December 1st - December 15th, 1999
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Later, sitting high in Diana's saddle, Grace stretched her legs out of the wide stirrups and admired her new boots as she waited for Hart to catch up to them at the top of the broad hill that marked the end of the ranch property. Coba was as exuberant as Diana was placid, and Hart had his hands full controlling him as the big grey loped up the hillside. Henry had told Grace that Diana knew her way around the ranch quite well, and all Grace need do was sit tight. Diana was as good as Henry's word. Grace appreciatively patted and praised the mare.
Hart reined in Coba at the top of the hill. The stallion reluctantly slowed, then impatiently waited, tossing his head as Hart and Grace looked out over the valley floor, the ranch spreading for thousands of acres behind them, the little town of Solvang to the west, a green and gold checkerboard of tidy farms and wineries stretching before them to the north. Grace felt a sense of deja vu, a strong connection to this place, that she couldn't explain.
Leigh
MA: now, what might possibly make Brandon feel better. . . , USA - Wednesday, December 15, 1999 at 18:11:46 (PST)
Delaford. The Brandons' chambers:
Mary Anne re-settles her pillows and finishes her summary: "And that's all, sir. At least, I think it is. I don't believe I've left anything out."
"All, you say?" replies the incredulous Brandon. "All," indeed. What had passed between him and Claudia—or nearly passed—is more than enough to trouble him. But to be told as well that his wife had been imprisoned in the pantry and terrified by nightmares, in addition to the news of the raid in the West Wood, and the arrival of James Winterbourne, and . . . and . . .
Brandon calms himself. Though the night has certainly been eventful, and much of Mary Anne's tale is disturbing, her news is not all unwelcome. There is, for example, the report that The Interrogator has been captured, and in remembering this Brandon allows himself a rare moment of unalloyed and vindictive satisfaction. That monster. It is well past time that HE met with justice for his deeds—and no doubt he shall at last, for all that Her Majesty is merciful. If The Interrogator is, at that moment, surrounded by Imperial Guardsmen . . . I wonder if HE shall even survive transport, for the Guardsmen have no reason to spare HIM. If the stories of their loyalty to The Empress are true, then HE could easily be "shot while trying to escape."
"Sir?" Mary Anne, touching his arm.
Brandon has no glass before him in which to see his face, but can imagine what his expression must have been these moments past.
"I was thinking of all you had told me." He shakes his head.
"I'll admit it's a lot to have thrown at you all at once." A soft smile, as she slides a little lower on the pillows to rest her head against Brandon's shoulder. "I was so relieved to hear that Therese is safe."
"Indeed."
Into that one word are compacted more thoughts than Brandon can safely utter, for Therese has joined a very special class of women in the Realm who have earned his respectful admiration, though each woman in this class is quite different from the rest. Renie, for instance, without whom he would have run mad with grief. Andrea, for whom his regard is mingled with the most tender pity—though certainly without any of the contempt and condescension some people feel must accompany that emotion—as well as a deep, abiding anger at her attacker. To hear, as well, that the Alliance had no legal grounds for holding the Sheriff, that he is free once more . . .
But back to Therese. She is safe, once again a guest in his home, and—Brandon is certain of this—under the constant guard of Eamon de Valera. And my protection as well, though that did not serve her at her moment of need . . . no, I cannot allow myself to think on that; I must think of what can be done for her now. Thanks be to God, she is safe.
Mary Anne lies quietly, sensing her husband's distress but realizing that there is little she can do at the moment to ease it. Also, she is practically certain that their thoughts are running along the same lines: how to aid Therese in her recovery. She has some thoughts of her own about that subject, though she does not speak them—for she is not at all certain that Brandon will approve. Time enough to bring it up later, when he has rested and his mood has improved.
Hmmmm. Mary Anne rubs her cheek against Brandon's shoulder, then turns to drop a light kiss in the crook of his neck. Improve his mood? Perhaps there is something she can do about that . . .
MA--now let's see, what would make Brandon feel better? ;-)
Magda--LOL on George and Estrilda! Therese--a riot. Happy to be of service. Clods--they were NOT 2-week chats! (Not FOF time, anyway . . .), - Tuesday, December 14, 1999 at 19:59:07 (PST)
Dev's Guest Quarters
Therese finished her story, and buried her head into Eamon's shoulder, her body trembling at the memories her words had invoked. He soothed her with voice and hand, his words calm and reassuring, and within Dev's embrace, Therese felt truly safe for the first time in many days.
"Can I get you anything?" he murmered gently into her ear, the deep velvet softness of his voice caressing her battered spirit.
"Some water, perhaps?" she looked up at him dreamily, fighting to remain awake.
"Good, the doctor said you should drink," he said, sliding sideways and rising from the bed. Stooping down he reclaimed his trousers from the floor, and slipped into them. "In fact, she wanted you to finish the whole pitcher by time she returned to check on you, and you've a good portion to go."
Therese pulled a face. She didn't like to be under medical attention, and rebelled at being told what to do--even if it was in her best interest. "And when is Dr. What's His Name due to return?"
"Dr. McCoy is a woman, and she didn't say exactly when she would return, there were several people for her to attend to--" Dev was interrupted by a brief knock, as the door to the chamber swung open.
"Well now, so how is my pa--" Dr. McCoy broke off in mid-sentence, as she stepped into the room to see a half naked man standing before her, and her patient most likely lying nude beneath the covers. She shot a displeased look at Dev before shutting the door firmly behind her and approaching the bed. "What exactly is the meaning of this?" she demanded, placing her hands on hips.
Dev returned her look, and arched a single brow, looking from the doctor to Therese and back again with a passive glance. As a trained politician he knew when to speak. . .and when to remain silent. The woman was a doctor, after all, it's not as if he need spell things out.
"Had it occurred to you that perhaps the woman might need a bit of time to recover. . .both mentally and physically?" McCoy demanded, stomping past Dev to inspect the contents of the tray. Looking down into the water jug, she saw it was missing only a scant glassful, and quickly ascertained that no food had been removed from any of the plates. "You're supposed to be nursing her, not taking advantage of her!"
McCoy moved to Therese's prone form, side-stepping a seemingly impassive Dev, who stood silently, arms crossed over his bare chest.
