Now that she thought of it, that was odd in itself. Perhaps there was something to be said for Moraga's form of revenge.
Gregory led them to a meadow. Quicksilver looked up at the sound of hoofbeats, and saw a troop of armored horsemen pounding toward them. She turned to Geoffrey with a frown. "Why do the lord's knights ride?"
"We have come too late," Geoffrey returned. "Whether Moraga's forces are ready or not, the lord attacks."
"We must aid her!" Quicksilver swung back toward the knights, reaching for the sword that was not there, then crying out in frustration. "Give me my blade!"
Without a word, Geoffrey passed it to her, but his gaze stayed on the horsemen. She stared at him, indignant that he took her obedience so much for granted that he did not even feel he had to guard against her! She was about to raise her sword to teach him a lesson, when she realized ...
That he was trusting her.
"Let us not ride if there is no need," Geoffrey said softly. "Nay, let us see the power of this Moraga." Quicksilver darted an anxious glance at the tons of metal that pounded toward the trees. "Only if you give your word that we shall pounce if they seek to harm her!"
"We shall pounce most shrewdly," he promised her. "Gregory, be ready to strike."
"Gs, watts, or BTUs?" Gregory asked.
Quicksilver felt a moment's giddiness. Was this how witches talked?
Before Geoffrey could answer, the knights snapped back in their saddles as though they had been hit with lances that knocked them down. They fell, and their horses kept on running, then realized they were lighter, and turned back to stand over their masters, as well-trained war-steeds do.
Now the foot soldiers came in sight, a band of men running, pikes and halberds waving—until they saw their leaders' horses riderless. Then they stopped so quickly that Quicksilver thought they must have run into a morass.
One of them, though, plucked up the courage to dash ahead and help a knight back up to his feet. "Moraga!" the knight screamed in fury and frustration. "Peasant witch! It is Count Nadyr who speaks! Show yourself, coward! That we may see our foe, and strike!"
There was no answer.
"Coward! Miscreant! Vile witch!" he screamed. "Fatherless, misbegotten mandrake's spawn! Farrowless sow! Raddled hag!"
Still there was no answer.
Quicksilver was red with anger. "Calls he himself a nobleman, and uses such terms on any woman?"
"I despise his ethics," Geoffrey agreed, "though I must admit it is a sound tactic."
"She seems to know, that, too," Quicksilver said, with irony. "She does not answer, but lets him rant." She gazed off into space a moment, listening with her mind, then shook her head. "I find no trace of her."
"She hears him," Gregory assured her. "She delights in his rage."
Quicksilver almost shuddered. How could he know? She solaced herself with admiration for Moraga.
Finally, the Count gave up in disgust, and beckoned his footmen. Seeing nothing further happening, they approached, albeit somewhat hesitantly, and he sent them about their business with blows and curses. They helped the knights to their feet, then boosted them back into their saddles.
"We are mounted again, and her purpose undone!" Count Nadyr shouted. "Onward to the village! We shall take again what is ours—for I doubt she'll have the courage to show her face!" He turned his horse and rode away, brandishing his sword. His men followed him, with considerably less enthusiasm.
"Sir Geoffrey," Quicksilver said, "are you sure we fight on the proper side in this conflict?"
"Not at all," Geoffrey said, thin-lipped, "though I mistrust any who defy the law."
The sword went flying from the Count's hand. Something struck him out of his saddle.
Quicksilver smiled. "Well done, witch!"
"I saw what smote him, this time," Gregory said. "'Twas a rock, a common rock."
"She is a telekinetic, then," Geoffrey said, "and one of might and skill."
The footmen had crowded back in superstitious fear; the companions could hear their furious clamor. A few of the knights rode forward hesitantly, though, and took up station to either side of the lord. They barked to the men, beckoning, and a dozen came forward to heft the count back into his saddle—or across it.
"He is unconscious, then," Geoffrey said. Gregory nodded. "The rock struck his helm."
"Then he will be fortunate if he wakes," Quicksilver said, in a tone that indicated the nobleman would be better off dead.
The knights turned away, accompanying their lord in silence, riding back the way they had come. After a moment, the soldiers followed.
When they were almost out of sight, Gregory's face suddenly turned abstracted, and he slipped off Fess's rump, striding away across the meadow.
Geoffrey looked up, startled. "Gregory?"
"Come," the youth commanded, and strode ahead. Quicksilver bridled, indignant at being ordered aboutbut there was something in Gregory's tone that did not brook delay, so she swallowed her resentment and rode beside Geoffrey, following his brother.
Gregory led them to a large old apple tree, two feet thick in the trunk, its branches tangled and gnarled. Unripe fruit glistened among its leaves.
Gregory came to a halt and called, "Moraga! Come down!"
There was a pause, just long enough for Quicksilver to wonder if the young man had taken leave of his senses. Then the leaves began to rustle with more than the wind, and a pair of stockinged legs appeared, descending to stand on the lowest branch. A long dark skirt dropped down to cover them, with a voluminous blouse above it, and a very plain-looking, very ordinary peasant girl's face above that. She had mousy hair, thin, short, and bound close to her head by an embroidered circlet—her only sign of ornamentation. She was plain, very plain, but not quite bad-looking enough to be ugly. Her nose was definitely too large; she squinted with nearsightedness; her cheeks seemed too full. Certainly they were far too pale, as though she had grown up inside a cave. "Who calls me?" she demanded.
"Gregory Gallowglass," the youth answered. "You acted without honor when you did not appear in answer to Count Nadyr's challenge, Moraga."
The very ordinary face came alive with anger and bitterness. "Honor! Honor is for the rich and the idle! We cannot afford honor, we who must labor from sun to sun! For us, honor is a word men use to cozen us into dying so that they may live!"
"Why, how dare you speak so!" Geoffrey cried in indignation.
But Moraga was running at full steam, not about to stop for him. "Honor? Did he have honor when he rode against me with a dozen knights and fifty footmen at his back? Nay! Do not seek to cozen me—knight! Honor is for fools!"
"'Honor is all that prevents the strong from exploiting the weak!" Geoffrey proclaimed.
"Is it?" Moraga sneered. "I tell you truly, it was one of Count Nadyr's knights who dishonored me! Where was his protection of the weak, then? Where was his chivalry? What did he know of honor?"
"Oh, I do not doubt that he knew of it," Geoffrey said with contempt. "He could not have won his spurs otherwise. But he chose to disregard it, and is not worthy of his rank."
"A knight alone seldom degenerates so far, brother,"
Gregory pointed out. "At the least, his lord should have punished him when he learned of the crime."
"Truly spoken," Geoffrey acknowledged. "Therefore, his lord did not learn of the crime—or did not choose to punish it."
"'Tis more likely the lord set the tone for his men, is it not?"
"It is, most surely," Geoffrey said, in tones of utter censure. He turned back to Moraga. "Does Count Nadyr have so foul a reputation as his knight, damsel?"