She scolded herself for the thought a moment later, of course.
The old man held Delilah away again, looking down gravely. "It was very wrong of thee, my dear, to worry thy father so, and to put thyself in such peril."
"I—I know, my father." Delilah lowered her gaze. "But Roland had sent word that I should meet him 'neath a certain willow, deep within the wood, at dawn ... or so I thought..."
"Young Roland?" Her father frowned. "Why, he came to call upon thee the very day thou hadst left—but thou wert not here!"
"No." Delilah looked up, very obviously nerving herself to speak. "The word that had been brought to me was false, my father. I learned that, but too late—for I sat me down beneath the willow where he bade me meet him, and he never came ... he never..." She gulped; tears began to flow again.
"There, there!" The old man whisked a handkerchief from his cuff and dabbed at her cheeks. "Assuredly, he could not come, for he did not know thou hadst gone, nor where! When we told him thou wert fled, he was as distraught as I!" Her father frowned. "Who brought thee this false news of him, my dear?"
Delilah lowered her gaze again, biting her lip.
"Nay, thou must needs tell me!" her father said sternly. But she looked away, very reluctant indeed. "I cannot, my father. It would be ... wrong."
"Wrong? To tell me the name of one who hath betrayed thee so? Come, child! Speak truly!"
But she shook her head, eyes still downcast.
Cordelia decided somebody was going to have to say something; she could see the storm clouds gathering in the old man's brow—and apparently, both her brother and her suitor were too concerned with honor to speak a word. Forrest, of course, did not know—he had not been there the night before to hear this tale. "It was her sister."
The old man looked up, staring, appalled. Then he looked down again, scowling, anger gathering. "Is this true, Delilah?"
Delilah said nothing, only bit her lip and gave a quick nod. "But it was her sister who waylaid you upon the road!" Forrest exclaimed. "Sir, I came in time to help them beat her off, she and her henchmen, so I know whereof I speak."
The old man lifted his head. "How now, sir! What henchmen are these?"
Forrest shrugged. "Big, hard-faced men in garb of murky gray, with targets on their arms and swords in their hands. Hardened men, by the look of them, but no match for two young knights and..." He grinned. ". . . a forest outlaw who came upon them unawares."
" 'Tis even so," Geoffrey said at last.
"I cannot believe it!" the old man said, the color draining from his face. He looked down at Delilah, at the misery in her eyes, and groaned. "But I see I must. Nay, we shall have thy sister out, and hear the truth from her own lips."
Tears trembled on Delilah's lids.
"I think, good sir," Geoffrey said softly, "you are not like to see your other daughter again. She shall know what has passed here, and shall stay far from home."
"Nay, never say so!" The father looked up, distraught. "Am I to be bereft of one daughter, no matter what I do?" Geoffrey and Cordelia exchanged glances, and Cordelia said slowly, "There may be a way. I doubt it, sir, but there may be. Let us sleep upon the issue, and see what we may do."
"Why, surely, then!" But he frowned at them, puzzled. "Be sure that I shall be grateful for whatever thought you may give it."
He looked back at Delilah again. "Who are these good folk who have escorted thee here, my dear? May I not know their names?"
"As much as they have let me know, Father," she said, "for these gentlemen have told me that they ride bound by a vow not to name themselves fully to any but each other, until some purpose of theirs is accomplished."
"Which, of course, must also remain a secret." The old man nodded. "You are knights-errant, then?"
"We are." Alain inclined his head, looking faintly puzzled. Cordelia could understand why. The old man was clearly of the gentry—a squire at least, more probably a knight himself, even of the petty aristocracy. It was very unlikely that the Crown Prince would not have met him, for he had been introduced to every nobleman in Gramarye at one time or another. Of course, there were always a few who never came to Court, but kept themselves buried in the country, managing their estates.... Still, the home was not a castle, nor even a moated grange or battle-tower; and although there was every sign of comfort, there was no appearance of such luxury as befitted a great lord.
"Forgive my lack of manners." Delilah turned to them, one hand on her father's arm. "Gentlemen and lady, may I present my father, Sir Julian LeFevre. Father, Sir Alain ... Sir Geoffrey ... his sister, the Lady Cordelia ... and Sir Forrest Elmsford."
Each of the young men inclined their heads. Cordelia couldn't drop a curtsy, being still mounted, but she smiled warmly.
"You are welcome, welcome, and with all the thanks I can bestow!" Sir Julian cried, throwing his arms wide. "Step down, step down! My grooms shall see to thy horses. Come in, come into my house! You must bathe, you must dine! You must allow me to show my thanks! Nay, you must stay a day, two days, three, that I may lavish my hospitality upon you in gratitude."
"The road has been long." Geoffrey and Alain exchanged glances. "A bath would be welcome, and some little rest." Alain turned to Cordelia, inclining his head. "If you wish it, my lady?"
"Surely," Cordelia said quickly. She wasn't about to take a chance that the boys would stay at Delilah's house without her. "I, too, would be most grateful for some respite."
Alain turned back to Sir Julian with a smile. "I thank you, sir. We accept your hospitality."
"I rejoice!" the old man cried. "Come in, come in!"
CHAPTER 11
Hostlers took the horses to the stables. Fess's words echoed in both the Gallowglasses' minds: Farewell, Cordelia; be wary, Geoffrey. These people are not what they seem. If you have the slightest need of me, call.
We shall, Fess, Cordelia promised.
Delilah and Forrest both wondered why Cordelia and her brother were so quiet for a few seconds. They could not sense the exchange, since Fess's remarks had been made in the encrypted mode of telepathy that the Gallowglasses had invented for the use of their family alone.
Servants showed them to their rooms. They looked about them as they were led through the house—at the graceful double stairway, and the leaded panes of tinted glass that adorned the landing, filling the whole entry hall with light.
Up the stairway they went, to the chambers above. The ceilings were ten feet high, the hallways broad, and the rooms spacious. It was scarcely a castle or a palace, but it was a good and very big house, with real glass in the windows and featherbeds in the bedrooms—both great luxuries, in a medieval society.
Since Fess had taught the Gallowglass children history, Cordelia recognized the architecture as being post-Medieval—Tudor, at least. It did not concern her terribly—she knew that her planet's original colonists had redefined Medieval society to incorporate whatever suited them. A Renaissance manor house was only a century or two too late, after all.
Cordelia was delighted with the chamber—it was huge, light, airy, and decorated with the sort of frills and pastels that reminded her of her own room at home. She went to the windows to see how much of a view she had, and was delighted to see an acre or so of carefully tended garden, bright with flowers, and cut into several smaller gardens by high hedges.
"Shall I draw your bath, milady?" the maid asked. "Not quite yet," Cordelia answered. "I must explore this delightful garden that I see below me! Will you show me to it?"