"She will, if she is your one true love," Geoffrey said. "If she is not in love with you, no persuading of yours will ever create that love, though your conduct and bearing may inspire it. When all's said and done, it is what you are that will win the lady—and if you wish to win her, 'tis a matter of what you can become."
"I cannot be anything but myself!"
"That is true," Geoffrey agreed, "and you were best to wait for the lady who loves what you are, rather than try to become what she loves. But you may have sterling qualities that would inspire her love, if only you could show them. When all's said and done, winning a lass is a matter of how you present yourself. That, and learning to be romantic."
"What is this `romance'?" Alain asked, frowning. Geoffrey spread his hands, at a loss. "'Tis as much a fantasy as a reality, my friend. The troubadours know it'tis not a matter of lying, exactly, but of making the plain facts more appealing, of surrounding the bare bones of life with a pleasing form. 'Tis this that awakens desire in a lady—candlelight, and viols playing, and a dance that whirls her away."
"You speak of deliberate planning, of cozening," Alain protested. "Must I persuade her that what I say is true?" Geoffrey shrugged. "Her future, her entire life, depends upon it, Alain. She must be sure."
"Then however am I to win her?" Alain cried in despair. "For I have no gift in persuasion, no silvered tongue, no ability to charm! I am only a blunt, plain-spoken soldier who knows how to guard his words!"
"Guarding one's words is not altogether what the ladies want," Geoffrey advised him, "though you must choose those words well. They wish you to be borne away by a flood of passion so strong that tender, caring words burst out of you."
"And all my training has been to keep words in!" Alain turned away in misery. "I shall never win her love, then! I shall never win any woman's love!"
Now Geoffrey felt the first faint twinges of alarm—of concern for his friend but, moreover, for his sister. He knew Cordelia had always thought of Alain as her personal future property, and frankly, the young Prince was the only man whom he thought worthy of his sister—not because he was the future King, but because he was as dependable as a rock and, beneath all his pomposity, goodhearted and warm. Geoffrey didn't doubt that, if they were married, Alain would treat Cordelia like the precious thing she was. He felt a sudden need to boost his friend's ego. "It is nothing inborn," he said, "no quality within you. It is only that all your life, all your experience, has been spent in the safe confines of your parents' castle, the controlled and artificial world of their court."
"Artificial!" Alain looked up, amazed and affronted.
"'Tis quite a work of artifice, a thing made by people, not by God," Geoffrey explained. "Hunger and ugliness are banished and kept out; oppression and cruelty are veiled and harnessed by custom and manners. You have never faced real danger without others to ward you, nor dealt with the world on its own terms."
"What terms do you speak of?" Alain demanded sharply.
Geoffrey realized that there were suddenly more concerns than Cordelia on his mind. "Terms of danger, my Prince—the danger of cruel men who murder and steal, the dangers of famine and disease. You have never seen how your future subjects live, nor to what authority they must answer. You have never gone through your kingdom solely as Alain, not as the Prince."
"Why, thou dost paint me as a stock of a man, a painted stick, a hollow effigy!"
"Even so; you have said it."
"How dare you!" Alain cried, the anger of his defeat finally bubbling over. "How dare you speak so to your Prince!"
Geoffrey nodded with grim satisfaction. "Even now you do it—even now you seek refuge behind your title. As to how I dare, why—I have only answered the questions you asked. Do you truly ask me how I dare to answer them honestly?"
Alain stared at him, then spoke, seeming numb. "No. I cannot fault you for that, can I? Indeed, I should praise you for the truthfulness all others near me do lack."
Suddenly he turned away, once again in despair. "But how can I ever face her again? If I am truly so shallow, so puffed-up and pompous, how can I ever hope to win Cordelia's heart? How, if I am so superficial and vain?"
"Become a true man," Geoffrey answered, "one of flesh and bone, with hot blood in your veins."
"Why, how can I do that?"
"Go off on a quest of your own, friend, to discover what you truly are—with none to ward you, and no sign of your true rank."
"I would not know how to bear myself, nor where to go," Alain protested.
Geoffrey threw up his hands in exasperation. "Why, then, I shall show you! Come, and we shall go adventuring, you and I—but come straightaway. Do not go to your home to shift your clothes, nor to pack your gear, but come away now!"
"'Tis even as you say; my parents would never hear of it." With sudden resolution, Alain said, "Why, then, I shall learn the way of it—of courting, of living, of being true! Come, old friend, let us go!"
Sir Devon watched, amazed, as the two young men rode off into the forest side by side. Clearly, the Prince had forgotten Sir Devon. The knight felt a moment's rage before he remembered how preoccupied Alain had been, how sunk in gloom; then Sir Devon's resentment melted like ice in tea, for he had been raised on romances like any other young gentleman of Gramarye, and knew that all can be forgiven the lover who is driven to distraction. He allowed himself a moment for a sad smile, then sighed and called his horse. Alain might have been forgiven, but Sir Devon still had his duty—to report what had happened to Their Majesties.
He rode away down the road. Scarcely had he passed beyond the first bend when Cordelia came shooting into view on her broomstick. From her higher vantage point, she could see a break in the trees, where Alain and Geoffrey were riding away together. For a moment, she stared; then a hot surge of indignation reddened her cheeks, and she banked into a sharp turn, heading back toward Castle Gallowglass, growing angrier and angrier with every mile she flew.
CHAPTER 3
"How could he! How could he go gallivanting off with one who has but lately given his sister insult!"
Cordelia was pacing the floor of the solarium, fuming, tiny slippers tapping. Rod and Gwen sat by, watching their daughter and biting their tongues. At least, Rod was biting his.
"Perchance," Gwen suggested, "thy brother had already rebuked Alain, and punished him."
Cordelia looked up, instantly dismayed. "Oh, say not so! I know the manner of Geoffrey's rebuke." She frowned. "Nay, he could not have, or there would not be enough of Alain left to sit a horse!"
"Unless Alain apologized," Rod pointed out.
Cordelia stared. "Alain, apologize? That stuffed, selfimportant popinjay, lower himself to apology?"
"I think thou dost wrong him in that, daughter," Gwen said gently. "He is chivalrous enough to apologize, if he could be brought to see that he had wronged you."
"Even if he had, 'twas to me he should have apologized—not Geoffrey!"
"Why, that is so," Gwen said, puzzled. "Wherefore would he not seek thee out?"
"Scared," Rod opined. "I would be, too, if a pretty girl had just rejected me flat out."
Cordelia turned to him, puzzled. "Why should this be?"
"Just a quirk of the male mind. We're sensitive about being told we don't matter."
Cordelia frowned. "But I did not."
"Sure—you just told him "no.' Right? No explanations, no excuses—nothing but a flat "no.' "
"There was more than that." For the first time, a trace of guilt crept into Cordelia's expression.