Knights Magi (Book 4) (47 page)

“Simple,” countered Tyndal.  “You have all the weapons you need . . . save the
will to act
.  Initiative.  You have to go
talk
to them,” he emphasized.  “Your bow is your willingness to pursue a lady.”  He looked over at the peasant maiden.  “Or a girl,” he added.

“So if I loose my position, my looks, my strength, my wit—”

“Such as it is,” Tyndal interrupted.  Rondal ignored him.

“—the fact that I am a stranger and the fact that I am a warrior, all of those will be enough to woo her, if I have but the will to pursue the affair with the zeal of a hunter pursuing a wounded hart,” he concluded, skeptically.

“I count your chances far better than dancing with that mug and staring at her all day,” Tyndal observed.  “But . . . there is one more thing you must –
must!
– understand about the esoteric nature of Ishi’s Blessing.”

“Instruct me, oh sagacious master!” Rondal mocked.

“It is actually quite . . . profound,” Tyndal murmured, looking around as if he feared being overheard.  “Once you first understand the nature of a woman’s cycles—“

“Oh, Trygg’s hairy armpit!” objected Rondal.  “Is there
nothing
you hold sacred in your quest for girls?”

“Listen!” insisted Tyndal, seriously.  “A woman’s cycle is the key to her heart.  Or at least to her skirts.  You know of a woman’s monthly courses . . .”

“Yes,” affirmed Rondal, uncomfortably.

“Well, near to two weeks prior or after, a woman’s desires are most inflammable, to a man who understands the mystery.  It’s as if she becomes . . .
warm.
  She bares her neck, sometimes, or wears more revealing gowns.  So Lady Pentandra assures me,” he added, to lend credibility to his statement.  “A woman will be far more intrigued with feats of arms or displays of largess during this critical moment.  More, she is oft so moved by her desires that her resistance to a thoughtful persuasion is lowest.  Pentandra also says that this is a woman’s best time to conceive a child.”

Rondal groaned.  “Of course, it
would
be.  The gods have a nasty sense of humor.”

“You’re not the first to note that.”

“So I should quietly inquire as to when their monthlies last came, before I decide to pitch my woo?” asked Rondal, amused.  “Another round!” he called to the innkeeper, who nodded happily.

“I would advise against it,” Tyndal insisted.  “You have to guess, based on her state and demeanor.  Something else to amuse the gods, I suppose.  But even
then, you can begin to track her heart.  If you know the
other
mystery.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“Simple: Ishi has ordained that the path to a woman’s heart – and between her legs – lies in her
reactive nature
.”

“Reactive nature?” Rondal asked, confused.

“A woman’s desire is
reactive
in nature,” explained Tyndal, “both in the words of the ancients and in my experience.  Perhaps one in three, one in four will be more . . . aggressive,” he chuckled, “or lack desire entirely.  But the other three or four . . . they require something to react
to
, to engage their desires.” 

“What, precisely, do you mean?” asked Rondal, warily.

“Women require a man to be provocative before they feel able to surrender their hearts to a man,” Tyndal said, as if he was relaying the deepest secrets of magic.  “They need a man to be strong, take a stand, take the intitiative . . . before they can decide whether or not they will follow.”

“You sound like a mad man,” snorted Rondal.  “Honestly, Tyn, women do not merely respond.  They take plenty of initiative . . .”

“In affairs of the heart?  Forget for a moment those . . . ladies in Castabriel, who wanted to bed us to get closer to Master Min, and the noble maidens of Barrowbell whose hearts were inflamed by our victory over the dragon.  When a man and a woman entertain to spark, the woman tends to react to what the man does, not the other way around.  Not if he’s smart,” he added, ruefully.

“That’s rubbish!” snorted Rondal, as the innkeeper set down two more mugs. 

“Have you ever waited for a girl to kiss you?” Tyndal challenged.  “Have you been alone with her, the moment seemed right, and you looked at her and waited for her to do something . . . and she didn’t?”

“Well . . . yes,” Rondal admitted quietly.  “I always thought it was just because they didn’t really want to be with me.”

