The Spell-Bound Scholar (19 page)

"Walk," she directed Gregory. "Walk over to Moraga."

Gregory gave a martyred sigh and turned, striding with feline grace to the sleeping woman. He looked down at her, and his face stilled with the effort of holding his emotions in check—not quite successfully, for something of the besotted moon calf still showed through. She had to admit, though, that he was quite restrained, and wondered how long he could hold the expression.

"Come back," she said.

Gregory returned, treading like a roebuck poised to leap.

"His body will do," she told Geoffrey. "Whether he has learned to court a lady, I cannot say."

"There, too, he must have exercise," Geoffrey sighed, "and I fear he shall have only this one damsel for practice."

"Scarcely a difficulty," Cordelia said dryly, "since she is so various in her appearances."

"A good point," Geoffrey said. "Who was she when last you knew her, Gregory?"

"A damsel named Peregrine," Gregory said, "who had been left as an offering to a troop of bandits because she had allowed herself to be seduced."

Cordelia made a sound of disgust, but Geoffrey frowned, considering. "That sort of censure has the ring of something from her own past."

"It is men laying the blame for their own lechery onto their victims!" Cordelia blazed.

"As I say, a sign of her own past," Geoffrey said.

Gregory stared at him in surprise. "Such perception is rare in you, brother."

"Not in this regard; there are some aspects of women I do know and understand," Geoffrey told him. "I also see that her choice of name flaunts her deception in your face, for a peregrine is a kind of falcon, a bird of prey."

"The thought had occurred to me," Gregory admitted. "I kept my shields up almost long enough."

"You may need to keep them up a while longer," Cordelia said, eyeing the sleeping woman.

Gregory glanced at Finister, troubled. "Sooner or later, a lover must begin to trust."

"The question, though, is 'when?' " Cordelia said quickly.

"We shall leave that to Mother," Geoffrey said briskly. "She has not returned, though, and there is little more we can do to prepare Gregory to be a suitor."

"I had thought of that," Cordelia admitted, "and we should not leave Moraga asleep much longer, or her body will begin to lose muscle tone."

Geoffrey nodded. "The obvious course, then, is to wake her and let her test the new model Gregory."

Gregory looked suddenly nervous. "I am not ready!"

"You shall never be ready," Geoffrey agreed, "but you shall have to deal with her anyway. Do not think of yourself as a suitor, brother—only a most considerate jailor."

Cordelia looked up at him in surprise, then slowly nodded. "A good thought. You were her warden when she fell asleep; if she woke to find you a lover, she would suspect a ruse. Aye, do as Geoffrey says—be her jailor, and little by little, begin to compliment her, bring her the odd flower for her hair, find a gem to adorn her."

"After all, you may claim she should wear it to honor Their Majesties when she enters their presence," Geoffrey pointed out. "But never be the moon calf in her presence, never gaze upon her with fawnlike doting. Be the man of the world who becomes intrigued, who knows himself to be her equal in

attraction and begins to enjoy the game of flirtation."

"
Man of the world?" Gregory bleated. "Could any man be less of the world? I have no experience, no appeal, no faith in myself as a lover!"

"I have downloaded a thorough knowledge of the sport into your brain," Geoffrey said, but admitted, "though it is true you will need a round or two of play before you begin to believe you have the skill."

"I can only be what I am," Gregory protested.

"Then be so." Cordelia's eyes gleamed. "Be the scholar distracted bit by bit from his studies; let her think she teaches you the game for her own purposes."

"An excellent stroke!" Geoffrey cried. "Then when you are sure of your skill, you can turn the tables on her and outplay her with her own hand!"

Gregory still looked very nervous. "It is a pretty metaphor, but I am unsure what it means in practice."

"So shall you be until you have that practice," Geoffrey told him. "Come, you must essay it some time, little brother. Fear not that she might overwhelm you or slip a knife between your ribs, for Cordelia and I will stay within half a mile of you, and you have but to squawk to have me by you, and her with us only minutes later."

"You must essay it sooner or later, Gregory," Cordelia repeated gently, ' 'or leave her asleep for the rest of her days, and that were as unkind as slaying."

Gregory turned away to pick up his robe and don it, then turned back, face frightened but resolute. "Well enough, then. Wake her."

"No, that you must do, brother," Cordelia said firmly, "for 'tis your spell that plunged her into sleep, and 'tis your face she must see when she wakes."

Gregory looked still more frightened. "Must I wake her with a kiss?"

"Definitely not!" Geoffrey exclaimed. "This must be a chase, brother, not an ambush!"

"Aye, but before it becomes a chase, it must be a tracking," Cordelia said. "After all, she has been raised to be a

hunter, so pursuit itself may incline her to entangle her emotions in yours."

Geoffrey stepped backward toward the trees. "Let us retire, and when we have passed from sight, do you kneel by her and quicken her sleeping mind."

He and Cordelia disappeared into the greenery. Gregory raised a hand to call them back, but fear rose up to clog his throat and prevent him. Slowly he lowered his hand, turning to Moraga with resolution. He swallowed and forced himself to kneel by her side.

Even sleeping and with her erotic projections dormant, the woman's beauty hit him like a tidal wave, arousing awareness of his own sexuality all over again, a sexuality so intense that he froze, frightened by the strength of his own reactions. But as he knelt entranced, the fear receded and he began to grow accustomed to the stimulation. He could have sworn it to be more intense than it had been a week earlier, before his siblings had begun his crash course in romance.

The panic ebbed and he bent to his task, accelerating Moraga's pulse and metabolism slowly while he brought her mind up from the depths of sleep.

