The Spell-Bound Scholar (22 page)

"Or perhaps a cold and unfeeling village who will despise me for being a fallen woman," Peregrine said, and gasped as the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Surely not!"

Peregrine shook her head with miserable certainty. "No

man wishes to have a wanton to wife, sir. I have only two paths open to me through this life—the one a road of deception, convincing some stalwart young man that I am a virgin in heart if not in body, or the primrose path of harlotry and a bitter, lonely life as a forest recluse after!"

"No, not a bit!" Gregory cried. "There are many men who would understand a woman deceived—for many of them have been just such deceivers!"

"And therefore feel nothing but contempt for the woman who lets herself be so beguiled," Peregrine said bitterly, and broke into racking sobs.

Gregory gathered her into his arms, cradling her against his chest. "Damsel, damsel! Not all men are such beasts! There are many men who have fallen in love with women who thought them wealthy, then spurned them when they discovered that they were truly only disinherited apprentices! There are men who will recognize your pain as their own and will cleave unto you because of it!"

"Are you one so deceived?" Peregrine said with wild hope. She stared up into his eyes, her own still limpid with tears, and Gregory caught his breath at her beauty.

She felt his response, felt the tension in every limb, saw the admiration and yearning in his face, and stretched up to meet his lips with her own.

Gregory stiffened with the electricity of that kiss and sat frozen in every fiber except his lips, which thawed, then brushed, then parted and met hers with enthusiasm to match her own. Finally he managed to break away, panting,
"
Damsel. . . this is not seemly. ..."

"It seems very right to me," she gasped, and pulled his head down again. "It does to you, too, I feel it in your kiss! Oh, sir, take my sweetness and give me your own!"

But Gregory sat stiff-necked, braced against her pulling. "I would not wrong you. ..."

"Wrong me, despoil me! Only give of yourself to me!" Peregrine panted. "I should blush, but I do not! Oh, sir, I had only lain in love with my Corin half a dozen times, only enough to truly discover ecstasy, when he tired of me and revealed me to the derision of the whole village! My delight was turned to ashes, my joy to bitterness, but you have given both new life! Your kiss inflames me, the press of your body ignites me, I burn with the aching for another taste of the delights I had barely discovered before they were denied me! Do not withhold yourself, I beg of you! Take me, enfold me, lose yourself in me, and give me back the thrill and the wonder I have lost!"

"I... I must not," Gregory stammered. "I would wrong you, I would merely leave you as Corin did. ..."

"I care not!" Peregrine's voice shook with passion. "Tomorrow I may, but tonight I do not, tonight I would only rejoice. This, this is what I want, the caressing and merging and delighting of bodies! Cast me aside tomorrow if you wish, sir, but leave me not lorn tonight!"

"Such union should not be for a single night only, nor even one single year. ..."

"I shall take what I may! Oh, fie upon me, for I know myself now to be truly a wanton! I will take this pleasure now without let or demand, I crave it so deeply! Do not withhold it, sir, I pray you!"

"There . . . there is more that you wish, far more, whether you know it or not." The agony of desire racked Gregory's voice. "There is no true ecstasy without a union of hearts as well as bodies, and that I cannot give!"

"Love me, then," Peregrine panted. "I care not for how long—only love me for now, delight me for now!"

"I cannot," Gregory said, as though it were torn from the roots of his soul. "A man cannot love others if he does not love himself, and I see too much that is despicable within me."

"Then let me show you what is admirable!"

"There is too much wonderful in you for me to ever be worthy of your touch," Gregory said with total sincerity. "It is not despoiling that you wish, but sanctuary while you wait for the one who is born to love you, born to delight you, born to give you joy to your very core! I know a convent where you can shelter while you wait. Let me escort you there!"

Perigrine froze in his arms. "A convent?"

Instantly she thawed, heated, turned to fire. "How can you speak of barren nuns when I know you burn to make love to me? Do not deny me, for if you do, you deny yourself! Give in to your true nature, as I do! Love me, make love to me, take my surrender, and revel in your triumph!"

"I... I am no lover. ..."

"I know that you are!" Peregrine moved back a little, just enough so that she could gaze up into his eyes squarely and, for the moment, soberly. "If you are not, turn yourself to wood again as you did last night! But I know you cannot, for that wood would burn with the heat of your ardor. Only restore yourself to your vigil and I will cease to importune. Attempt it—but I know you cannot when I am here in your arms!" To prove it, she pressed close, wriggling in a way that he should have found electrifying.

But she had given him the wrong challenge; Gregory stilled, his eyes lost focus, his breathing slowed and lightened, and as she watched in horror, he stilled into immobility, leaving her trapped in arms that had become hard as wood.

Finister stared appalled for a minute. Then in fury she cried, "A murrain upon you!" and pushed herself away— but found those wooden arms held her fast. Enraged, she flailed about, rocking and thrashing, crying, "How dare you! Coward! Eunuch! How can you so spurn a lass who craves you? How can you turn to wood with a wanton warm and burning in your arms? How can you so despise me that you would send a woman in the ripeness of her youth to dwell among dry old relics of nuns?"

No matter how she railed, though, he sat like a statue, arms still folded to embrace her, rigid as timber. In desperation, she pressed herself tight against him and slid, squirming, out of his oaken embrace.

For a moment, she was tempted to ignite a spark within him by telekinesis to see if that wood could burn, but decided it would give too little satisfaction. Instead she snatched the hidden dagger from her kirtle and drove it into him.

The point stuck in his skin; the blade bent, then skidded aside.