“Idiot,” Tyndal snorted in return.  “She was waiting for you to take the initiative.  For you to ‘loose your arrow,’ so to speak.  Because you didn’t hazard an action, she was not, therefore, in a place in which she could naturally respond.”

“What if she’s not really excited about being with you?” Rondal countered.  “What if she really does just prefer your company, as a brother?”

“Then the taint of your rejection will lie on your brow like a sigil for all to see,” predicted Tyndal dramatically.  “Everyone will know what a craven buffoon you are.  At worst she will slap you,” Tyndal continued, less sarcastically.  “As long as she is not above you in station, or particularly naïve, she will forgive the attempt, if it was sincerely made and properly executed.  If not . . . well, there are worse reputations to gather than that of a lad who likes to kiss,” he offered.

“Are you gentlemen perhaps referring to the maids?” asked the innkeeper, who had chanced to linger after delivering their drinks.

“Maids in general,” Tyndal replied, “but they were the ones to inspire our discourse.”

“I’d advise against it,” warned the innkeeper.  “Fali is filthy, Carsa is like to drag you to a bridesister after getting you drunk, and Dindra . . . well, she’s a fair one, and agreeable . . . but a bit
too
agreeable, if you take my meaning.”

“Your candor is appreciated,” nodded Tyndal with a smirk.  He’d figured as much, but Rondal had to start somewhere.  “We weren’t seriously considering paying court, just admiring their form.  We seek the lord of the domain, one Sir Gamman, with whom we have business.”

“Sir Gamman?” asked the innkeeper in surprise.  “Then you’ll be better off passing up these common skirts; Lady Kresdine is as fair a lady as one could hope to see.”

“Sir Gamman’s wife?”

“Aye,” the man said, pleased to be able to share the local gossip.  In Tyndal’s experience, innkeepers and stableboys knew more than captains and commanders.  “She’s a fair one.  As is their daughter, Lady Thena.  If you are considering paying court, she would be a better prospect than these,” he said, gesturing toward the giggling girls disdainfully.

“And where might we find Sir Gamman’s manor?”

“Ramothwood?  Take the west road a half mile, then turn north.  You’ll see the gate: the sign of a hare on a field of white, under a scarlet chevron.”

“A
rabbit?
” snorted Tyndal.  “Hardly a beast to inspire terror in the hearts of one’s enemies.”

“Sir Gamman inherited the device from his forebears,” recounted the innkeeper.  “Nice enough folk, I suppose, but . . .”

“But what?” asked Rondal, curious.

The innkeeper shook his head.  “’Tis not wise to talk idly about your betters.  If you have business with my lord, then you gentlemen can make your own
judgments.”  Tyndal was about to ask for details when an ear-splitting call from the upper room cut through the chatter.

“
Astin!
” it called, hoarsely and viciously.  “Astin, get up here!  I need you to bring more hot water!”

The innkeeper closed his eyes as if he’d born a hard blow.  “That’s the other reason why you need to avoid the village girls,” he sighed.  “I had my head turned by a pretty ankle and a shy smile once.  When you do go to court a maid,” he said, with sudden intensity, “by all the gods
choose wisely!”

“ASTIN!” repeated the call.  The innkeeper sighed again, and went to fetch a kettle of water from the fire.

Tyndal glanced back at the village girls, who were starting to take more notice of Rondal’s attention.  He could suddenly imagine all of them aged, worn, and rotund after years of comfortable marriage.  He suppressed a shudder.  He supposed that sort of thing was all right for some, but he was a man of action.  No common woman would lure him from a life of adventure.

“Let’s go,” he said, quietly, as he dug for his purse and drank the last of his ale.  “I’m suddenly anxious to go lay eyes on this highborn lady.”

*                            *                            *

Ramothwood Manor was far grander in appearance than its size would indicate – the number of ostentatious decorations, mostly featuring the hare-and-chevron of Sir Gamman, belied the actual modest nature of the hall.  It was a two-story building, with impressive peaks and dainty spires overlooking a tidy, well-kept yard.  But it was not large, Tyndal could see.  It was half the size of Jurlor’s Hold, back in Sevendor, if half as shabby.

