She smiled, thawing a bit. “If you are wed, what are you doing so far from her?”
‘Trying to find her something she asked for,“ Matt told her. ”Foolish of me, isn’t it?“
“Perhaps,” Flaminia said, with a smile that held back amusement. “But there is a point at which foolishness becomes wisdom.” She turned to Pascal. “Your friend has wit.”
The look Pascal returned was so blank that she laughed and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek-and Matt noticed once again that her figure was nothing short of spectacular. Certainly enough to cloud a young man’s judgment-or attract the wrong sort. “I think you’d better come along and take care of him, damsel. Pascal, you do need taking care of, don’t you?”
“Oh, without doubt!” For once, Pascal picked up a cue. “If no one watches over me, I am apt to do very foolish things indeed!”
“Why, so am I.” Flaminia climbed to her feet, pulling him up with her. “So perhaps you should stay near me and guard me from my own foolishness, too. Do you think I should let you?”
“Without question!”
“No, not without question,” she said with a roguish smile. “I am apt to ask you very many questions indeed, for I have an enormous curiosity about the world around me, most especially the things I have never seen-and woe to you if you answer me falsely!”
“I shall be careful to be honest,” Pascal assured her, “and if my honesty is not always truthful, it shall be no fault of mine.”
Flaminia frowned at him, then glanced at Matt. “Can you tell me what he means? How can honesty not be truthful?”
“Why,” Matt said, “because he’ll honestly tell you everything he knows and believes, but he might be wrong. After all, if you ask him about the queen’s capital of Bordestang, I’m sure he’ll tell you every rumor he has heard about it-but he hasn’t seen it himself, so some of the rumors may be false.”
Flaminia laughed-a sound with the beauty of song-and pressed Pascal’s arm close. “I think you may have some ghost of wit yourself, friend Pascal! Come, let us put this tiresome crowd behind us and find the road to the south by ourselves!”
“They shall catch up with us,” Pascal warned, falling into step beside her. “Perhaps,” Flaminia said, “but I think they will be better company by that time. We can wait for them in the shade when the sun grows hot.”
“Better listen to her,” Matt advised. “She’s no fool.”
But as they started to pick their way through the litter of unconscious bodies, a beefy young man came reeling up with a lopsided grin. “Ah, there you are, my betrothed! Come, kiss me good morning, then!”
He was nicely calculated to inspire ardor in the most finicky of women-muscles like melons, guileless blue eyes in a handsome ruddy face, blond hair, and a devil-may-care jauntiness. Unfortunately, those blue eyes were bloodshot, and he was also unshaven, smelled like a brewery that had been converted into a cockroach-haven hotel, and was weaving and stumbling in what he no doubt thought was a straight line. Flaminia froze, the color draining from her face. Pascal stared in alarm as the big young man reached out for her, chuckling. She slapped his hand aside, her color returning and flaming high. “Nay, Volio! Do you think you can seduce me, then leave me to bed one doxie after another and come back to take me again?”
“Aye.” The grin turned nasty. “For you are mine, are you not? We are betrothed!”
“No longer! Oh, if only you had given me a ring, so that I might throw it back in your face!” Flaminia blazed. “I shall not be your doxie, neither wed nor unwed!”
“But you must.” The nasty grin widened to gloating, and he reached out again. “For if you do not wed me, then you shall be a slut. Come, chick.”
“Go!” she cried. “Go, and never come near me again! For I had rather be a fallen woman than a betrayed wife!”
“Why, then, a fallen woman you are,” he said, “and shall fall to me again.”
Flaminia caught the reaching hand, twisted it sharply, and bit. Volio howled, eyes staring in shock. Flaminia leaped back with a cry of triumph, letting go of the hand. “You shall not touch me again!”
“Oh, but I shall!” Volio shouted, and the bleeding hand slapped the side of her head, hard. Flaminia fell back with a cry of pain; Matt just barely caught her. But Pascal howled with outrage and leaped in, slamming a fist into Volio’s face. Volio fell back, staring in utter stupefaction, pressing his hand to the fresh new pain. Then he brought his hand away, saw the blood on it that streamed from his nose, and came for Pascal with a snarl, swinging a haymaker. Pascal blocked with his left as if he were parrying a rapier cut and slammed a hard right into Volio’s belly. The big young man staggered back with a grunt of surprise, and Pascal followed it up, whirling his right fist like a rapier, then slamming it into the side of Volio’s head. But Volio blocked, as if he was catching a sword blow on a buckler, then riposted with his right and caught Pascal a blow that sent him reeling back a few paces. Volio followed hard, but Pascal ducked just in time, his shoulder slamming into Volio’s belly. Pascal straightened up, staggered, but held Volio on his shoulder just long enough to dump him in a heap from five feet up. Then he stepped back, shaking his head to clear it as Volio caught his breath then scrambled up, snarling, “None of your peasant’s wrestling tricks!”
“Peasant!” Pascal cried, affronted, and feinted twice to draw Volio’s left, then stepped in to crack a blow across his cheek. “No!” Flaminia cried, surging up out of Matt’s arms toward the fighters-but Matt held her back. “No, damsel! You’ll just get them hurt more! Don’t worry, if it gets too bad, I’ll break it up.”
“Then why not break it up now!” she demanded. “They need it,” Matt said simply, though he meant it differently for each man. They had obviously both been trained-but as swordsmen, not as boxers. Right fists whirled high in figure eights as if they were wrapped around hilts, lefts blocked and counterpunched, and most of the blows were aimed at the chest. Every now and then one of the boys slipped and caught the other on the cheek or chin, but it was definitely by accident. Matt began to think he was going to have to break it up, after all-they were causing each other a lot of pain, but no damage, nothing even remotely decisive. Flaminia wept, crying Pascal’s name, and kept trying to struggle free to help him, but Matt held on tightly. “Don’t worry-pretty soon they’ll both drop from sheer exhaustion. Neither of them is in the greatest shape this morning.”
Just then Pascal leaped in past Volio’s guard, threw his arms around his chest, lifted and whirled, throwing Volio to the ground. The young man surged back up to his feet with a bellow. “Villain! Would you use a peasant’s wrestling tricks with me again? Have at you!” And he charged with a roundhouse swing. Pascal ducked under it, seized Volio’s knee and straightened up, heaving. Volio squalled and went flying backward, arms wind-milling. He landed with a heavy, meaty sound, and lay struggling, gasping for breath again. Pascal stood over him, eyes alight with victory, fists clenched, waiting. “Oh!” Flaminia gasped, hand coming to her mouth. Matt kept his hold tight. Volio floundered to his feet, growling, “Would you fight for her honor when she has lost it?”
“Foul blot!” Pascal shouted, and swung an uppercut at Volio’s jaw. Unfortunately, Volio straightened up just then, and a little too fast; Pascal’s fist caught him right in the solar plexus. His eyes bulged and he stiffened, gasping for air like a fish. Pascal stared, frightened by what he had done. “He can’t breathe!” Matt shouted. “Put him out of his misery until his lungs start working again!”
Pascal came unfrozen, slamming the uppercut at Volio’s jaw again. This time he connected, and the beefy young man’s eyes glazed. He slumped and landed with a very solid thud. Flaminia tore loose from Matt’s hold with a cry of distress and ran to Pascal. “Oh! Are you hurt? Surely you must have suffered sorely!”