But it was Heaven's doing after all, was it not? If Heaven had not wished him to sally forth against Ibile, surely his foolish oath would have had no effect.
Could Heaven strengthen him enough, against Ibile's sorcerers?
What blasphemy even to think it! If Heaven wished to scour the land of sorcery, assuredly it had the power...
But did the people wish it? The common folk, and the sorcerers who led them? For surely, God had given people the power to choose their own destinies, wisely or foolishly, and would not compel folk to choose well.
As Heaven would not constrain Matthew to choose wisely.
A stab of pure panic pierced her. Could her Matthew have wearied of virtue? Could he have fallen prey to the temptations of carnal pleasure and worldly power? For he was, surely, in a land where they who worked magic held dominion over all their fellows. Could Matthew have succumbed?
But no, he did not seek power...
Or did he?
All her old suspicions welled up again. Did Matthew want her because he loved her, or because he loved her power? Did he seek a love match, or a throne?
If only he had been well born, like Sauvignon!
Or, said the nasty voice of conscience, like Duke Astaulf? Duke Astaulf, who had usurped her father's throne, then slain him. His soul toiled in Purgatory now, though it had wrought enough evil here on earth, in its time. Surely birth could yield as much ambition as its lack. Nay, more, for it had an easier channel for its striving.
Might Matthew, then, have sought the easier channel? Might he, perish the thought, have joined with the sorcerers in their government of evil?
"Heaven forbid!" Alisande whispered with a shudder, and drew her cloak more tightly around her as she sent up an earnest prayer that her love would still be free when she found him, still devoted to God, Good, and Merovence...
And to Alisande, of course. Pray Heaven he had not found another woman!
CHAPTER 28
Offensive Defenses
They burst out into the keep, a mob of filthy skeletons in tatters, wide-eyed and howling.
"After them!" Matt shouted. "There's still a chance!"
They charged up the dungeon stairs, nearly tripping in the dim light of the sconced torches, but by the time they reached the top step, it was too late. The huge oaken doors were broken; two mangled guards and a dying prisoner lay on the floor. The ground floor was an armory, and the prisoners were catching up weapons and turning on the guards like maniacs—which many of them probably were, by now. More guards came running, from the upper stories and from the courtyard.
"They blew it," Matt groaned. "What can we do for them now?"
"See that their sacrifice is not in vain." Sir Guy gripped his shoulder. "Use the diversion they have given you! Outside, Wizard! To the gate!"
Matt pulled himself together and stepped out into the armory. In the center of the huge room, guards were flailing at the riot of prisoners. Matt beckoned to his crew and sidled along the wall, heading for the main door.
They made it without a hitch, swinging around the side of the great portal—and coming face-to-face with a huge captain who was just running up with a dozen guards at his back. He put on the brakes and shouted, "Seize them!"
The soldiers dived for Matt and his people.
Maid Marian brought around her quarterstaff, the others raised their swords, and Fadecourt prowled forward, arms out to grab—but Matt shouted, "Hold, good guardsmen! Is't not enough that your king has scourged us forth with derision? Admittedly, our performance may not have been the most amusing—but are we to be pilloried for bad acting?"
He had an answer for that, but fortunately the captain didn't. He held up a hand to halt his troops, frowning. "What manner of vagabonds are you, then, who go armed in the king's castle?"
"Wandering players," Matt improvised, "and our weapons and armor are lath and buckram." He forced a laugh. "O worthy Captain! Would you believe that such poor folk as we could bear the weight of real armor?"
The captain glanced at Sir Guy, unsure—then his gaze lit on Fadecourt, and he relaxed. Matt didn't—he was waiting for the man to ask about Stegoman. He risked a glance back—and there was no sight of the dragon! Matt felt a moment of panic, afraid for his friend, then reminded himself that dragons can take care of themselves, and Stegoman probably had his reasons for hiding out.
Matt had to admit, it had been a good idea.
" 'Tis bad enough to have been cuffed and kicked for our pains," he grumbled, "when we had hoped for silver, and expected copper at least—or dinner, if naught else!"
The captain grinned. "The king is hard to please." He looked up over their heads, frowning. "What noise is that?"
"Critics." Matt sighed. "A disappointed audience. What, are they still shouting after us?"
The captain didn't look all that sure, but one of his men volunteered, "They are naught, Captain. Let us cuff them on their way."
"Aye," another said. "Only a few blows with a truncheon, Captain!"
But an evil grin spread over the captain's face as he looked over the motley crew before him. His eyes sparked as he looked at Yverne and Marian in their shifts, but the hullabaloo inside deterred him, and he only said, "Nay. We shall escort them to the gate. Will it not be pleasant to see them step out?"
His men frowned—but one of them, a little brighter than the rest, suddenly got the idea. His lips spread into a very nasty grin, and he elbowed his fellow, who turned to him, frowning, caught his wink, and suddenly grinned with him.
"Ladies!" The captain gave them a mocking bow and stood aside. "Gentlemen! After you!"
They stepped forward, seeming very uncertain—and Matt knew their hearts were thudding just as his was. The gate? Perfect.
But why were the soldiers so happy to guide them?
Because they knew there was an army of archers outside! They expected the vagabonds to be turned into pincushions!
"That one, at least, is too good to waste," a soldier muttered to his mate as Yverne passed by, pale but resolute.
"Damn your eyes!" the captain barked, and the soldier started with horror. No wonder, considering what words could do here.
They almost made it; it almost went without a hitch. But, about twenty yards from the gate, a man in a dark blue robe sprinkled with zodiacal signs turned to see what was going on—and his eyes locked on Matt.
Matt could feel the sorcerer's magical field probing his own, clashing with his own, saw the man's mouth opening, heard him shout, "Seize them! Slay them! That one is a white wizard!"
The captain jerked to a halt, startled, but Fadecourt knew what to do. He slammed into the officer, bawling, and ran right over him as he fell, diving toward the sorcerer—who made a small motion with his hand as he chanted a quick rhyme, and Fadecourt's trajectory abruptly swerved to miss. Instead, he slammed headlong into the gate.
Almost headlong—he managed to flip over in midair, landed feet first, and bounced to the ground.
Maid Marian was there by that time, heaving at the bar—and Yverne was stepping up to the sorcerer with a seductive smile and saying, "Why do you worry over such nothings? Nay, have you no time for a vagabond lass?"
The sorcerer looked startled, then began an, uncertain smile—and Yverne's little fist hooked up in an uppercut, slamming him back against the soldiers behind him.
But another sorcerer stood guard at the gate, and shouted, "Hold!" as he performed some elaborate gestures, ending with finger pointing stiffly at Marian and Fadecourt—who suddenly slowed, almost stopping, the huge bar in their hands.
Matt leaped up between them. The time for secrecy was over. He held up a hand like a traffic cop, shouting,