"Well, then, you'd better pay attention to what she means as well as to what she says." Rod ignored his son's puzzled look. "Just don't forget that you can't accuse a friend of not being willing to give if you aren't willing to take."
"No, of course not," Magnus said, even more puzzled.
"Good." Rod filled himself a bowl of stew. "Care for seconds?"
Magnus stared, then laughed and shook his head. "No thank you, Dad. One bowl was enough to tide me over. I do have to get back to the castle." He looked up with a quizzical frown. "I thought I had come to ask your opinion about my siblings' insistence that I not give them orders."
"They're grown up now." Rod smiled. "Are you?"
Magnus laughed again, and loudly. He stood, nodding. "You're right—I'll treat them as I've treated all the other adults I've met on my travels."
"Meaning that you'll manipulate them with respect." Rod smiled and set his bowl down. "Instead, we talked about something that must matter more to you. I take it you're planning dinner with Alea."
"Of course." Magnus must have realized that he sounded domestic, because he said quickly, "Oh, and Dad—Alea picked up word of a little problem in Loguire."
"Yes?" Rod looked up with interest. "What kind of problem?"
"A poacher who's about to be hanged," Magnus said, "and it's Diarmid who has to pass judgement on him.
Twenty-One
"OF COURSE," ROD SAID SLOWLY. "HE'S THE duke now, so any capital case would be referred to him."
"I understand he's not terribly happy about it."
"Sure," Rod said with a bleak smile. "Who would be? But it's part of being duke—he has to carry out his responsibilities."
"The poacher's wife is on her way to plead with the judge—Diarmid—for her husband's life," Magnus said. "He's a squire, you see, and had a bad harvest, so he was bringing the peasants venison to smoke and store for the winter."
"Deer?" Rod looked up. "Plural?"
"Sixteen," Magnus said.
Rod whistled. "Not much chance of claiming it was an accident or a drunken prank, is there? Or of promising he won't do it again."
"Very little," Magnus agreed, "but it gets worse."
"Worse?" Rod stared. "He's a squire who has purposefully poached sixteen deer, and it gets worse?"
Magnus nodded. "He's Anselm Loguire's son."
"You mean Diarmid has to pass judgment on his cousin?"
"First cousin," Magnus said with a sardonic smile. 'Thanks for taking care of it, Dad."
Leaves rustled and he was gone. Rod stared after him, feeling numb.
Then he sighed and turned back to the fire, but could see only a lovely face with flame-red hair in its place. He looked upward to the patch of sky visible between branches and thought, Sorry, dear—it's going to take a little longer than I expected. Have to take care of the children, you know.
His body warmed as though wrapped in a loving embrace, and he felt fond reassurance fill him. Then it was gone, but he knew that Gwen understood. Even more, he knew she was waiting.
ROD HEARD THE sobbing before he could see anything but leaves. It was off to his left, but moving. "Fess, how far into the woods is that woman?"
Fess turned his ears forward, triangulating from the space between them. "Approximately a hundred yards, Rod, but I hear also the sound of hooves—about a dozen horses, I would say—moving at the same rate as she, and in the same direction."
"So she's riding with a small band." Rod frowned. "Just an escort, or is she a prisoner?"
"I can only conjecture, Rod."
"Which I know you abhor." Rod smiled. "Okay, I'll guess that she's a gentlewoman at least, riding with an honor guard. If they were her captors, I'd be hearing lewd jokes and loud conversation." Rod frowned, turning his attention to the realm of thoughts; it still didn't come as easily to him as it did to his children. Or their mother… "Actually, she's a noblewoman with her guards, and something horrible has happened to her husband; she's on her way to see him. Do you hear crunching of leaves and twigs?"
"None, Rod."
"Then they're coming down a road that crosses ours. Let's see if we can't get there ahead of them, shall we?"
Fess picked up the pace, extruding the rubber horseshoes that let him move almost silently. "I can see the intersection, Rod. It is at an acute angle."
"Then let's step into that angle and spy through the leaves."
"Reconnoiter, Rod, please! I have always told you not to spy."
"Yes, Mama," Rod sighed. "Just so we can see what we'll be running into."
Fess stepped off the shoulder and found a path that required the least amount of brushing against branches or stepping on sticks. Through the screen of leaves, Rod could see a young woman riding sidesaddle with six liveried men in half-armor before her and six behind. He nodded and said softly, "Okay. To the intersection."
They rode out just before the first of the lady's guards reached the cross-roads.
"Ho, fellow!" barked the lead man.
Rod turned back in polite surprise, then smiled with pleasure. "Company! Where are you bound, soldier?" Then he lifted his head as though seeing the young woman for the first time. "Oh! Riding escort?"
"We are," growled another soldier, "and you keep a civil tongue in your head, for she's our squire's lady."
All the other soldiers rumbled agreement even though, strictly, a squire's wife wasn't entitled to the title of "lady." This close, Rod noticed that the livery and the armor didn't quite fit the men who wore it. That, and their devotion to the lady in question, gave him a notion he was dealing with volunteers—and enthusiastic ones at that. "Good day to you, lady! Where are you bound?"
'To Loguire, sir, to meet my husband." The lady lifted her veil to give him a close look; Rod caught his breath. The lady was gorgeous; her beauty was dazzling, even through the signs of recent tears. She seemed to decide he was relatively harmless. "And you?"
'To Loguire, also, to speak with the reeve about my taxes." Rod fell in beside her. "I take it your husband is doing the same."
"Nay." Her face clouded again. "Oh, he has gone there for the reeve, sure enough, but…" She choked on sobs and turned her head away.
"That sounds as though it wasn't all his choice," Rod said gravely. "What manner of trouble is he in?"
The lady seemed torn, wanting to speak of it but ashamed to—so a grizzled guardsman leaned forward and said, "Our people were looking at a winter of starvation, traveler. Our squire did as he should and sought to find ways to feed us."
"Poaching?" Rod stared, then turned to the lady. "But surely, if he had a good reason …"
"What matters that to the King?" she asked.
"The Crown isn't unreasonable," Rod said. "Surely with someone to plead your husband's case …"
"There is only his father," the lady said sadly, "and he is attainted."
"Attainted?" Rod scowled, "Well, I'm not! Tell me a bit more about the case, and maybe I can help."
The men muttered with interest, and the lady looked up at him as though afraid to hope. "If you are a knight, the reeve may hear you—but by your clothes, I would guess you to be only a yeoman."
"Just travelling clothes," Rod said. "A man doesn't have to wear his rank openly and, personally, I believe that quality shows through the clothes, for better or for worse. I am indeed a knight, good woman, and my name is Rodney."