“You are absolutely insane, Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini,” she whispered. “Also magnificent.”
I moved toward her, wanting an embrace. And so, I think, did she. But she placed a hand on my chest and held me off. “Please,” she whispered. “Not now. I think I’m half in love with you myself—more than half, to tell the truth—but it’s still insane. Besides, my leather would look silly with flour all over it.”
Abruptly she turned away and studied the two girls. The sisters had not left the hall, but they were standing on their feet now. Standing and staring at us, their eyes as wide as saucers.
“Warn your families,” commanded Gwendolyn. “You’ll have to stay hidden for a while.”
They nodded jerkily. Gwendolyn strode over and studied the one surviving retainer closely. Then turned away, apparently satisfied.
“He won’t recover consciousness for hours. Plenty of time to finish setting the scene.” She studied me again, this time very approvingly. “I wouldn’t have thought you could be such a clever bastard. It’s almost scary.”
She jerked her head toward the entrance. “I assume you made arrangements with the servants? That’s the reason for your weird appearance?”
I nodded. By then, the two girls had advanced and were standing not far from Gwendolyn. But both of them still had their eyes fixed upon me.
“Why’d you do it?” asked the older.
* * *
Gwendolyn explained. When she was finished, the two sisters were practically hopping up and down in fury.
“You were on a critical mission for The Cause and this—this—” The youngest girl was pointing a finger of outrage and accusation at me.
“J’Accuse!” shrilled the older, pointing an identical finger.
“Rampant petty-boojoy individualism!” hollered the younger.
“Sabotaging the class struggle for the sake of romantic sentimentalism!” hollered the older.
The two little fingers never wavered in their condemnation. I gaped at them. Gwendolyn burst into laughter.
“Welcome to Grotum, Benvenuti,” she gasped. “Where—ah—we take our ideology seriously.”
The two sisters lowered their fingers. “Certainly do,” they muttered fiercely.
I fear I was still gaping. The youngest sister squinted at me. “What’s his problem? Is he a halfwit or something?”
“He’s from Ozar.”
Again, the two fingers. “Imperialist stooge!” shrilled the younger. “The imperialist himself!” countered her older and wiser sister. “In the flesh!”
Gwendolyn cleared her throat. “He did rescue the two of you, you might remember.”
The two fingers lowered; then, wiped little noses. “Well,” said the younger. “That’s true.” A moment later, grudgingly: “Thanks.”
The older was made of sterner stuff. “Still an outrage,” she muttered. “I’d call it treason to the revolution except”—she eyed me suspiciously—”you probably never was part of it nohow.”
“Certainly not,” said Gwendolyn firmly. “Enough of this, girls. Benvenuti meant well, and that’s enough. You’re too damn young to be making ideological pronouncements anyway.”
The two sisters transferred their suspicious squints to her.
“Is that so?” demanded the younger.
“And just who exactly are you?” echoed her sister crossly.
“I’m Gwendolyn Greyboar. Which is a name I’d just as soon you forgot because—”
She got no further. The suspicious looks had vanished, replaced by—I will swear to it!—the saucer-wide eyes of sheer adulation. Then came the squeals of hero worship.
Heroine worship, I should say. None of those girlish peals of enthusiasm were directed my way.
“Gwendolyn Greyboar! I can’t believe it!”
“Right HERE! In the FLESH!”
On and on and on. They even managed to rouse the unconscious retainer. Not for long, of course. I was in quite a foul enough mood by then to have broken a horse’s jaw.
* * *
And so it was, in the hours that passed thereafter, after we left the castle and the peasants in the area heard the news, that Gwendolyn was surrounded by a mob at all times. Pestering her with questions about the latest news of the revolution; asking her to clarify fine points of doctrine; and, as often as not, just staring at her as if she were an icon come to life.
As for myself, I was largely ignored. Save, of course, for never-ending suspicious squints and the occasional pointing finger of warning and accusation.
About noon the next day, the servant and the cook were seen carrying the surviving retainer in a mule-drawn cart toward the nearest Baron in the area. The retainer had regained his senses, more or less, but his jaw was swathed in a crude bandage.