"How's my patient?" she asked, concern colouring her tone. She lowered herself to the bedside next to Therese, who sat up slightly, tucking the covers around her upper body.
Therese raised a hand to her forehead theatrically, leaning her head back and rolling her eyes. "I'll be alright, Doctor, he didn't mean any harm--but you know that he's a man, and they have needs. . ."
Dev's jaw dropped open slightly as he glowered at Therese, and her selective recitation of what had occurred between them. No doubt, no doubt she was now enjoying herself immensely at his expense. He made a deliberate effort to close his mouth, and turned to get her the glass of water she had requested of him. "Your water, dearest," he said through gritted teeth as he brought the glass round to her and sat in the beside chair. Reaching for his jumper he slipped into the garment while wondering silently how this woman of his could look so completely innocent while deviling him mercilessly.
His only consolation came in knowing that at least he knew that Therese, his Therese, was still intact, both body and soul. Her recovery would take time, yes, but she would recover.
Dr. McCoy glared once again at Dev as he settled into the chair. "Shall I have him removed from your room?" she asked. "I can have a half dozen men here in seconds. . ."
Therese turned her dark, solemn eyes toward the other woman, knowing that Eamon's patience couldn't possibly hold out much longer. "No, really, it's okay if he remains. I'm sure he'll behave from this point forward."
"I shall be a veritable choir boy, Doctor, you have my word." Dryly. Oh so dryly. It was all Therese could do to keep from giggling out loud. It occurred to her that she couldn't remember the last time she had had to stifle a laugh--or had even wanted to laugh at all.
Dr. McCoy rose to leave. "If you're certain. . ." she said to Therese, who nodded in agreement. "I will be back, shortly" she added, glaring at Dev, "and wish to see a great deal of that water consumed, as well as something substantial from that tray. Otherwise you're looking at another I.V. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," Therese answered obediently as the doctor made her way from the room. Dev rose from his chair and went to open the door, which she breezed through with an offended air. After the other woman had gone, he turned to face his betrothed. . .a distinctly irritated look maring his handsome features.
Therese could no longer remain silent, and her whoops of laugter filled the room.
Therese
thanks for the ideas, MA! Can I hire you on as consultant? The pay stinks, but are we talkin' job security. . ., - Tuesday, December 14, 1999 at 14:16:05 (PST)
The historical accuracy alarm went off as soon as I posted. Estrilda would not have been wearing lace but rather embroidery; everything else is the same. Please update your mental hard drives. Thank you.
Magda
- Tuesday, December 14, 1999 at 14:11:34 (PST)
"Day the Thirtieth of my Exile in the month of December – In which I make a trip to Barnesdale."
Tonight I write this while sitting in my room at the Blue Boar in Barnesdale. It's the first time in six days I've had the time to put my thoughts in order.
As soon as I agreed to Mauger's proposition, he began firing orders at the servants to get ready for the journey north. Wagons were made ready to carry loads of furnishings and gear. Extra servants were drafted into cleaning and repair brigades that would swarm over the lodge and make it habitable again. Food was bought and cloth procured.
And, of course, Mauger opened his money chest.
It nigh broke my heart to stand there and watch him count out a small portion of the total and then close the lid of the chest. I comforted myself with the thought that the pouch he handed me contained enough gold to hire a dozen seasoned mercenaries. It would certainly be enough to keep me alive for several months when the time came.
The caravanserai was finally ready and we set out yesterday morning. With so much baggage we did not make good time and it was late in the afternoon when we arrived at the lodge. Having seen the lack of upkeep on the manor that Mauger lived in, I was prepared for the worst.
I must admit that I was pleasantly surprised. No one had spent the night in the place for years and there was not a stick of furniture in sight but the structure was in good condition and a minute inspection of the roof revealed no noticeable leaks. For a hunting lodge it was quite large, with three private bedrooms for guests on the first floor and two dormitories for the staff on the ground floor. I immediately selected the corner bedroom for myself; it was the smallest but it had windows on two sides that would give me a good view of the terrain. The other two bedrooms had one window each and a connecting door, making it perfect for the two ladies.
With dusk coming on fast the servants barely had time to set up for the night and prepare the evening meal. We were all up at dawn this morning and they were cleaning and scrubbing when I left to collect Lady Ysabella.
Her convent was just far enough away that it could not be reached in one day's travel. I arrived in Barnesdale this afternoon and found myself a meal and lodging here at the Boar. Then I went to call on the sheriff of Barnesdale at his home to advise him that the lodge district was occupied again.
Needless to say, I would have preferred to forgo the pleasure of this particular visit but it would have raised more problems later on if I had. I took comfort from the fact that I was a stranger to this sheriff and therefore safe from detection.
He lived in a modest home in the middle of town. The maid who answered the door informed me he was out but that his wife was in and would receive me. An unusual arrangement, I thought as I followed the servant into the lady's private solar.
A spinning wheel and basket of wool stood in the corner beside a window. A woman rose from the window seat and came forward to meet me. She was of middling height with dark hair and black eyes set in a sharp-featured face. There was just a bit too much lace on her gown for a town this size in the middle of the day. Her eyes roved over me from my boots to my hair, hungrily searching for indications of status. I knew her type; there were plenty like her at court.
Having assured herself that I was worthy of acknowledgement by one of her social stature, she curtseyed slightly in response to my bow. "Welcome to Barnesdale, sir. Please accept my apologies for my husband's absence. He has business out of town and will return tomorrow. I know he will be sorry to have missed you. My name is Estrilda. Please be seated and take some wine after your journey."
I accepted her offer with another bow and we sat down. Not wanting to prolong my stay, I briefly described my errand and finished by inviting her to visit the ladies in the coming months. She considered the offer as the maid served us the wine.
"Thank you, Nan. You may leave now. Don't return till I call you." The maid gathered up her things and left us alone. Estrilda picked up a goblet and handed it to me. "How boring for a great, strong man like you to waste so many months baby-sitting two convent ladies. I'm sure you prefer to spend your time with a more worldly woman." She looked at me over the rim of her goblet and smiled slowly.
