“Yet thou didst come in a coach,” Magnus reminded. “Didst thou see naught then?”
The boys shook their heads, and the youngest said, “We knew only that Mother bade us follow her down to the courtyard, and placed us in the coach. Through the gate house, we heard the clash of arms afar off; yet she drew the curtains closely, and bade us open them not.”
The oldest added, “We could hear the rumble of the wheels echoing about us, and knew that we passed through the gatehouse. Then the portcullis did crash down behind us, and the noises of war began to grow nearer.”
Geoffrey’s eyes glinted.
“Then they began to grow fainter, till they were lost behind us,” the eldest went on, “and we heard naught but the grating of the coach’s wheels.”
The youngest nodded. “When at last we did part the curtains, there was naught to see but summer fields and groves.”
The Duchess pressed her face into her hands, and her shoulders shook with more than shivering. Gwen tucked the blanket more tightly around her, murmuring soothing inanities. She glanced at Rod and nodded toward the children.
Rod took the cue. “Uh, kids—could you maybe change the subject?”
“Eh?” Cordelia looked up and took in the situation at a glance. “Oh!” She was instantly contrite. “We are sorry, Papa.” She turned to the other children, catching the hands of the Duchess’s sons. “Come, let us play at tracking.”
The fatuous look they gave her boded well for her teen-aged future, and ill for Rod’s coming peace of mind. But they darted away, calling to one another, and Magnus hid his face against a large tree, and began to count.
The Duchess lifted her head, turning it from side to side in wonder. “They so quickly forget such ill!”
“Well, yes—but you haven’t really told them the bad parts,” Rod said judiciously. “For all they know, their father’s winning the battle. And can you really say he didn’t?”
“Nay,” she said, as though it were forced from her. “Yet I did not flee till I looked down from the battlements, and saw that the melee had begun to go against him—even as we had feared.” Then she buried her face in her hands, and her shoulders heaved with sobbing. Gwen clucked over her, comforting, and Rod had the good taste to keep quiet until the Duchess had regained some measure of control over herself. She lifted her head, gazing out over the meadow with unseeing eyes. “When first the reeves began to bring us tales of villages suborned, we dismissed them with laughter. Who could come to rule a village, whiles its knight stood by to shield it? Yet the first tale was followed by a second, and a second by a third, then a fourth, then a fifth—and ever was it the same: that a sorcerer had made the people bow to him. Then it was a witch who forced the homage, with the sorcerer’s power supporting her; then a warlock.”
“How’d they do it?” Rod asked. “Did the reeves know?”
The Duchess shook her head. “They had heard only rumors of dire threats, and of barns bursting into flame, and kine that sickened and fell. Yet for the greater part, there had been only surliness and complaining from the peasants, complaining that swelled louder and louder. Then the witch or warlock stepped amongst them, and they turned with joyful will to bow to him or her, and the sorcerer whose power lay ‘neath. My lord did bid one of his knights to ride about his own estates, and visit the villages therein. The knight returned, and spoke of peasant mobs that howled in fury, brandishing scythes and mattocks, and hurling stones. When he charged, they broke and ran; yet when he turned away, eftsoons they gathered all against him once again.” Her mouth hardened. “Thus were they bid, I doubt not.”
“Sudden, rabid loyalty.” Rod glanced at Gwen. “Would you say they didn’t really seem to be themselves? The peasants, I mean.”
“Nay, assuredly not!” The Duchess shuddered. “They were as unlike what they had been, as May time is from winter. Such reports angered milord, but not greatly. They angered his vassal, the Baron de Gratecieux, far more; for, look you, the greater part of Milord Duke’s revenues was yielded to him by his counts, who gained theirs from their barons. Yet the barons gain theirs from their knights.”
Rod nodded. “So a knight’s village resisting payments is a little more serious to the baron than to his duke.”
The Duchess nodded too. “He did implore Milord Duke for arms and men, which my lord did give him gladly. Then rode the Baron ‘gainst the sorcerer.”
She fell silent. Rod waited.
When she didn’t go on, Rod asked, “What happened?”
The Duchess shuddered. “Eh, such reports as we had were horrible, in truth! The Baron’s force did meet with a host of magics—fell creatures that did pounce from the air, fireballs and rocks that appeared among them, hurtling; arrows that sped without bows or archers, and war-axes and maces that struck without a hand to bear them. Then peasant mobs did charge upon them, howling and striking with their sickles. Yet far worst of all was a creeping fear, a sense of horror that overcame the Baron’s soldiers, till they broke and ran, screaming hoarsely in their terror.”
Rod met Gwen’s eyes, and her words sounded in his ears alone: I count a witch-moss crafter, and the warlock who doth hurl stones ‘mongst us; and there be witches who do make the weapons fly. Yet what’s this creeping horror?
Rod could only shake his head. He looked down at the Duchess again. “What happened to the Baron?”
The Duchess shuddered. “He came not home; yet in later battles, he has been seen—leading such soldiers as lived, against the sorcerer’s foes.”
Rod caught Gwen’s eye again; she nodded. Well, they’d met that compulsive hypnosis already. “How many of the soldiers survived?”
“There were, mayhap, half a dozen that lived to flee, of the threescore that marched to battle.”
Rod whistled softly. “Six out of sixty? This sorcerer’s efficient, isn’t he? How many of the defeated ones were following Baron de Gratecieux in the next battle?”
The Duchess shrugged. “From the report we had—mayhap twoscore.”
“Forty out of sixty, captured and brainwashed?” Rod shuddered. “But some got away—the six you mentioned.”
“Aye. But a warlock pursued them. One only bore word to us; we know not what happened to the other five.”
“It’s a fair guess, though.” Rod frowned. “So right from the beginning, Alfar’s made a point of trying to keep word from leaking out.” Somehow, that didn’t smack of the medieval mind. “You say you learned this afterwards?”
The Duchess nodded. “It took that lone soldier a week and a day to win home to us.”
“A lot can happen in a week.”
“So it did. The sorcerer and his coven marched against the Castle Gratecieux; most of the household acclaimed Alfar their suzerain. The Baroness and some loyal few objected, and fought to close the gates. They could not prevail, though, and those who did acclaim the sorcerer their lord, did ope’ the gate, lower the drawbridge, and raise the portcullis.”
Rod shrugged. “Well, if they could make whole villages switch allegiance, why not a castleful?”
“What did the sorcerer to the Baroness?” Gwen asked, eyes wide.
The Duchess squeezed her eyes shut. “She doth rest in the dungeon, with her children—though the eldest was wounded in the brawling.”
Gwen’s face hardened.
“How did you learn this?” Rod tried to sound gentle.
“Servants in Gratecieux’s castle have cousins in my kitchens.”
“Servants’ network.” Rod nodded. “So Alfar just took over the castle. Of course, he went on to take over the rest of the manor.”
“Such villages as did not already bow to him, aye. They fell to his sway one by one. At last, the other barons did take alarm, and did band together to declare war upon him.”
“Bad tactics.” Rod shook his head. “The hell with the declaration; they should’ve just gone in, and mopped him up.”