did you not?"
She nodded.
Geoffrey looked at her, court-bred and dainty, her delicate gown soiled at the hem, and knew that any woodsman worth his salt could have found her trail and tracked her down. It had been luck, good luck only, that no bandit had done exactly that.
"The owl's hooting never had so much quality of menace as it did last night," she said.
"Then 'tis only by great good fortune that you have come thus far in safety." Alain looked down at her sternly, "You must return to your father's house forthwith—but you must not ride alone. Come, mount! We shall accompany you!"
"I could not ask that of you." But even as she said it, gladness suffused her face. "Assuredly, you are bound to other destinations."
Alain saw those huge eyes glowing up at him, and knew that he could not do anything else. "No true knight could turn down a request from a damsel in distress," he told her. "We shall ride with you—and we shall not hear a word to the contrary."
Nor was she apt to give it, Geoffrey thought—but he did not say so. After all, he would never turn down an opportunity to escort so voluptuous a lady, either.
"I hesitate to ask it of you." She bowed her head, looking up at him through long lashes. "Surely you must be bound on a mission of great importance."
"You may say that." Alain smiled. "We are two knightserrant, wandering where we will to discover damsels in distress, so that we may give them aid and succor. I could not think of any mission more important. Could you, Sir Geoffrey?"
"Oh, nay, assuredly not, Sir Alain!" Geoffrey fought to keep both sarcasm and amusement from his voice. At least one of them was sincere.
"Then 'tis said; 'tis done." Alain stepped away from the lady, albeit reluctantly, and stepped over to the palfrey. He untied it and led it out from under the willow leaves. "Come, my lady, mount!" He dropped the horse's reins, set his hands to her waist, and lifted her up to the saddle, amazed that she felt so light. She gasped with surprise and fright, clinging to his arms, then smiled tremulously as she found herself on horseback again. She hooked a knee about the horn of the sidesaddle, arranged her skirts, and beamed down upon him. "Bless you, sir!"