I smiled back at her. A man has appetites for more than just bread and wine, and there was no question that this particular appetite had not been sated in some time. "You are very perceptive, my lady." She wasn't but I judged it wouldn't hurt to call her that.
I was right; she leaned closer to me. "Sir, I think I know just what you need. If you're interested…" Her voice trailed away suggestively.
Well, now. This was moving along quite nicely. I shifted my chair closer to hers and set my wine aside so I could reach for her hand. "How could I not be interested in someone who knows my needs? I have not met such a woman since my return from the Crusades."
"Crusades? You were a Crusader? Really?" She sat up straight and stared at me with round eyes. "How wonderful!"
Someday when I am lord and sheriff of Nottingham again and have some spare time, I'm going to conduct a serious investigation into our society's obsession with the Crusades. What is it about a bunch of grown men running around the desert wearing nightgowns with painted red crosses over their armour that gets people so worked up? I mean nobody likes a good bout of recreational pillage and rape more than I do but why go overseas to do it?
At any rate, it had certainly aroused Estrilda's interest. A light sheen of perspiration glowed on her upper lip and she began to breathe heavily. "I've heard so many stories about what really happens over there. Is it true about the king's sister, that he offered her hand in marriage to Saladin?"
I had heard something about this effort of King Richard's to arrange a peace through a marital alliance. Although if his sister were anything like their mother, the Saracens would have declared another war and fought their way across Europe just to give her back.
Estrilda didn't wait for me to formulate an answer. She leaned forward and gripped my knee with both hands. I was wearing leather so I couldn't feel anything but when I looked down I could see that her nails were leaving deep scratches behind. Her breathing became even more ragged. "How decadent that would have been! To enter Saladin's harem – to have to service his inhuman lusts whenever he wanted – to be at his mercy day and night." She closed her eyes and shuddered, then opened them again wider than before. "Tell me about her dangers! Describe them to me in every particular. I want to feel everything she would feel." By now she was openly panting.
I slid my hands up her arms to get a secure grip and tried to think of a Crusader-like response. "Oh, I hear the food's not so bad, once you get used to it." Then I pulled her close and kissed her with an unleashed appetite.
Nerman's cooking had gone a long way to restoring the strength I lost during my flight from Nottingham but I was not prepared for Estrilda's response. She struck me a blow on the side of my head that had me seeing stars and almost knocked me off my chair. I stared up at her standing over me, eyes shooting flames of rage and her hands balled into fists.
"That's not what you were supposed to say! I said I wanted to hear about it first!" She slapped my hand away when I reached for her. "Now this time follow my lead and do what you're supposed to do."
By this time my ear stopped ringing and I was in control again. Nobody, especially a woman, treats George, Lord Nottingham and Lord High Sheriff, this way. When I want a woman, she follows my orders.
She watched me through narrowed eyes as I rose to my feet. I bowed slightly – an insult right there – and then turned on my heel and left the room. As I reached the door, I could hear her screaming something at my back but I did not stop. I came straight back to this inn and washed the taste out of my mouth with a tankard of ale. It has been an interesting experience but I think, for the first time in my life, I will prefer the company of a convent-bred woman tomorrow.
"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."
Magda
- Tuesday, December 14, 1999 at 13:58:10 (PST)
Not two weeks? Too bad!
*wink*
- Tuesday, December 14, 1999 at 13:29:23 (PST)
Claudia looked warily at Renie. She wanted to jump up and hug her friend, but the look on Renie's face kept her sitting where she was. "Why did they send you?"
"Because I'm a woman," started Renie. "Because you can't try the same tricks on me, as you would, and have, on Ed," Renie's eyes boor into Claudia's soul. "Because I know you will be truthful to me. I already know what you've done."
"Renie, you can't know. No one knows."
"I know alright. For some reason, you've gone totally out of your mind and you're working for HIM. What were you thinking? What has happened to the good heart you had?"
"I am not working for HIM. You must believe me, Renie. I am not. I am working for us, for all of us."
"You're lying," Renie advanced a step. "I told you not to lie to me. HE told me HIMSELF, about you. And I know what you have done to Hans and myself. Did you really think you were working for US when you did that?"
"HE told you that. I suppose HE enjoyed watching your face. You know what HE is like Renie, and still you believe HIM over me."
Renie's hand rose before she knew what she was doing, and she slapped Claudia across the face. Claudia jumped up and grasped Renie by the wrists, so she couldn't strike out again. Both women looked shocked at what happened, and stood like statues staring into each others eyes for what seemed like an eternity.
Claudia sighed, and pulled Renie's rigid form into her arms and hugged her. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't get upset… the baby."
She pulled Renie down to sit beside her on the bed. "It doesn't matter now, I suppose. I hear they've got HIM in custody. It makes the whole thing seem so pointless now."
"Tell me," said Renie, her voice softer. "I won't interrupt. I won't judge you. I just need to know why."
Claudia grasped her friend's hand and squeezed. Then she began the story, from the beginning, and this time, left nothing out.
Dana called out to the oxen, urging them into the cold, muddy waters. Her voice seemed lost in the cacophony of noises swirling around the wagon train. The oxen, however, moved obediently if reluctantly forward.
Flexing her fingers on the large bundle of reins laced through her fingers, she savored the feel of the deer skin gloves PL had presented her yesterday as a birthday gift. She flushed with pleasure remembering the wonderful day he had orchestrated for her. Amidst the preparations for the river crossing he had created an oasis of relaxed celebration in her honor. It had been such a wonderful gathering. Everyone had been ripe for a party and this had provided the perfect opportunity.
Attention was quickly called back to the job at hand as the oxen surged forward into chest deep water. The might Snake lay before her. It seemed a huge abyss between her present position and the far bank. The famous three islands seemed small and insignificant from her present perspective, covered as they were by wagons and animals. PL had assured her she was up to this task, her driving skills had become very good in the months that had passed. Here was the final exam….
"Days the Twelfth to the Twenty-fourth of my Exile in the month of November – In which I attempt the impossible in pursuit of my goals and finally make a longer commitment."
I wouldn't go through the last two weeks again if you gave me England.
