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Authors: Christopher Stasheff
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boulder in the middle of the meadow sat a damsel in green and yellow, head bowed in distress, sobbing piteously. Her auburn hair fell unbound behind her face, making her skin seem to glow even more than was natural. She was the very picture of Beauty in Distress, a portrait to wring the heart of any knight-errant and inflate his protective instincts, vulnerable femininity to perfection.
In fact, too perfect. Gregory eyed her askance, then decided that the wisest course was to fall in with the situation she had devised and watch how she made it develop.
His mind may have known it, but his heart did not. As he rode up to her, the alarm, concern, and sympathy wrung from his masculine nature by her pose and her weeping welled up. For once, he let them show—a little. He dismounted and knelt by her, asking, "Damsel, what grieves you so?"
She recoiled, gasping and staring at him; then, seeing it was only a clean-favored youth, relaxed, burying her face in her hands as her sobs redoubled.
"What horror could affright you so?" The anxiety in his tone was quite real; he almost forgot that this was the predator who stalked his family; only a remote part of his mind remembered it, staying vigilant. "Maiden, what is it? Tell me, I beg of you!"
"Call me not maiden, for I am that no longer, and therein lies my plight!" she sobbed.
Gregory frowned, feeling an edge of sternness arise, anger at a man unseen. "Is it a false love who has used you and left you? The fault is his, not yours!"
"Nay, sir—well, it is that surely, but I suffer only shame for that. Now, because of it, I am likely to suffer much more." She raised a tear-streaked face to him.
It was a lovely face, even reddened by tears—a heart-shaped face with rosebud lips and large dark eyes. Gregory stared, freezing as he felt the wave of her erotic projection roll over him, rocking him. He held still, only gazing on that lovely face as he waited for the wave to crest and begin to
level off, and it was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out to take her into his arms. Then he asked, ' 'What affliction is this that can hurt you worse than a true love turned false?"
"Bandits, sir! Here I sit, a sacrifice to them, a victim to their rapaciousness! They have despoiled my people's village these five years, and only by giving them what they seek can my people save themselves from pillage and slaughter."
Gregory scowled, a black mood coming on him. "And you are what they seek?"
"Every fall they come to take half of the harvest," the damsel told him, "and every spring they come to take a young woman for their pleasure." She shuddered at the thought. "To have been seduced, then left, has been like being plunged from Heaven into Purgatory—but to be the toy of a score must be a descent into Hell!"
"It shall not happen," Gregory said, his tone iron. "But you must be a squire's daughter, not a peasant! How durst your villagers turn you out?"
"My people decide who will next be offered to the wild men by discovering who allowed herself to be seduced in the year past, for, say they, 'twould be a shame to send a virgin— so our girls tend to be very circumspect."
"Do not tell me that your swain boasted of his conquest ere he spurned you!"
Her shoulders slumped and her gaze fell. "How else would any but we two have known?"
"But your father, the squire of the village! Could he let his daughter be thrown to the wolves thus?"
"My father, and my mother, too, have cast me out in shame," the young woman said. "These past five years, everyone in the village has become most self-righteous, for those who always inveighed against the sins of the flesh cry that these bandits are Heaven's retribution."
"What a horrid malediction is this!" Gregory said. He stood, looking down at the young woman, and laid a hand gently on her shoulder, but she flinched, and he drew his hand away. "Be calm, damsel," he told her. "They shall not touch
you. But if I am to ward you from these
In fact, too perfect. Gregory eyed her askance, then decided that the wisest course was to fall in with the situation she had devised and watch how she made it develop.
His mind may have known it, but his heart did not. As he rode up to her, the alarm, concern, and sympathy wrung from his masculine nature by her pose and her weeping welled up. For once, he let them show—a little. He dismounted and knelt by her, asking, "Damsel, what grieves you so?"
She recoiled, gasping and staring at him; then, seeing it was only a clean-favored youth, relaxed, burying her face in her hands as her sobs redoubled.
"What horror could affright you so?" The anxiety in his tone was quite real; he almost forgot that this was the predator who stalked his family; only a remote part of his mind remembered it, staying vigilant. "Maiden, what is it? Tell me, I beg of you!"
"Call me not maiden, for I am that no longer, and therein lies my plight!" she sobbed.
Gregory frowned, feeling an edge of sternness arise, anger at a man unseen. "Is it a false love who has used you and left you? The fault is his, not yours!"
"Nay, sir—well, it is that surely, but I suffer only shame for that. Now, because of it, I am likely to suffer much more." She raised a tear-streaked face to him.
It was a lovely face, even reddened by tears—a heart-shaped face with rosebud lips and large dark eyes. Gregory stared, freezing as he felt the wave of her erotic projection roll over him, rocking him. He held still, only gazing on that lovely face as he waited for the wave to crest and begin to
level off, and it was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out to take her into his arms. Then he asked, ' 'What affliction is this that can hurt you worse than a true love turned false?"
"Bandits, sir! Here I sit, a sacrifice to them, a victim to their rapaciousness! They have despoiled my people's village these five years, and only by giving them what they seek can my people save themselves from pillage and slaughter."
Gregory scowled, a black mood coming on him. "And you are what they seek?"
"Every fall they come to take half of the harvest," the damsel told him, "and every spring they come to take a young woman for their pleasure." She shuddered at the thought. "To have been seduced, then left, has been like being plunged from Heaven into Purgatory—but to be the toy of a score must be a descent into Hell!"
"It shall not happen," Gregory said, his tone iron. "But you must be a squire's daughter, not a peasant! How durst your villagers turn you out?"
"My people decide who will next be offered to the wild men by discovering who allowed herself to be seduced in the year past, for, say they, 'twould be a shame to send a virgin— so our girls tend to be very circumspect."
"Do not tell me that your swain boasted of his conquest ere he spurned you!"
Her shoulders slumped and her gaze fell. "How else would any but we two have known?"
"But your father, the squire of the village! Could he let his daughter be thrown to the wolves thus?"
"My father, and my mother, too, have cast me out in shame," the young woman said. "These past five years, everyone in the village has become most self-righteous, for those who always inveighed against the sins of the flesh cry that these bandits are Heaven's retribution."
"What a horrid malediction is this!" Gregory said. He stood, looking down at the young woman, and laid a hand gently on her shoulder, but she flinched, and he drew his hand away. "Be calm, damsel," he told her. "They shall not touch
you. But if I am to ward you from these
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