It came to him then that she was expecting refusal of any reassurance, expecting him to lash out at her for her temerity in implying that she had some worth, that she was worthy of thanks.
She knew her plea would bring hurt, yet she pled; for a woman lives on love, and this was a woman near thirty in a land where girls married at fifteen. She had already accepted that there was to be no lasting love in her life; she must subsist on the few crumb's she could gather.
His heart went out to her, somewhat impelled by the jab of self-reproach.
So, of course, he told her one of the lies that men tell women only to comfort them, and later realize to be very true.
He kissed her and said, "This was not Life, lass, it was what living is for."
And later, when he mounted his horse and turned back to look at her, with Big Tom beside him waving a cheery farewell to his wench, Rod looked into the girl's eyes again and saw the desperation, the touch of panic at his leaving, the silent, frantic plea for a shred of hope.
A shred, Tom had said, would be too much, but Rod would probably never see this girl again. Not even a spark of hope—just a glimmer. Could that do any hurt?
"Tell me your name, lass."
Only a spark, but it flared in her eyes to a bonfire. "Gwendylon am I called, lord."
And when they had rounded a turn in the road and the girls were lost to sight beyond the hill behind them, Tom sighed and said, "Thou hast done too much, master. Thou shalt never be rid of her now."
There was this to be said for a roll in the hay: it had sapped enough of Big Tom's vitality so that he wasn't singing any more. Probably still humming, to be sure; but he was riding far enough ahead so Rod couldn't hear him.
Rod rode in silence, unable to rid his mind of flaming hair and emerald eyes. So he cursed at the vision, under his breath; but it seemed to his aloof self that the cursing lacked something—vehemence, perhaps. Certainly sincerity. It was, his aloof self accused, a very halfhearted attempt at malediction.
Rod had to admit it was. He was still feeling very much at one with creation. At the moment, he couldn't have been angry with his executioner… And that worried him.
"Fess."
"Yes, Rod?" The voice seemed a little more inside his head than usual.
"Fess, I don't feel right."
The robot paused; then, "How do you feel, Rod?"
There was something about the way Fess had said that… Rod glanced sharply at the pseudo-horse head. "Fess, are you laughing at me?"
"Laughing?"
"Yes, laughing. You heard me. Chuckling in your beard."
"This body is not equipped with a beard."
"Cut the comedy and answer the question."
With something like a sigh, the robot said, "Rod, I must remind you that I am only a machine. I am incapable of emotions… I was merely noting discrepancies, Rod."
"Oh, were you!" Rod growled. "What discrepancies, may I ask?"
"In this instance, the discrepancy between what a man really is and what he wishes to believe of himself."
Rod's upper lip turned under and pressed against his teeth. "Just what do I wish to believe?"
"That you are not emotionally dependent upon this peasant woman."
"Her name is Gwendylon."
"With Gwendylon. With any woman, for that matter. You wish to believe that you are emotionally independent, that you no longer enjoy what you call 'being in love.' "
"I enjoy love very much, thank you!"
"That is a very different thing," the robot murmured, "than being in love."
"Damn it, I wasn't taking about making love!"
"Neither was I."
Rod's lips pressed into a thin white line. "You're talking about emotional intoxication. And if that's what you mean—no, I am not in love. I have no desire to be in love. And if I have any say in the matter, I will never be in love again!"
"Precisely what I said you wished to believe," mused the robot.
Rod ground his teeth and waited for the surge of anger to pass. "Now what's the truth about me?"
"That you are in love."
"Damn it, a man's either in love, or he's not, and he damn well knows which."
"Agreed; but he may not be willing to admit it."
"Look," Rod snapped, "I've been in love before, and I know what it's like. It's… well…"
"Go on," the robot prodded.
"Well, it's like"—Rod lifted his head and looked out at the countryside—"you know the world's there, and you know it's real; but you don't give a damn, 'cause you know for a certainty that you're the center of the world, the most important thing in it."
"Have you felt that way recently?" Fess murmured.
"Well… yes, damn it." Rod's mouth twisted.
"With Catharine?"
Rod stared, and glared at the back of the horse's head. "How the hell would you know?" His eyes narrowed.
"Logic, Rod." The robot's voice had a touch of smugness. "Only logic. And how did you feel while you were with Gwendylon?"
"Oh…" Rod threw his shoulders back, stretching. "Great, Fess. Better than I ever have. The world's clearer, and the day's younger. I feel so healthy and clearheaded I can't believe it. It's just the opposite to how I feel when I'm in love, but I like it."
Rod frowned at the back of Fess's head. "Well?"
The robot plodded on, not answering.
"Cat got your tongue?"
"I am not equipped with a tongue, Rod."
"Don't change the subject."
The horse was silent a moment longer; then, "I was mistaken, Rod. You love, and are loved—but you are not in love."
Rod frowned down at the roadway. "Why not, Fess?"
The robot made a sound like a sigh. "How do the two women differ, Rod?"
"Well…" Rod chewed at the inside of his cheek. "Gwendylon's human. I mean, she's just an ordinary, everyday woman, like I'm an ordinary man."
"But Catharine is more?"
"Ah, she's the kind of woman I tend to put on a pedestal… something to be worshiped, not courted.
"And not loved?" the robot mused. "Rod, of the two women, which is the better human being?"
"Uh… Gwendylon."
"The prosecution," said the robot-horse, "rests."
The demesne of the Loguires was a great, broad plain between the mountains and the sea. The low, rolling mountains stood at the north and east; beach curved in a wide semi-circle in the south; a sheer, hundred foot high cliff face towered in the northwest. The ocean battered at its seaward side; a waterfall poured over the other face into the valley. A long, old river twisted over the plain to the sea.
The plain itself was a patchwork of fields, with here and there a cluster of peasant huts—Loguire's people.
Tom and Rod stood at the verge of one of the mountain forests, where the road from the North fell away to the plain.
Rod turned his head slowly, surveying the demesne. "And where," he said, "is the castle?"
"Why, back of the waterfall, master."
Rod's head jerked around, staring at Tom; then he followed the road with his eyes.
It wound across the plain to the foot of the waterfall; there, where the cliff met the plain, a great gate was carved in the rock, complete with portcullis and a drawbridge over the natural moat formed by an oxbow of the river. The lords of Loguire had honeycombed the cliff for their home.
An exclamation point formed between Rod's eyebrows as they drew together. "Is that a dike to either side of the drawbridge, Big Tom?"
"Aye, master; and there are said to be charges of gunpowder within it."
Rod nodded, slowly. "And the land before the portcullis gate sinks down. So if unwelcome callers come knocking, you blow up the dike, and your front door gets covered with thirty feet of water. Very neat. Then you just sit and wait out the seige. The waterfall gives you plenty of fresh water, so your only worry is food."
"There are said to be gardens within the keep," Big Tom supplied helpfully.
Rod shook his head in silent respect. "So you're completely defended, and stocked for a ten years' siege. This place ever been taken, Tom?"
The big man shook his head. "Never, master." He grinned.