Up every morning in a cold dull dawn to train a group of large, sullen youths who don't understand why they have been taken from the warm family hearth and forced to drill for hours wearing uncomfortable, unfamiliar clothing and wielding large, heavy weapons is bad enough. Getting the reasons behind the training into their thick heads is the truly hard part.
On the first day, I lined them up in a row and showed them how to hold a sword and swing it in an arc to get some momentum behind it for a slashing blow. They watched me carefully, looked at each other and scratched their heads. Then one of them stepped forward. "Why, sir, beggin' yer pardon?"
I took a deep breath, counted to ten and explained the whole thing once more. Again they looked at each other and again the mouthy one stepped forward. "Why sir, a good stout club would do as much damage and yer wouldn't need no special lessons for it neither." A murmur of general agreement rose from his comrades.
Had Mauger not been watching us from the doorway, I would have given a personal demonstration of sword play that would have ended my young critic's career immediately. But I was forced to grit my teeth and carry on as best I could. As I did everyday for twelve days without any sign of progress on their part.
I could have tolerated this nonsense more easily if I had been able to get my hands on that money chest. Unfortunately I have had no better luck there. The chest is kept in Mauger's room; a well-known fact to the entire household. But Mauger rarely leaves his room except for meals or to watch the training, where I have to be present as well. Years of soldiering means that he is a light sleeper who keeps his sword beside the bed within easy reach, so creeping into his room at night is not an option. Frankly, I was stymied.
Then this morning Mauger and I had a talk.
"Training's not going so well. Not your fault though." He frowned into his ale. "They're just not cut out to be soldiers."
"To say the least." I tore a piece of crust off my bread.
"Means that I've had to revise some plans. But I've got to ask you first." He threw his empty tankard at the hovering Nerman, then looked at me. "You don't have anyplace you have to be, do you?"
I chewed my crust slowly. The idea of spending more time "training" a bunch of rustics was not attractive; on the other hand, the contents of that money chest haunted my dreams.
"How would you like a job until next summer? Give you twenty gold pieces a month to be chief of security for me at a hunting lodge on the far northern end of my property. Got a special reason for sending you there." He accepted another ale from Nerman and watched me closely over the rim of his cup.
"What kind of 'special reason'?" I asked cautiously.
He hemmed and hawed but I finally got the story out of him. Apparently the generosity of old King Henry had not exactly consisted of a landed estate; rather, the estate belonged to a widow who was the real reward. She had not long survived her second wedding and her daughter by her first husband had been sent to a convent where she was raised to be a young lady among other girls from noble families. She might have stayed there forever as far as he was concerned but fortune in the person of King Richard intervened in connection with the return of Robin of Locksley to Nottinghamshire.
I admit I might have missed part of the story at that point. Locksley's name sent my blood to the boiling point and it was some time before I was calm enough to listen again.
"Locksley's got a brother – base born, true – but the king's so grateful for his help over that sheriff nonsense that he's agreed to accept this here Will Scarlet into the royal service. And the king's going to give the brother an estate of his own and a noble wife – my stepdaughter Melisant. Wedding's next summer. Got the letter right here if you want to read it."
I managed to decline the offer with a minimum of loathing.
Mauger went on at great length about the honour the king was doing him by his personal insistence on Melisant as Will Scarlet's bride but I doubted it. The real advantage of the match was Mauger's as it would enable him to keep his wife's estate instead of passing it on to his stepdaughter's new husband. Family feeling, indeed.
His plan had been to bring the girl back to the manor and arrange for her to spend six months learning court ways with a friend of his late wife's. She was another widow who currently resided in another convent north of Barnesdale. Lady Ysabella would groom Melisant to be a great court lady and then return to her convent. Melisant and Will Scarlet would depart for Winchester with the King. Mauger would stay on his late wife's estate and throw things at servants as much as he liked for the rest of his life. A fairy tale ending for everyone.
"But this sheriff business now – that's put an end to that idea. We're too open here, too close to the main roads. That sheriff gets himself some army and we got no way of fighting him off. Got to come up with a more secure place. And then I remembered this hunting lodge way north of here, just at the end of the property. You take Melisant and this old nun up there and keep them safe. Hire some mercenaries to help you guard them. I'll give you the money; the king's promised to reimburse me for any expenses for the wedding. Next summer you bring them back here and your job's over. What do you say?"
I chewed some more bread and considered. It would be a wrench to leave the money chest behind unmolested but there might be compensations. If I could extract a pouch of money from Mauger to hire troops to combat a threat that no one better than I knew to be non-existent, then I could hold onto it after the six months was over. The stepdaughter and the nun would know nothing about the arrangement and I could be long gone by the time the wedding took place.
I examined the scheme from all angles and couldn't find a fault. It would give me two things that I needed badly: time and money.
"Very well." I said finally. "I agree."
"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."
Stiff, white knuckled; leather rein bound so tightly the small hand hardly registered as a separate entity perched on the pommel. In truth, for all the feeling left in the extremity, Claire's fingers had not been attached for the past hour, but for the constant urging the horse through the Snake River, her legs would have followed the same path.
Fearful memories, of grasping currents at the journies onset, were as responsible as the freezing waters for the paralysis. Where was Sinclair?
One more Island to go.Through chattering teeth she forced a smile at PL's cheery greeting. Tirelessly he drove another herd of cattle through the well-trodden mire into the deceptively placid waters for the final crossing to the north bank. She suspected some sort of homing instinct for the lush grass on the banks ahead, as the river frothed with bobbing heads and plaintive groans of the ruminants.
Wrinkling her nose, she could still smell last night's noxious odours of sealant laborously plastered over the wagon bodies as they rolled slowly past, waiting patiently for the signal to drive the final flood at Three Island Crossing. Twisting in the saddle she scanned for the familiar angular frame.
It seemed hours since she had seen Sinclair, notes in hand, briefing the Wagon Train. He seemed to have covered most angles of this treacherous day, allowing for a pool of the strongest to wait at the edge of each crossing to force recalcitrant wagons over the pitted banks. But where was he now?
Whispered promises, You will not have to cross alone, she had taken to mean his presence not that of twenty five head of cattle.
Grace was taken aback. "Just like that, we're riding? Don't we have to ask someone?"
