The Warlock in Spite of Himself

He did say, "I thought the point in fighting was to win."

"Aye," Tuan agreed, staring out into the fog toward the south end of the meadow, "but not by such foul means. Who would be loyal to a Queen who maintained her power thus?"

And that, Rod admitted, was the kernel of it. Prestige was everything on this world; and honor was the cornerstone of prestige.

"Well," he sighed, "you're the doctor."

Tuan frowned at him. "Doctor? I have no skill in healing."

"No, but you're an excellent practical psychologist. So I'll follow your lead when it comes to handling people."

Tuan smiled sadly, shaking his head. "FriendRod, I have no skill at ruling."

Rod allowed himself a skeptical look. "Well, maybe not, but you're one hell of a leader."

"Ho!" a voice bellowed.

Rod turned and grinned at the huge shape that loomed in the fog. "Everyone happy over there?"

Big Tom shouldered his way out of the mist, grinning. "Most happy, master. They've ne'er in their lives drunk such wine, or so much of it."

"Hmmm." Rod tugged at his lip. "Better roll the wine away in a little while. We don't want them drunk so soon before battle."

But, "Nay," Tuan corrected, almost automatically, Rod noticed. "Let them drink their fill; 'twill put them abed sooner. Then rouse them early in the morning and give each a tankard or two—then they'll fight like the very demons."

Well, Rod had to allow that was true. They weren't asking precision from the beggars, just wanted them to get out and beat up the enemy.

The night was pricked with the pinholes of watch-fires, softened by the lifting mist.

More dots of light sprang up to the south, where the noblemen and councillors were bringing up their army.

In the northern meadow, there was bawdy laughter and shouting, and the din of music, where the beggars were in the last stages of gleeful compliance with the order to get drunk as fast as possible.

On the hillside across the river there was a stern, disapproving silence, and the gentle glow of lamps within silken tents, where Catharine and her army of regulars went sober to bed.

But in the largest tent, Catharine's, things were anything but quiet.

"Nay, nay, and again I say nay!" she cried, angrily pacing the floor.

She swung about, clapping her hands sharply. "I shall have no more of your arguments! Have done, have done; for I will ride tomorrow at the head of my armies! I shall brook no further objection!"

Rod and Brom exchanged glances.

Tuan's face was beet-red with anger, frustration, and worry.

"Begone," snapped Catharine, and turned her back.

Reluctantly, the three men bowed, and filed out of the tent.

"What she will, she will," Brom growled. "We three must guard her, then, and leave the plan of the battle to SirMaris."

"That's one sure road to defeat," Rod growled.

"His way of running a battle is as outdated as the phalanx."

Brom sighed and rubbed his eyes. "But as I have said, I will die by her. Yet mayhap we shall live, for I have a slight plan."

He stumped away into the darkness before they could question him, from which Rod inferred that his "plan" was limited to buoying up Rod's and Tuan's spirits by insinuating that there was yet hope.

"We shall die in her defense," Tuan whispered, drawn and pale. "Yet when we are gone, she will die too, and for that I am loath." He spread his hands helplessly. "But what can I do?"

"Well…" Rod pursed his lips, and looked back over his shoulder at the lighted tent. "I know one way to make sure she won't ride tomorrow…"

"Tell it, then!" Tuan's face lit with frantic eagerness.

"Make sure she won't be able to sit down in the morning."

Tuan stared. A slow flush crept into his face, then drained away, leaving him pale and trembling. "What… dost… thou mean?" His voice was choked and threatening. He lifted a clenched, trembling fist.

Rod looked at him, frowned. "Why, spank her. Smack her so hard she'll have to stand till next Sunday. How else would you do it?"

Tuan's fist slowly dropped; the color came back to his face in a blush. "Oh," he said, and turned away. 'T truth," he said. " 'twould be well done."

"It's that, or let her die."

Tuan nodded, life coming back to him. He turned to the Queen's tent, paused a minute, then squared his shoulders. "That shall I do, then. Pardon me, friend Gallowglass, for my anger; for a moment I had thought you meant… something else."

He took a deep breath and stepped off briskly toward the tent.

He paused at the entrance, nodded at the guards, squared his shoulders again, and marched in.

Rod smiled, amused. "And I thought I had a dirty mind!"

He chuckled, shaking his head, and turned toward the witches' campfires, reflecting thatTuan's years in the House of Clovis had taught him a lot about life.

Gwendylon materialized out of the darkness (literally). She smiled shyly. "What amuses my lord?"

Rod grinned, caught her by the waist, and swung her up for a kiss, a warm kiss, and lasting.

"My lord!" she said, blushing prettily, patting her hair back into place.

The night breeze wafted a sudden slapping sound to them, accompanied by squeals and cries.

The guards at the tent jerked bolt upright, then swung toward the tent. One put up a hand to swing aside the cloth i>f the doorway; but the second caught the hand and cried, "Does your Majesty require aid?"

"Stay out!" squealed an agonized voice. "On pain of your life, do not enter!"

The sentries exchanged puzzled looks, then shrugged and turned back to their posts, albeit with some nervous looks over their shoulders.

The squeals became muffled, then turned into sobs. The slapping sounds ceased.

Then all was still.

Rod looked down atGwen. "What are you grinning about?"

She looked up at him out of the corner of her eyes. "I had told you, my lord, that I can hear all thoughts but yours."

"Oh?"

"Aye. And there are most goodly thoughts in that tent at this moment."

The lights in the tent went out.

Gwendylon giggled and turned away. "Come, my lord. Twould be most improper to listen further. Come. Thou must be early abed this night."

"Waken, Rod Gallowglass!"

Something jarred his shoulder.

Rod growled and levered his eyes open. "What the hell do you think…"

He stopped as he saw the look on Brom's face.

"Aye," Brom growled. "Now robe thyself and come with me."

"I don't sleep naked on battle nights," Rod growled, and rose very carefully, so as not to disturb Gwendylon.

His face softened for a moment as he looked down at her. He touched his lips to her cheek. She stirred, murmured in her sleep, and smiled.

Then he rose, his face hardening.

Brom was already striding away through the chill predawn mist, beckoning curtly.

"All right, what's happened?" Rod growled as he caught up with Brom.

"Nay, be still!" Brom snapped, and was silent till they had climbed the hillside far above the tents.

Then he swung on Rod and snapped, "Now tell me! Dost thou love her?"

Rod's face emptied.

Then he said, softly, "You woke me just to ask that?"

"It is of some importance to me," Brom snapped. "Dost thou love her!"

Rod folded his arms, leaning back on one hip. "Just what the hell business is it of yours? What right have you to know my soul?"

Brom looked away, his face working; and when he spoke, the words seemed almost dragged out of him.

"She is my daughter, Rod Gallowglass."

He glanced up at Rod's stunned face, and a sardonic gleam came into his eye. "Aye. Thou scarce can credit it, canst thou?"

He turned away, looking out over the valley. His voice softened with memory and musing.

"She was naught but a servant-wench in the King's halls, Rod Gallowglass—yet I loved her. She was small, scarce half the height of another woman, yet still a head taller than I. And mortal, much too mortal.