One by one, they sat up, stretching and yawning.
"I could sleep the night through," Geoffrey sighed.
"Do so, then!" said Magnus. "Puck and I will suffice to tend to this Shire-Reeve."
"Nay," Geoffrey said quickly. "I am fully awakened."
Cordelia lay nestled against the unicorn, who lay on her side, tummy against the girl's back. Now she sat up, blinking, cuddling Gregory against her. That meant the little boy had to sit up, too, but as soon as he did, his eyes sagged shut again.
"Do thy best to waken him," Puck advised. "Thou two must be most alert, when we do return."
Cordelia kissed Gregory on the forehead and gave him a little shake, murmuring, "Waken thou, mannikin." Little Brother lifted his head, blinking; then his eyelids closed, and so did hers. Cordelia shook her head and turned to Puck. "He shall be wakeful, when thou dost return."
Puck nodded and said, "Keep safe, then. Fairies do watch thee." He turned to Magnus and Geoffrey, "Let us go. I have been to the Shire-Reeve's tent already, and long did I wait till he ceased his work with parchments, and lay down to steep; yet now he doth slumber, and I've deepened his sleep with a spell."
Magnus nodded. "Aye, let us away."
Puck caught their hands and nodded. All three disappeared. With a boom, air rushed in to fill the space where they'd been.
Two young men stood guard at the door to the Shire-Reeve's tent. One had been a member of the Reeve's trained band of armed men for several years; the other was a raw recruit, a shepherd boy, who kept watching his veteran partner closely, trying to imitate him, holding his pitchfork the same way the constable held his pike.
Something exploded inside the tent. The two men whirled about, staring. They heard the Shire-Reeve cry out, then heard the explosion again. The two men stared at each other in alarm, then crashed together as they both tried to jam through the tent flap at the same time.
They tumbled in, weapons at the ready, staring about them wildly.
"Hold up the tent flap," the veteran barked.
The shepherd turned and yanked the flap high. Moonlight streamed in, enough to show them the Shire-Reeve's cot, empty.
In the forest glade, the two boys appeared with a thunder-crack, a full-grown man held horizontally between them. His feet dropped to the ground, and he thrashed his way upright, shaking off the boys' hands. "Witchcraft! Vile dwarves, who…"
He broke off, staring at the small figure confronting him, only as high as his knee, but with a very stony look on his face. "Thou, who dost nail up Cold Iron over every door, and dost never leave milk for the brownies," Puck grated, "wilt now face the Puck!"
While the Shire-Reeve stood silent for just that one moment, Cordelia, in the shadows, stared at the quarterstaff that lay hidden in the grass. It leaped up and cracked into the Shire-Reeve's head. He fell like a pole-axed steer.
The Shire-Reeve awoke, frowning against a splitting headache. He tried to sit up, but couldn't lift his arms to support himself. In sudden panic, he thrashed about, trying to move his hands and legs, but found they were lashed securely together, with the arms bound tightly to his sides. He looked about him, panting, wild-eyed, and saw four children of varying sizes, gazing down at him. A shadow moved behind them; he recognized it for a huge black warhorse with glowing eyes, and a chill ran down his back. Then something stepped up beside the horse into a patch of moonlight, and he saw a silver head with a long, straight horn spearing out from the forehead —and centering on him. The chill spread into his belly, and turned into dread.
"Look down," suggested a deep voice.
The Shire-Reeve did, and turned completely cold. There, in front of the children, stood a foot-and-a-half-high elf with blood in his eye.
"Be honored," the mannikin grated. "Few mortals ever do see the Puck."
The Shire-Reeve lay stiffly, panting, wide-eyed. Frantically, he strove to compose himself, to collect his thoughts.
"I know thee," Puck said. "Thou art Reginald, son of Turco, who was squire to Sir Bartolem—and thou dost call thyself 'squire' too, though thou hast no right to it, sin that thou hast never borne a knight's armor, nor cared for his horse."
The middle-sized boy started at that, then glared down at the man.
The Shire-Reeve nodded, trying to slow his breathing. He swallowed and said, "Aye." He swallowed again and said, "Then the Wee Folk are real."
As real as thou, but with a deal more sense," Puck said with sarcasm. "We do not make spectacles of ourselves, flaunting our power for all men to admire—or women, in thy case."
Reginald's face darkened. He was glad of the anger he felt; it helped restore him to himself.
Puck nodded toward the children behind him and said, "I can see in thine eyes that thou dost dismiss these children as being of no consequence. Thou art a fool; they are the High Warlock's brood."
Reginald stiffened, staring from one little face to another.
Puck nodded. "Aye, thou hast cause to fear them. They will have little mercy for the man who did kidnap their parents."
"I did not!" Reginald cried. "Who saith this of me? 'Tis a false lie!" And it was, in a way—he had only spoken with those odd scrawny men with the gaunt faces and the wild looks in their eyes, telling them that the King was a tyrant, and so was Earl Tudor and even Count Glynn. He had claimed to believe all the noblemen were, and had sworn he wished to destroy them all, letting the people live freely on their own, with none to oppress them. And the odd men had smiled, eyes glittering, and promised to aid him in any way they could— they were wizards, after all, and owned a kind of magic that few witches knew of.
So he had asked them to kidnap the High Warlock and his wife.
All of that passed through his mind as he stared at the elf with the High Warlock's children behind him, their faces growing darker and darker with anger. He hadn't asked enough of the weird men; he should have asked them to take the children, too…
He let none of that show in his face. He only said stoutly, "I did not abduct the High Warlock!"
But the children didn't believe him, he could see it in their faces. With a sinking heart, he remembered that they were warlocks and a witch, and that they could hear thoughts. "'Tis not true!" he burst out; but the elf only said, "We had guessed already what thou hast thought. Yet who put this notion of conquest into thy mind? Was it the other wizards, they who go about dressed as peasants and speak to the common folk of their miseries? Or didst thou come to think of it by thine own self?"
"Nay, 'tis all false!" Reginald insisted. "I did but seek to keep the peace in mine own shire! And when I saw there were bandits throughout all of Tudor, I marched out against them!" He tried desperately not to think of those scabrous, tattered men coming to him when he was, very truthfully, only seeking to keep the peace, which did not take much doing—only the occasional poacher, and the peasant who drank too much on a feast day; but it was enough to earn the King's silver, and keep him in his grand, stone house. But those false peasants with the burning eyes had convinced him he could have more, so much more—the whole Earldom, perhaps even the whole kingdom! And they were right, it was possible—for he had an army now, and those magical weapons the wizards had given him! He would defeat the King, with the aid of those foolish counts. Or, rather, with the help of the other wizards, the ones who said they were spiteful, and who swore they could persuade a few of the counts to attack the King from the rear. For a moment, the fear clamored up in him—what if they did not? What if he attacked the King's army, and found himself fighting alone?
Then he thrust the fear down. It was needless; the wizards had sworn he would win, both the peasant ones and the spiteful ones.
"The King hath the aid of the Wee Folk," Puck grated, "and the magic of all the royal witches and warlocks—and even these half-fledged ones are mighty. Be sure, an thou dost fight His Majesty, thou shalt lose."