Hart, sharply, "No."
"Oh."
He decided to explain. "I'm not in the habit of asking anyone if I can ride my own horse. Coba belongs to me. I keep him stabled in the main barn at Alisal, and he's brought down here whenever I visit. The horses in the paddock are always available for guests. Any more questions?" His tone was as harsh as his bark at Henry.
Grace, chastened, shrunk a little away from his side, and looked mutely down at the path. Then she caught herself, telling herself she was being ridiculous for feeling intimidated by the man she loved in this beautiful place. As he held the door to their ranch house open for her, she brushed her hands against her jeans and looked down at her white Superga sneakers. "Is it ok to ride in these? I had no idea horses were involved."
A corner of Hart's mouth turned down at the side. "People do. But you have no need." He gestured to the closet in the larger of the two bedrooms. Two pairs of black leather cowboy boots stood in readiness. The larger pair was well worn. The smaller pair was shiny and new. She picked up one of the new boots, feeling the weight of it in her hands, admiring the workmanship. She slid off a sneaker and pulled on the boot. It fit perfectly. She looked up at Hart questioningly.
"I had those made up for you at Nudie's, darlin'," he said, naming a famous western outfitter in North Hollywood, and essaying -- very badly -- a cowboy twang. "They're not used to making boots from Gucci loafers, but your shoe wardrobe. . . " He shrugged his shoulders in mute resignation at her never-requited passion for Italian shoes.
She looked back at him darkly as she realized what had happened to the peach suede loafers she had missed from her closet at Hart's. With the best of intentions, perhaps, but kidnapping her shoes to make boots. . . what else was the man capable of? Hooray, Hart and Grace have returned! Back at the Alisal Ranch, where Hart and Grace have just arrived:
They stood at the paddock railing, watching the ranch saddle horses who had crowded around looking for a treat. A look like a long conversation passed between Hart and the chestnut mare who had attracted his attention. The mare blinked first, tossing her head and shaking her dark mane.
"I imagine she's a good teacher," Hart said, still looking at the mare, and referring to Grace's protests that she hadn't ridden in years.
Grace looked around, wondering if Hart had spotted a riding instructor, or a wrangler, or anyone at all. But there was no one else in sight. She was starting to wonder why there were no other ranch guests out and about in the beautiful afternoon sunshine. The place seemed deserted. "Who?" she asked.
"This horse," he replied, reaching out to stroke the chestnut. Her halter had a small brass plate engraved with her name and the Alisal logo. Diana. Hart chuckled. "The goddess of the hunt. How appropriate for you."
What does he mean by that? Grace wondered to herself. "And what about you, Lukas? Have you made your choice yet?"
Hart calmly looked around at the other horses. Some had lost interest in the humans and drifted away to the other side of the paddock. "No, my horse isn't here."
"How do you know? Perhaps you shoud go and get another carrot," she teased.
"That's not what I meant. Perhaps he's still in the barn." Hart let his hand slide down her arm and twined his fingers around hers, pulling her off the fence as he started for the barn. Inside, a weedy dark-haired boy was arranging tack on a peg outside a stall at the far end of the barn. At last, another person, thought Grace. The boy caught sight of Hart and scuttled up to them, panting and talking fast.
"Mr. Hart, we've just arrived from the main barn. Sorry to be late, but. . . "
"No buts, Henry, how is the horse?"
"Tip top, sir, absolutely tip top. He's . . . "
Hart interrupted again, pushing past Henry to look into the stall. A tall grey stallion with darker grey mane and tail stood tautly against the back wall of the stall, eyeing Henry balefully. As he caught sight of Hart, the horse visibly relaxed and took a step forward to nudge him hard in the chest.
"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Hart asked the horse in an injured tone. The horse stamped, then settled as Hart ran practiced hands down the horse's forelegs, critically looking over the grey. Satisfied, he barked an order to Henry without looking at him. "Saddle Coba, and that chestnut mare, Diana. We're off in a half hour." Hart turned on his heel and swept an arm around Grace as he headed back toward the paddock.
"Day the Eleventh of my Exile – In which I receive an insulting offer that I contrive to turn to my own advantage."
I met with Mauger this morning after I broke the fast with some bread and ale.
I had been up for some time already, not voluntarily. The private bedroom I had been assigned turned out to be less than impressive. I spent the night on a mattress stuffed with cornhusks that crackled with the smallest movement under a wool cloth that was rougher than my horse's saddlecloth. The mattress lay directly on the floor with no protection from the breeze blowing in under the door. Throughout the night I heard rustling amongst the rushes and could only assume that Mauger's tolerance for animals in his manor extended to mice in all the rooms.
It was a far cry from the large nine-foot square bed that was mine back home in Nottingham. There I had slept on a goose-down mattress that resembled an earthbound cloud with eight pillows piled against the carved headboard. It was covered with silk sheets and sumptuous covers in jewel-like colours. In the corner a brazier burned all through the night for extra warmth. Elaborate tapestries hung on the four walls with exotic stories elaborately and cunningly wrought in fine thread. Thick rugs suppressed the chill of the stone floor. A flagon of good Rhenish wine and a goblet was always kept on a small table close at hand in case I was thirsty in the night. A book of Marie de France's sensuous love poetry was available if I felt like reading by the light of delicately perfumed candles that released their scent as they burned.
The contrast was almost unbearable. For the first time in eleven days I felt, not just angry at my exile, but truly homesick.
To avoid brooding on this feeling and having nothing else to do, I went to check on my horse. Any hope that I could leave without seeing my host ended; the animal was in no condition to carry me for any great distance and there was no other mount of similar quality in Mauger's stables worth stealing.
And in plain truth, I had no very clear idea of where I was going. Time to formulate a plan of action beyond mere flight was what I needed.
It was in no very good humour, therefore, that I returned to the great hall to wait for my interview with Mauger. The servants, all of whom looked as if they were old enough to have come over with William the Conqueror, kept out of my way. I was turning over possible lines of persuasion and argument in my mind when the steady tapping of wood on stone signalled the appearance of my host.