The manor folk were hard at work when the two knights magi arrived.  Though it was high summer, there was still much to prepare for the summer mowing and autumn’s harvest.  Only a few looked up to watch the strangers dismount and chase down the hall’s steward. 

Once the man was convinced that they were gentlefolk and had lrgitimate business with Sir Gamman his brusque manner was replaced with one of surpassing obsequiousness.  Sir Gamman was inspecting the far end of the estate, they were informed, and was not expected to return before nightfall.  Lady Kresdine and her daughter, however, were at leisure in the garden, and the man ran off to see if they would deign to meet the knights.

Does this place seem a little . . . odd to you?
Rondal asked him, mind-to-mind, as they stabled their horses.

A little,
Tyndal agreed. 
Like it’s trying a little too hard to convince us of something.  Let’s play this on the mundane side, shall we?

Huh?

Don’t mention magic.  We’re just a couple of young errants.  Mention magic and that might . . . complicate things.

How so?

Just trust me, all right?
Tyndal insisted.

The steward returned in a short time to inform them that after they’d had an opportunity to refresh themselves, the lady of the manor would enjoy conversing with them in the garden.  Tyndal may have been imagining it, but there was a devilish look in the man’s otherwise supplicant eye.

They were shown to the hall, where they were granted water and a towel to wash the road dust from their faces and a sip of wine in front of the tiny fire.  The interior of the hall was even more ostentatious than the exterior, filled with tapestries, paintings, statues, stels, and other noble regalia . . . all featuring rabbits. 

By the time they finished refreshing themselves and were ready to meet the lady, Tyndal felt that the motif had been entirely overdone.  He was not sophisticated In matters of taste, but even his humble aesthetic was disturbed by so many rabbits so proudly displayed.

It’s like someone is fiercely proud of being an herbivore,
Rondal agreed with him as they were led through a gallery to an enclosed garden. It’s . . . creepy.

The garden was meticulously kept, with shrubs and herbs and flowers bursting forth from well-made stone risers.  The season and the weather seemed to conspire to push out as many blossoms as each plant could bear.  It had as its central point a bathing pool, no more than ten feet on a side. 

While it looked cool and inviting in the heat of the day, the effect was lessened, Tyndal thought, by the twelve-foot tall topiary rabbit that loomed benevolantly over it.  Tyndal supposed that the vaguely rabbit-shaped bush (he could tell where the ears and head were supposed to be, at any rate) was designed to look fearsome, but he just found the decoration . . . creepy.

Fortunately, there were more attractive things to stare at, namely Lady Kresdine, who was escaping the heat of the day by plunging into the cool water and then lounging in her soaked shift so that the summer breeze could keep her cool.  The wet garment left little to speculation.  Lady Kresdine was a well-formed, mature woman.

Her daughter lounged nearby, a light summer mantle cast over her shift for modesty’s sake.  She had merry eyes and a pretty face, even prettier than her mother’s, and both mother and daughter seemed utterly at ease at the sight of two young errants.

The servant announced them formally.

“Presenting my lords Sir Tyndal and Sir Rondal, knights of Sevendor, who beg a word from Lady Kresdine of Ramoth’s Wood.  The Lady Thena in attendance!”

“My lords,” the woman’s soft, warm voice said as she wrapped her mantle about her shoulders.  Such a gesture would have been modest in most women, but Lady Kresdine managed to make it into a seductive dance.  Her eyes sparkled as they lighted on the two young knights.  “We bid you welcome to Ramothwood, and pray your business is not so dire that you cannot spare a few hours of this glorious day to converse with two ladies near to overcome by boredom.”

“While our errand is pressing,” Tyndal replied smoothly while Rondal’s jaw gaped, “it is not so pressing that we would ignore the rules of hospitality, my lady.  Should our business be concluded positively, I see no reason why we should not enjoy a few hours of idle amusement with two such gracious noblewomen.”