The Warlock in Spite of Himself

"Eh, master!" Tom wailed in shocked protest, "what harm another hour or four, eh? Besides"—he sat forward and poked Rod in the ribs, grinning—"I'll wager thou'lt outdo me. What lasses may not a warlock have, mm?… Eh, what's the matter?"

Rod wheezed and pounded his chest. "Just a piece of hardtack having an argument with my gullet. Tom, for the umpteenth penultimate unprintable time, I am not a warlock!"

"Oh, aye, master, to be sure!" Big Tom said with a broad-lipped grin. "And thou mayst be certain thou'rt as poor a liar as thou art an executioner."

Rod frowned. "I haven't killed a man the whole time I've been here!"

"Aye, and this is my meaning."

"Oh." Rod turned and looked out over the fields. "Well, you might as well add lover to that list of things I'm not good at, Tom."

The big man sat forward, frowning, searching Rod's face. "In truth, I think he doth mean it!"

"Be sure that I doth."

Tom sat back, studying his master and tossing his dagger, catching it alternately by the hilt and the point. "Aye, thou speakest aright of thy knowledge." He sat forward, looking into Rod's eyes. "And therefore shall I dare to advise thee."

Rod grinned and gave him a hollow laugh. "All right, advise me. Tell me how it's done."

"Nay." Tom held up a palm. "That much I am sure that you knowest. But it is these farm girls against which I must caution thee, master."

"Oh?"

"Aye. They are—" Tom's face broke into a grin. "Oh, they are excellent, master, though simple. But"—he frowned again—"never give them a trace of a hope."

Rod frowned too. "Why not?"

" 'Twill be thy undoing. Thou mayst love them well, master, once—but once only. Then must thou leave them, right quickly, and never look back."

"Why? I'll be turned into a pillar of salt?"

"Nay, thou'It be turned into a husband. For once given the merest shred of hope, master, these farm girls will stick tighter than leeches, and thou' It never be rid of them."

Rod snorted. "I should have a chance to worry about it! Come on, drink up your coffee and mount up."

They doused the fire and packed up, and rode down into the red-gold mist.

They had gone perhaps three hundred yards when a long-drawn alto voice hailed them.

Rod looked up, tensed and wary.

Two big peasant girls stood with pitchforks at the base of a haystack in one of the fields, laughing and waving.

Big Tom's eyes locked on them with an almost-audible click. "Eh, master! Pretty little mopsies, are they not?"

They were pretty, Rod had to admit—though certainly anything but little. They were both full-hipped and high-breasted, wearing loose low-cut blouses and full skirts, their hair tied in kerchiefs. Their skirts were girded up to their knees, to keep them from the dew on the hay.

They beckoned, their laughter a mocking challenge. One of them set her hands on her hips and executed a slow bump-and-grind.

Big Tom sucked his breath in, his eyes fairly bulging. "Eh, now, master," he pleaded, "are we in so much of a hurry as all that?"

Rod sighed, rolling his eyes up, and shook his head. "Well, I'd hate to see them suffering from neglect, Big Tom. Go ahead."

Tom kicked his horse with a yelp of joy, leaped the ditch, and galloped full tilt into the field. He was out of the saddle before the horse slowed past a trot, catching a girl in each arm, lifting them off the ground and whirling them about.

Rod shook his head slowly, saluted Big Tom and his playmates, and turned away to find a neighboring haystack where he could catnap in peace.

"Rod," said the quiet voice behind his ear.

"Yes, Fess?"

"Your conducts disturbs me, Rod. It's not natural for a healthy young male."

"It's not the first time someone's told me that, Fess. But I'm methodical; I can't keep two girls on my mind at once."

He found another haystack just over the next hedge. Rod parked in the shadow and unbridled Fess, who began to crop at the hay, to keep up appearances. Rod remounted and jumped from the horse's back to the top of the haystack and wallowed down into the soft, fragrant hay with a blissful sigh. The pungent smell of new-mown hay filled his head, taking him back to his boyhood in the field of his father's manor, during haying time; a real Eden, without any soft, nubile problems to run around creating havoc. Just robots.

He watched the gilt-edged clouds drifting across the turquoise sky, not realizing when he dozed off.

He came wide awake and stayed very still, wondering what had wakened him. He ran through the catalog of sensations that were apt to start the alarm clock ringing in his subconscious.

Somebody was near.

His eyes snapped open, every muscle in his body tensed to fight.

He was looking into a very low-cut bodice.

He raised his eyes from the pleasant pastoral view, a task which required no small amount of willpower, and saw two large sea-green eyes looking into his. They were long-lashed, moist, and looked worried.

Their surroundings came into focus: arched eyebrows, a snub nose sprinkled with freckles, a very wide mouth with full, red lips, all set in a roundish face framed in long, flowing red hair.

The full red lips were pouting, the eyes were troubled.

Rod smiled, yawned, and stretched. "Good morning."

The pouting lips relaxed into a half-smile. "Good morning, fine gentleman."

She was sitting beside him, propped on one hand, looking into his eyes.

"Why do you sleep here alone, sir, when nearby a woman awaits your call?"

It felt as though someone had just poured bitters into Rod's circulatory system; a thrill, and not completely a pleasant one, flooded through him.

He smiled, trying to make it warm. "I thank you, lass, but I'm not feeling gamesome today."

She smiled, but there was still a frown between her eyes. "I thank you for your gentleness, sir; but I scarce can credit your words."

"Why?" Rod frowned. "Is it so impossible that a man shouldn't want a frolic?"

The girl gave a forlorn half of a laugh. "Oh, it might be, milord, but scarce is it likely. Not even with a peasant, and even less with a lord."

"I'm not a lord."

"A gentleman, then. That, surely, thou art. And therefore, surely, thou wouldst never lack interest."

"Oh?" Rod raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

She smiled, sadly. "Why, milord, a peasant might fear forced marriage; but a lord, never."

Rod frowned again and studied the girl's face. He judged her to be a little younger than himself, about twenty-nine or thirty.

And for a peasant girl in this kind of society to be unmarried at thirty… ^

He threw out an arm. "Come here to me, lass."

There was hope, for a moment, in the girl's eyes; but it faded quickly, was replaced by resignation. She fell into the hay beside him with a sigh, rolling onto her side to pillow her head on his shoulder.

Hope , Rod mused, very conscious of her breasts and hips against the side of his body. Hope to be tumbled, and thrown away …

He shuddered; and the girl raised her head, concerned. "Art chilled, milord?"

He turned to her and smiled, a sudden wave of gratitude and tenderness surging up to clog his throat.

He clasped her tight against him, closing his eyes to better savor the touch of her body against his own. An aroma filled his head, not rose-oil or lilac, but simply the salt-sweet scent of a woman.

A pain was ebbing away inside him, he realized, faintly surprised, a pain that he had not known was there till it began to leave him.

She clung to him, fists clenched in the cloth of his doublet, face pressed into the angle of his neck and shoulder.

Then, gradually, he began to relax again, his embrace loosening. He lay very still, letting the focus of his mind widen, open him again to the world around him; faint in the distance he heard birdsong, and the gossip of the wind through the hedges and trees. Somewhere near his head, a cricket chirped in the hay.