"So you're still here! Good, good." He limped to his chair and settled himself with a sigh. Nerman rushed to his side with a tankard of ale that the old man drained in one deep draught. He handed the empty vessel to the servant and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He belched, thumped his chest lightly with his fist and then turned his attention to me. "Got something to tell you. Might find it interesting in your situation."
I smiled ingratiatingly. An invitation to stay for a week or ten days was what I wanted.
"Don't know if you passed through Winchester or London on your way north. May not have heard the news. There's been a rebellion lately. Quite close by." He paused to accept another tankard from Nerman. "Ever heard of the sheriff of Nottingham?"
My breath congealed in my chest. I opened my mouth but no sound came out. Fortunately Mauger took my silence as an answer.
"No, didn't think so. Been away too long, I guess. Well, the sheriff over in the next shire got a little above himself and made a grab for the throne. Robin of Locksley stopped him and now he's on the run. Got a letter from Locksley telling me to look out for him." Mauger reached into his sleeve and pulled out a piece of parchment. "That's what the messenger said, anyways. Never learned to read myself; waste of time. And none of the servants here can either. Can you read it for me?"
I reached out and took the letter from him. It seemed to take hours for my hand to touch it. I broke the seal and unrolled it slowly, scanning the words along the way. Summoning up all my control, I began to read out loud:
"From Baron Robin of Locksley to Sir Mauger of Barnesdale in Yorkshire, greetings. Know that there have been unholy and treasonous activities in Nottingham recently. The sheriff of this shire has most duplicitously and murderously violated his oath of allegiance to our king Richard of great and glorious renown. I have successfully put down his presumptuous effort with the aid of local and loyal supporters but was not able to apprehend the villain and he has fled in a direction unknown. Be advised that you should be on the lookout for him. His description is as follows."
A fair account, I had to concede, if a trifle wordy and pompous. But that was Locksley all over. The gods alone know what the Lady Marion sees in him.
"Vile doings, indeed." Mauger frowned in concentration. "And what does the knave look like, so we may know him?"
I looked at the message again and took a deep breath. "The sheriff is short, fat, blonde and blue-eyed and has a small snub nose. He speaks with a high-pitched voice. He wears no other colour but blue at all times and is allergic to horses. He is a poor swordsman."
"A most distinctive person, then." Mauger nodded and sat back in his chair. "Well, we will know him if he shows his face in these parts. And that brings me to what I want to talk to you about."
I rolled the message up tightly and refastened the seal as best I could. As soon as possible I would find an opportunity to drop it in the fire. I forced myself to concentrate of what my host was saying.
"Nerman! Fetch me the box!" He bellowed the order over his shoulder. Nerman scurried out of the hall and returned in seconds with a large rectangular chest that seemed to be quite heavy. He staggered over and heaved it onto the table with a groan. Mauger waved him away and began to fiddle with the clasp. "I got that yesterday. Obliged to you for reading it."
"I am honoured to be of service to you." I smiled and slid the message into my own sleeve out of sight.
Mauger seemed to be having some trouble opening the box. "We're pretty isolated up here so we don't get too much company. But this sheriff worries me because I don't have the men to protect this place if he shows up. And I'm no damn good for anything anymore." He slapped his lame thigh in disgust. "But there are a bunch of fine lads from the farms around here who are young and strong and could be a good defence force if someone could only them which end of a sword they're supposed to hold. And that's where you come in. I'll pay you five gold pieces to stay here for a couple of weeks and train those boys the right way. How about it, eh?"
I stared at him in shock. Me, the son and descendant of warriors reaching back hundreds of years, to train a bunch of clubfooted dirt-encrusted yokels in the fine art of sword fighting? Me, a lord with the power of life and death over thousands in my own shire to hire myself to this washed up, illiterate peasant? I couldn't believe it.
"I wasn't sure last night but that you might not be that sheriff fellow but you knew too much about the Holy Land for that. And of course now that we know what he really looks like, it's obvious you ain't him." He was focusing his attention on the clasp again and wasn't looking at me. "So what do you say? Don't have anywhere pressing to go, do you?"
I rose slowly to my feet and stared down at him from my superior height. A red mist of rage was rising in front of my eyes and I put my hand on the hilt of my sword, ready to answer the question in the only manner befitting a warrior. At that moment, Mauger succeeded in releasing the catch and the lid of the chest sprang open.
The entire chest was filled with gold coins. They glowed in the light thrown by the fire at the end of the hall and by the dim sunlight coming through the windows.
He sat back with a satisfied "Ahh!" He beamed at the contents for a moment, then looked up at me. "Well, what's your answer?"
I bowed low and put my hand on my breast. "Sir Mauger, I am delighted to accept your offer. You may safely leave the security of this manor to me. Your wealth will be safe in my hands." For the first time since I left Nottingham so many days ago my smile was completely sincere. "I guarantee it."
Delaford. The Brandons' chambers: "Tell me that I did not do that." "You did not do that," Mary Anne promptly replies. The very promptness of her reply draws a suspicious look from Brandon. "You are quite certain?" Mary Anne arches an eyebrow at him. "Christopher, have I been in the habit of lying to you?" Her voice is cool, but Brandon can feel the sting of the hurt beneath it and sits up immediately, gathering his robe about him and reaching out to take Mary Anne by the shoulders and draw her nearer to him. "No," he says, and the word itself is an apology. "My dearest, you have not. It is only that I am so bewildered about all that has happened--" "And--" Mary Anne is unable to resist giving him a tiny dig in return. "--you still have not answered my question!" "Oh? Had you asked me a question?" "Ooooo, you--" Brandon captures the slim hands that are clenching into fists and quickly raises them to his lips, smiling a little as Mary Anne smoulders. "And you needn't think, sir, that you're going to be able to . . . get around me . . ." A sigh, as Brandon kisses each of her fingers in turn. " . . . that way . . ." Finally, Brandon folds her hands together, clasping them in his own. "No," he says softly. "If memory serves me correctly, and I pray it does, I did not . . . do what you are thinking . . . with Miss Claudia." A pause. "I do remember what passed between us, Mary Anne--" Brandon lowers his head, but Mary Anne can see the burning redness along his cheekbones. "--and later, when I awakened, it was worse than ever. As if the very blood in my veins was burning me alive. She came in here, from your room, and I thought it was you." Brandon raises his head. "I was only just able to realize . . . in time . . . that it was not . . ." Gazing at Brandon, Mary Anne feels that she is more frightened by his iron self-control than by any of his actions during that drug-induced madness of desire; she knows him well, knows what it must cost him to tell her such things, and that he is capable of relating the events at all, with only an occasional tremor in his voice, speaks volumes of his determination and strength. His threat to Claudia--one thing that he cannot describe with any steadiness of voice--Mary Anne is inclined to dismiss as ravings brought on by the drug. Of all men in the world, Brandon is virtually incapable of threatening a woman with violence, so long as he is in his right mind. Surely he could not have meant it, and that is the reason for his distress at having to recount it to her now. And yet . . . "And the next thing I remember, my dearest, is awakening with you here beside me again. How did you come to be absent, while Claudia was here?" Brandon still has not released his grasp upon her, as if to reassure himself that she is indeed there with him. But Mary Anne gently frees herself and stacks scattered pillows against the headboard, then pats the bed beside her to invite Brandon to join her there, which he does, tucking the bedclothes about them for warmth as she sighs, "Make yourself comfortable. It's a long story . . ." "Day the Tenth of my Exile.
