ROD HEARD THE sobbing before he could see anything but leaves. It was off to his left, but moving. "Fess, how far into the woods is that woman?"

Fess turned his ears forward, triangulating from the space between them. "Approximately a hundred yards, Rod, but I hear also the sound of hooves—about a dozen horses, I would say—moving at the same rate as she, and in the same direction."

"So she's riding with a small band." Rod frowned. "Just an escort, or is she a prisoner?"

"I can only conjecture, Rod."

"Which I know you abhor." Rod smiled. "Okay, I'll guess that she's a gentlewoman at least, riding with an honor guard. If they were her captors, I'd be hearing lewd jokes and loud conversation." Rod frowned, turning his attention to the realm of thoughts; it still didn't come as easily to him as it did to his children. Or their mother… "Actually, she's a noblewoman with her guards, and something horrible has happened to her husband; she's on her way to see him. Do you hear crunching of leaves and twigs?"

"None, Rod."

"Then they're coming down a road that crosses ours. Let's see if we can't get there ahead of them, shall we?"

Fess picked up the pace, extruding the rubber horseshoes that let him move almost silently. "I can see the intersection, Rod. It is at an acute angle."

"Then let's step into that angle and spy through the leaves."

"Reconnoiter, Rod, please! I have always told you not to spy."

"Yes, Mama," Rod sighed. "Just so we can see what we'll be running into."

Fess stepped off the shoulder and found a path that required the least amount of brushing against branches or stepping on sticks. Through the screen of leaves, Rod could see a young woman riding sidesaddle with six liveried men in half-armor before her and six behind. He nodded and said softly, "Okay. To the intersection."

They rode out just before the first of the lady's guards reached the cross-roads.

"Ho, fellow!" barked the lead man.

Rod turned back in polite surprise, then smiled with pleasure. "Company! Where are you bound, soldier?" Then he lifted his head as though seeing the young woman for the first time. "Oh! Riding escort?"

"We are," growled another soldier, "and you keep a civil tongue in your head, for she's our squire's lady."

All the other soldiers rumbled agreement even though, strictly, a squire's wife wasn't entitled to the title of "lady." This close, Rod noticed that the livery and the armor didn't quite fit the men who wore it. That, and their devotion to the lady in question, gave him a notion he was dealing with volunteers—and enthusiastic ones at that. "Good day to you, lady! Where are you bound?"

'To Loguire, sir, to meet my husband." The lady lifted her veil to give him a close look; Rod caught his breath. The lady was gorgeous; her beauty was dazzling, even through the signs of recent tears. She seemed to decide he was relatively harmless. "And you?"

'To Loguire, also, to speak with the reeve about my taxes." Rod fell in beside her. "I take it your husband is doing the same."

"Nay." Her face clouded again. "Oh, he has gone there for the reeve, sure enough, but…" She choked on sobs and turned her head away.

"That sounds as though it wasn't all his choice," Rod said gravely. "What manner of trouble is he in?"

The lady seemed torn, wanting to speak of it but ashamed to—so a grizzled guardsman leaned forward and said, "Our people were looking at a winter of starvation, traveler. Our squire did as he should and sought to find ways to feed us."

"Poaching?" Rod stared, then turned to the lady. "But surely, if he had a good reason …"

"What matters that to the King?" she asked.

"The Crown isn't unreasonable," Rod said. "Surely with someone to plead your husband's case …"

"There is only his father," the lady said sadly, "and he is attainted."

"Attainted?" Rod scowled, "Well, I'm not! Tell me a bit more about the case, and maybe I can help."

The men muttered with interest, and the lady looked up at him as though afraid to hope. "If you are a knight, the reeve may hear you—but by your clothes, I would guess you to be only a yeoman."

"Just travelling clothes," Rod said. "A man doesn't have to wear his rank openly and, personally, I believe that quality shows through the clothes, for better or for worse. I am indeed a knight, good woman, and my name is Rodney."

"I am Rowena, Sir Rodney." Her face came alight with hope allowed. "Will you truly plead my husband's case?"

"I can't say without knowing the facts. What kind of creatures did he kill, and how many of them?"

"Sixteen," she said bitterly. "Stole sixteen of the King's precious deer, and must be hanged for any. Never mind that sixty good people were like to starve next winter if he did not!"

"Never mind is exactly what the reeve may do." At least this was the party he'd come to find. "If he were a knight or a lord, he might be able to plead privilege, but a squire has far greater cause to fear the rope."

"Not rope." The lady lifted her head with pride. "My Geordie will be hanged with a golden chain." Then, as if to explain her pride, she added, " Tis not the chain of many."

"Yes, I know." Chains were reserved for nobility—but only someone related directly to the Crown warranted the dubious honor of being hanged with a golden one. "Your Geordie, then, is cousin to the Queen?"

'To her husband," the lady explained. "He is the King's nephew—and first cousin to the Crown Prince."

"A Loguire?" Rod nodded slowly. "Then there may be some grounds to plead privilege."

"Not when his father is attainted," she said bitterly.

Well, she hadn't married as a social climber, anyway. Geordie must be a very handsome young man to have attracted so lovely a bride when his prospects were so poor. "The harvest has been good this year, lady. Why would your people have been likely to starve?"

"Mold in the bins," she answered, and proceeded to tell him the whole tale as they rode. When she was done, Rod said what he could to reassure her, but he had a bad feeling about the case. Unless the judge was merciful, Geordie would hang surely, and his father would lead a rebellion that none would blame him for.

Of course, if Diarmid did grant mercy, someone was bound to cry favoritism and start a rebellion on the grounds of corruption.

Still, one crisis at a time. Rod drew Rowena out as they rode on, and by the time they rode into the town that had grown up around Castle Loguire, Rod had decided that Geordie had unquestionably broken the law—but had equally unquestionably had only the best of reasons for doing so. Too bad he hadn't applied to the reeve for an official exception—but maybe he'd known he couldn't make this particular reeve listen to reason.

Rod hoped he could.

THE LAST ROW of wheat fell, and the men dropped their scythe-bladed cradles with a whoop of joy, then turned to help with gathering the stalks into sheaves—and there would be many kisses shared as the sheaves were stacked, as there always were.

None for Diru, though. He found a place in the line and bent, spreading his arms wide to scoop up an armful of stalks, then took another to bind them together.

"If people could only gather as closely as their sheaves, eh, Diru?"

Diru looked up in astonishment. It was Ria, one of the girls of the village, actually talking to him! "Why … why, yes," he stammered, and cudgeled his brain trying to think of something to say. His tongue seemed to tie a knot in itself, though, even though Ria wasn't the beauty that Lenar and her friends were. Still, she was pretty enough, and it was an amazing pleasure to have her talking to him.

"Maybe we're all like stalks of wheat," Ria said, "no use unless we're all bound together."