“Nay, nay, be naught afeared, Alianora.” Hugi darted between. “He’s a bra sire who’d but ha’ speech wi’ ye.”
The swan stopped, poised, spread its wings wide and stood on tiptoe. Its body lengthened, the neck shrank, the wings narrowed—“Jesu Kriste!” yelled Holger and crossed himself. A woman stood there.
No, a girl. She couldn’t be over eighteen: a tall slender young shape, lithe and sun-browned, with bronze-colored hair loose over her shoulders, huge gray eyes, a few freckles across a pert snub nose, a mouth wide and gentle—why, she was beautiful! Almost without thought, Holger slipped his chinstrap free, doffed helmet and cap, and bowed to her.
She approached shyly, fluttering long sooty lashes. Her only garment was a brief tunic, sleeveless and form-fitting, that seemed to be woven of white feathers; her bare feet were soundless in the grass. “So ’tis ye, Hugi,” she said, with more than a hint of the dwarf’s burr in her soft contralto. “Welcome. Also ye, Sir Knight, sith ye be a friend to my friend.”
The leopard crouched, switched its tail and gave Holger a suspicious look. Alianora smiled and went over to chuck it under the chin. It rubbed against her legs, purring like a Diesel engine.
“This long lad hight Sir Holger,” said Hugi importantly. “And as ye see, my fere, yon be the swan-may hersel’. Shall we sup?”
“Why—” Holger sought for words. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” He was careful to use the formal pronoun; she was timid of him, and the leopard was still present. “I hope we haven’t disturbed you.”
“Och, nay.” She smiled and relaxed. “The pleasure be mine. I see so few folk, sairly gallant knichts.” Her tone had no particular coquetry, she was only trying to match his courtliness.
“Ah, let’s eat,” growled Hugi. “Ma belly’s a-scraping o’ ma backbane.”
They sat down on the turf. Alianora’s teeth ripped the tough dark bread Holger offered as easily as the dwarf’s. No one spoke until they had finished, when the sun was on the horizon and shadows had grown as long as the world. Then Alianora looked directly at Holger and said: “There be a man seeking of ye, Sir Knicht. A Saracen. Is he friend o’ yours?”
“Ah, a, a Saracen?” Holger pulled his jaw back up with a click. “No. I’m a, a stranger. I don’t know any such person. You must be mistaken.”
“Mayhap,” said Alianora cautiously. “What brocht ye here unto me, though?”
Holger explained his difficulty, whether or not to trust the witch. The girl frowned, a tiny crease between level dark brows. “Now that, I fear, I canna tell,” she murmured. “But ye move in darksome company, Sir Knicht. Mother Gerd is no a good soul, and all know how tricksy Duke Alfric be.”
“So you think I’d best not go to him?”
“I canna say.” She looked distressed. “I know naught o’ the high ones in Faerie. I only ken a few o’ the lesser folk in the Middle World, some kobolds and nisser, a toadstool fay or two, and the like.”
Holger blinked. There they went again. No sooner had he begun to imagine he was sane, in a sane if improbable situation, than off they were, speaking of the supernatural as if it were part of everyday.
Well… maybe it was, here. Damnation, he’d just seen a swan turn into a human. Illusion or not, he didn’t think he could ever have seen that in his own world.
The initial shock and the inward numbness it brought were wearing off. He had begun to realize, with his whole being, how far he was from home, and how alone. He clenched his fists, trying not to curse or cry.
To keep his mind engaged, he asked, “What did you mean about a Saracen?”
“Oh, him.” The girl looked out across the twilit glimmer of the lake. Swallows darted and swooped out there, amid an enormous quietness. “I’ve no seen him mysel’, but the woods be full o’ the tale, moles mumble it in their burrows and the badgers talk o’ it to the otters, then kingfisher and crow get the word and cry it to all. So I hear that for many weeks now, a lone warrior, who must by his face and garb be a Saracen, has ridden about these parts inquiring after a Christian knicht he believes to be nigh. He’s no said why he wanted the man, but the aspect o’ him, as the Saracen relates, is yours: a blond giant on a black horse, bearing arms o’—” She glanced toward Papillon. “Nay, your shield is covered. The device he speaks of be three hearts and three lions.”