In which I am successful in finding food and shelter from a northern lord in Yorkshire."
His name is Mauger and he is a knight who served with old King Henry during his wars in France twenty years ago. A reckless display of personal valour that saved the king's life but shattered his leg rendered him unfit for further service. His reward from a grateful monarch was this manor and the land surrounding it.
He condescended to tell me all this information while I ate. He also told me that he was not in the habit of feeding beggars, that my hair was too long, that my clothes were unkempt, that men my age knew nothing about real fighting and that I should be grateful for the charity that he was bestowing upon me.
Any impulse I had to respond in kind was checked by the sound of the wind screaming in vexation as it clawed at the shutters. I simply bowed my head in meek acceptance. He gestured to the servant to refill my bowl and returned to his meal with a satisfied grunt.
While I was waiting, I had a chance to look around. It is a traditional square hall with windows set close to the roof. Ornate candlesticks the height of a man are the only source of light apart from the great fire and barely illuminate the benches lining the walls. Some servants had already retired for the night and I could perceive the outlines of their bodies huddled under blankets. Near the hearth half a dozen hounds dozed or hunted for scraps of meat in the rushes that covered the floor.
The furniture is solid but like Mauger's robe it shows the effects of age and hard use. Obviously my host's wife is a most indifferent housekeeper.
"Nerman! Get over here! My bowl is empty." Mauger rendered this last comment unnecessary by heaving the item across the room. Nerman scurried to the pot and back to the table with another serving. Mauger waved him away then turned to me. "Now tell me about your fighting. Whose banner were you with? What action did you see?"
Well, of course he had me there. I never pay too much attention to accounts of the Crusades. A bunch of fools with more brawn than brain risking seasickness, scurvy and sand to steal from strangers when they could stay home and rob their neighbours instead. An absolute waste of resources, in my opinion.
So I improvised. Considerably. I told him about the invasion of Cyprus and how King Richard outshone all other rulers in battle and chivalry. Mauger smiled in a pleased manner at this so I dipped my ladle in again. I described desperate skirmishes at Acre, ferocious hand to hand fighting in the streets of Jerusalem and the ultimately successful retaking of the Holy Land. I gave myself a modest role in the fighting and ended with a vow that watching our king ride into Jerusalem was the proudest moment of my life.
I swear Mauger had a tear in his eye when I finished. I took refuge in drinking my ale while I racked my brain for other possible feats of mindless daring.
"Ah, you young bucks have all the glory. And you know nothing about war. Now in my day – " For a long moment he stared into space, his spoon held in mid-air, then shook his head. "But never mind that. So I expect you want me to put you up for the night?"
I did my best to convey the impression that I thought it was a sound idea.
Mauger nodded. "Very well, you can stay tonight." He reached down and lifted a crutch that had been lying on the floor beside his chair. Lurching to his feet, he swayed for a moment before securing it under his arm. He set off for the stairs leading to the tower rooms with a speed that surprised me. At the bottom of the stairs, he turned for a final word. "Nerman will take you to a private bedroom. No need to sleep in the hall. I may want to talk to you tomorrow morning so don't leave at first light."
Fat chance of that, I thought. He waited for an answer so I bowed respectfully. He nodded with satisfaction, then climbed the stairs. I reached under the bench for my bags and followed the silent Nerman to my assigned room.
"Of the events of this evening, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."
Dev's Guest Quarters
"Please, talk to me, Therese. . ." Dev's voice was barely audible as he held her, crooning softly into her ear. She turned to him once again, her expression this time not impassive, but wide eyed and telling. He read within those large, dark eyes the uncertainty, pain, and fear that she felt, and which he could not ease.
This thought tormented him, the knowledge that he could not make everything right for Therese once agin. He, a man of action who could mobilize troops, infiltrate the most secure government organizations, and lead his people, a man who isolated a problem, and attacked it, sat there on the floor, feeling utterly helpless.
"I don't know, Eamon, I don't know if I can." She pulled away from his embrace, and struggled to rise. He helped her, strong arms holding and steadying her on either side as he rose as well. She turned to face him, pulling the soft silken fabric of his robe more closely about her thin frame, and laid her palm upon his chest. "I don't want to hurt you, Eamon, you know that I love you, but I need some time to think, to face all of this."
He would have spoken then, to protest her silence, declare his love and devotion, or to comfort her in some other way, but she placed her hand over his lips, silencing him. "I know you want to help, and I will need you, I always need you, but just not yet. But there is one thing you can do, Eamon," she looked up to him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.
"Anything, Therese, you must know that."
She stepped closer to his body, snuggling into the warmth of his embrace, and felt his arms encircle her, holding her carefully to him. "I need you to hold me, Eamon, and I want you to make love to me."
He pulled away from her slightly, enough so that he could look down into her face, yet she still remained within his arms, confusion plainly on his features. He was a passionate man, he loved Therese with his entire being, and desired her as he had no other, but her request had caught him off guard. He had thought of this moment, the time when they would resume their physical relationship, but had not imagined it would happen so quickly. There were important concerns, he had assumed that she would need time to adjust to whatever it was she had suffered, and sort through those things in relation to him.