With a curse, Finister threw the useless thing on the ground. She stood rigid, fists clenched, glaring into his glazed eyes, trying to think of some way to hurt him, to shock him out of his trance, to make him notice her. She probed his mind but found only the blank reflectiveness of his shield and knew she could press no further, for that shield would only turn her own energies back on her. First she must wake him, bring him out from that shell; then she could touch him again—but unless she could touch him, she could not jar him out of the trance. It was a closed loop, a snake biting its own tail, and she turned away to stalk off into the woods in frustration and anger.

Walk away indeed! her pride said to her. He cannot stop you! Leave him, go back to command your agents, and find another way to slay him! But she found she could not; she

told herself it was important not to arouse Gregory's suspicions but knew the truth was that she found him too much of a challenge. Since leaving her foster parents' home, she had measured her own worth by her sexual attraction on the one hand and her skill as an assassin on the other; in spite of the chill with which he had rebuffed all her advances and the skill with which he had turned aside her knife (or perhaps because of them), she wasn't yet ready to admit defeat.

Accordingly, she paced the woods for an hour or so to cool off, then returned to find Gregory sitting by the fire and looking very dejected. He looked up and said, "I must apologize for the discourtesy with which I took leave of my senses."

"I am glad to hear it." She glared down at him. "You must fear me mightily to have sent your mind sailing and left me a lifeless statue."

"Perhaps it is fear," Gregory sighed, "but I am determined to treat you with respect."

"Whether I wish it or no? Fie, sir! What manner of man are you who can spurn a lady so?"

"One who cannot resist a challenge, I fear," Gregory lamented.

That struck too deep a chord within Finister. She snapped back, "You certainly should have! Resist your pride, not my favors! I am so embarrassed I shall fear to offer them again ever!"

The scoundrel should have looked appalled, and tried to, but he had the audacity to be relieved beneath it! Sizzling with anger, Finister said, "Well, there is no help for it. I would have made a man of you, but it seems the material is lacking. Come, let us mount, since you will not, and ride where your reason takes us, since you will not be guided by passion!"

"Even so," Gregory sighed, and stood up, reaching for her hand.

She snatched it away and stalked to her horse. She heard him coming quickly behind her but snapped, "You need not aid me to mount, sir!" and set her foot in the stirrup, then sprang up to the saddle, curled her knee about the sidehorn,

and shook the reins. The palfrey walked away, and Gregory had to scramble to mount and join her.

Thus it went for the rest of the day, Finister carping, snapping, and shrewish, insulting Gregory in every way she could, but the sheepish fool only rode there, returning meek replies that were neither agreement nor contradiction, and never once during that long afternoon did he show enough spirit to lash back.

She might as well have been made of wood herself! There could be no question about it—he had no real regard for her, did not care enough about her to grow angry. He must have lacked even the male drive to be irritated—either that, or he was sick of her and eager to be rid of her.

So that evening, when once again he sat down by the fire and went into his trance, Finister threw up her hands and stalked off into the forest again, thinking bloody thoughts and determined never more to come near him without overwhelming lethal force at her back.

She had access to the computer and all its data banks! Gwen almost went limp with relief and realized that she hadn't really believed she could win this contest, pass the examination that no monk had managed for five long centuries. But pass it she had, and the opportunity, once gained, had to be exploited. She pulled herself together and phrased her first inquiry very carefully—the question could not be too broad or she would reveal that her knowledge was out of date and lose all she had gained. "What are the most recent findings concerning the mechanisms by which the brain produces hallucinations?"

The computer launched into an explanation of surges of neural currents, activators and inhibitors, and malformations in new brain cells. Gwen hung on its every word, afraid to lose a syllable—and hoping she could come up with just as effective a question about child abuse, mood disorders, paranoia, and insecurity.

She did.

When it was over, she was exhausted, trembling—and understood Moraga far better than she wanted. She found herself

repelled by the tortuous ways in which the foster parents who had raised the orphan must have deliberately twisted her mind and ravaged her emotions. "I. . . thank you, computer. I will strive to make this information benefit as many others as I may."

"You are welcome—to any information at any time," the computer responded. "Look upward, please."

Too exhausted to wonder why, Gwen looked up almost involuntarily. A bright light winked next to the blue one. She flinched, looked down quickly—and just managed to see the afterimage as it faded.

"There is no damage to your vision," the computer assured her, "but I have now recorded your retinal patterns. If at any future time you wish to consult me, you need only sit in that chair, look upward, and I will respond."

" 'Tis . . . good to know. Again I thank you."

"And again you are welcome. May you have a pleasant journey."

The blue light winked off and Gwen started to rise—then had to grasp at the arm of the chair to avoid falling. Brother Milton and the Abbot were at her side in an instant. "I thank thee, gentlemen," she murmured. "I will ... be well presently."

"Aye, praise Heaven," the Abbot said, "but first you needs must dine and rest."

"There is a chamber for such uses, only a little way away," Brother Milton assured her. "Come, good lady."

Gwen let them steer her toward the elevator, protesting, "The guest house . . . 'tis quite adequate. ..."

'Tis a long, long climb away, milady, and thou art exhausted," the Abbot said with gentle firmness. "Thou hast sat in converse with the computer for twelve hours without pause."

"Twelve hours?" Gwen looked up in disbelief.

The Abbot nodded as he ushered her into the elevator. " 'Twas amazing."

"Oh! Milord Abbot—I am sorry to so long detain you. . . ."

"It was mine honor—and my joy, to see one at long last

find a means of speaking with the daunting mechanism. When all is well with you, milady, I may ask you to return and pose certain questions to it."

"I. ..shall be delighted. ..."

The elevator door opened and they escorted her down the hall. "There is a question of propriety," the Abbot explained, "and I know the abilities of your children and husband. Can you summon one of your kin?"