The sight of a woman at the gate of the monastery was rare, to say the least. Still, it was not unknown, and when the woman in question presented herself as the Lady Gwendolyn Gallowglass, the effect was salutary. The monk on portal duty bowed, mumbled some apology about keeping her waiting, assured her he'd be back as soon as possible, and stepped a dozen paces inside the compound. There he flagged down a passing novice and said a few words to him, gesturing toward the gate. The youth looked up, startled—almost, Gwen might have thought, even frightened—and hurried away across the courtyard. As soon as he could, he started running.

The porter came back. "Now, milady, if you will enter our guest house, I shall fetch you summat with which to refresh yourself."

"I thank you." Gwen followed him into the little house beside the gate. She knew she could not have been the only woman in the history of the monastery who had needed to claim its sanctuary—and from the look of the sitting room in the guest house, one of the previous occupants had stayed a considerable while. The furnishings and decoration definitely showed a woman's touch, though the maintenance looked to be rather spartan.

The monk asked her to be seated, then went out and returned with a tray bearing wine, cheese, and wafers of hard bread. Gwen thanked him, took a little of the wine, then sat and waited. Looking around, she noticed a picture on the wall, a portrait—then stared, riveted, recognizing Father Marco Ricci again. It was a different portrait, done in a more realistic style at a younger age and in a different pose, but it was undeniably the same face.

There was a commotion at the door, quickly stilled; then the young Abbot of the Order stepped in. His face lit with pleasure as he hurried over to clasp her hand and bow. "Lady Gallowglass! What a pleasure to see you again!"

"And you, milord Abbot." She smiled and proffered her hand.

He pressed it briefly, then released it and asked, "Has Brother Dobro offered you refreshment? Ah, I see he has! I trust your wait was not fatiguing."

"Scarcely a wait at all, and one with interest, for I find that portrait on the wall to be intriguing."

"Portrait?" The Abbot turned and looked. "Ah, Father Marco Ricci! 'Twas he who did found this abbey, Lady Gallowglass."

"Indeed," she said. "He was of the original colonists, was he not?"

The Abbot took his time about turning back to her, keeping his smile carefully in place. "I should have known that you, too, would know the full history of Gramarye. Aye, he was."

"And lived in this monastery until his death?"

"Ah, no. He had frequently to ride abroad on missions of mercy, or to remonstrate with dukes or earls or, aye, even with the King. Twas he who established the foundation of our strength, for he made the King and the nobles accept the immunity of the clergy; they were too much needed by all the folk to become pawns in the barons' games."

Gwen nodded. "Yet he always did return and was Abbot till his death?"

"Nay, though 'tis odd you should mention it. He was prudent and yielded his seat to a younger monk, one native-born—I suspect he did wish to assure himself that the monastery would continue under stable rule when he died. Yet he did not linger to watch, fearing that his presence would hobble his successor; no, he left the cloister to become a mendicant, wandering about over the face of Gramarye."

"And was never seen again." Gwen's pulse quickened; the stories coincided.

But, "Not so," said the Abbot. "To tell truth, some ten years later a mania for burning witches swept the isle and

Father Marco appeared again from obscurity, to preach against the silly superstition of thinking true witches could live—for why should Satan give power to a person who had already set himself on the road to Hell by seeking to sell his soul? Nor doth God permit real magic that would break His laws; only He may so suspend the principles of the Universe, and such events we term 'miracles.' "

"Ah," Gwen breathed. "Father Marco knew even then of our psi powers."

The Abbot nodded. "His journal shows that he had begun to suspect such."

"And he did defend us by putting down the witch-hunts."

"Aye, but in the doing of it, he was slain. Yet even his death served his fellow folk, for those who had slain him abandoned the witch-hunt in guilt and remorse and saw to it that all others did likewise."

"Bless him," Gwen breathed.

' 'We trust he is blessed indeed. We hope, now that we are once again in communication with the Vatican, that we shall be able to present Father Marco's case to His Holiness the Pope and have his name added to the Canon as one of the saints of God—but it will be a long and tedious process."

"I wish your enterprise success." Indeed Gwen did, for she had begun to see a way for the convent to be officially recognized as separate and independent and for the monks to gain an account of a miracle to bolster their case; she suspected they did not have very many.

That, however, was for the future. It would wait, having waited five centuries already. There were more urgent matters at hand.

" 'Tis polite of you to inquire and allow me to speak of our founder," said the Abbot with a smile, "when you must needs truly wish to speak of the matter which brought you hither. Enough of Father Marco—now for the Lady Gallow-glass. I trust you are well, you and all your family?"

"Not entirely, milord Abbot." Gwen smiled. "And I thank you for coming so quickly to the matter that concerns me."

The young man still smiled but with obvious curiosity.

"Your Order, Lord Abbot, is known to study the mind."

"Only by such as your husband, yourself, and Their Majesties," the monk said. "Yet we work only with those mental gifts that seem more than natural; we do not seek to understand the mind itself."

"The one must necessarily lead you to the other, must it not?"

The young man nodded, his eyes glowing. "I had known you to be quick of wit. Aye, milady, we do know something of the order of the normal mind, order and disorder—but we cannot claim to be expert in it."

"Yet I think there is that among you which does."

The Abbot lost his smile. "Of what do you speak?"

Gwen looked away and her gaze fell on the picture of Father Marco. " 'Twould be a thing of metal, Lord Abbot— metal and plastic, that substance which—"

"I know of it."

Gwen turned back to him with a smile. "I know that our ancestors came from distant Terra, milord, and that they came in a huge metal ship. Moreover, I know that there were brains in that ship made of metal and glass and plastic, things that could not truly think but that could quite well simulate the operations of our minds."

"How do you name these metal brains?"

"They were called computers."

The Abbot expelled a long hiss of breath. "You have learned much with your husband, have you not, Lady Gwendolyn?"