Therese sensed his hesitation, and mistook it, and where Dev felt only concern, she read his expression as doubt. She brought the fingers of her left hand to her neck and face, touching upon the bruises there self-consciously. "I-it's okay, we don't have to," she stammered, the colour rising to her face. She felt her shoulders sag, her gaze dropping to the floor. "I must look a sight," she added weakly. Or is it that you think I might have been possessed by HIM, and that is what you cannot take? Please God, don't let it be that. . .
Dev placed his finger along her jawbone, tracing it lightly until he reached her chin, then lifted her eyes to meet his. "Vanity, Therese? When I thought I would die myself if I had to live without seeing you again? How can you think that of me? Or for that matter of yourself? You are the most beautiful creature I've ever set eyes upon, and to me, you always will be. There is never a time when I don't wish to touch you, and hold you, and make love to you. But I don't want it to be too soon. You're just back, you're hurt and frightened--you've had no time to recover. Are you sure this is what you want? I don't wish for you to believe you have to do this to please me, we've the rest of our lives to love one another." He clasped her face gently between both of his hands, and kissed her softly.
Therese felt the tears which had welled in her eyes begin to spill over as she felt the love and admiration she had for this man swell within her. Eamon, her Eamon. Her lover, her best friend, the one who considered her before himself always. "Love me," she whispered through her tears.
He lifted her into his arms, and carried her to the bed, raining petal soft kisses upon her face and neck. Each touch he used was more gentle than the last, as he attempted to soothe her physically in ways she had not permitted verbally. There was a poignancy to his tenderness, for it was an acknowledgement as well.
Much later they lay entwined in one another's arms, when Therese finally began to speak. "I will tell you about what happened to me, Eamon, when I can face it myself. Until then, I need to tell you one thing that HE said."
Dev looked over to her, his arm curled around her shoulders protectively. "You don't have to tell me if you do not wish."
Therese nodded. "I know, but this was the one thing HE told me that was true. HE varied HIS torment. At times HE focused on physical pain, other times on mental or emotional. HE frequently like to tell me that you could not save me, and it angered HIM to no end when I would repeat, over and over, that you would come for me. Then, just hours before you rescued me, HE knew that HE had been found, and HE came into the room where I had been kept. HE was in a rage. I was far more frightened of HIM then, because of all the heinous things HE had done, HE was clear headed and in control for each. This time, HE was livid. HE brought the bomb vest with HIM, and pulled me from my chair, forcing me to strap it on. 'You truly love one another, and so you might have been truly happy--not one couple in a century has that chance no matter what the storybooks say. So no man in a century will suffer as greatly as you will (homage) or as your Eamon will, when he finds you, only in time to watch as you are blown to bits.'"
Correction made. make that ". . . the force in ME . . ." Nice of the Dr to offer his services! After all, didn't he say To Her Majesty Suzanne, Empress by the Grace of God, Realm of Rickmania, greetings-- I am at your service and shall gladly render any assistance within my power, but I fear that this epidemic may be beyond even my abilities, especially since the...sufferers?...apparently have no desire to be cured of their afflictions. If, however, you feel that I can be of use to you at this time, I remain, etc. Your obedient servant, Claudia, wearing some clothes she'd found in the Tardis wardrobe room, sat on a bed staring blankly at the wall. The Doctor and Ed had taken her into the Tardis, and told her to get some rest. There was so much she needed to say to Ed, but when he had left her in this room, he had just frowned at her, a hurt, worried and uncomprehending expression on his face. He'd said nothing, and when he left, the door had locked behind him.
She supposed it would only be a matter of time now, before she was turned over to the authorities. The Doctor and Ed were her friends, but she also knew they would do what was right, not what she wanted.
How she wished for the carefree days when she and Ed were truly just friends. The celebration on Egdon heath. Ed, in his flasher mac, grinning as he spread his arms wide, opening his coat and revealing a crushed bunch of flowers tucked in the top of his trousers. She grinned at the memory. He was always so much fun. She hated herself for changing his happy go lucky expression to the one she had most recently seen on his face.
The door clanked and swooshed open and Claudia's grin at her memory dropped suddenly from her face. Renie stood in the door way, a stern expression on her face. Surely, she couldn't know anything. But the way those dark eyes boor into her, Claudia was sure that Renie knew everything.
So, she was to be tried and convicted by her friends, before she ever saw a court of law. This would be much harder to bear. Claudia suddenly envisaged a queue of people outside the now resealed door, each holding a list of accusations against her.
"A warning," said Renie, without a greeting. "Don't lie to me, I'll know it if you do."
Claudia shivered. She knew that tone of voice. Renie sounded very like her ex-husband, and standing over Claudia's seated form, was every bit as imposing.
Maybe everyone has fainted from the, um... epidemic. The Empress has not only accepted your petition, but has seen fit to call out the Imperial Red Cross, as well. Perhaps the Surgeon General should have heeded those Medical officials.
The Brandons' chambers: Mary Anne remains poised above Brandon, her hand raised as if wielding an invisible knife. "Well?" she demands. Brandon--no fool, he--spreads his arms a little and lets his head fall back, as if leaving himself open to that air-drawn dagger (homage). And he somehow manages to keep from smiling, though the circumstances that surround him and his wife, troubling as they are, all seem to be conspiring together to make him smile, make him laugh. How strange it is! He had dreaded that Mary Anne would be terrified of him, or at least reproachful, but she is neither of these and that in itself is an immense relief to him, whatever else he may have to face. Once again, Brandon makes an effort to clearly recall the previous night . . . and has some success in remembering the encounter with Mary Anne, but after that . . . had he, with Claudia . . . ? He cannot remember. He is almost certain that he did not--had sent her packing, if his memory is correct--but he cannot be completely sure. Mary Anne must know this as well as he does, but who could have predicted this response? This playfulness, born of her joy that he is recovering from the drug . . . it is beyond his hopes. Beyond anything he could have rightly expected. For a moment, Brandon is torn between answering Mary Anne's "Well?" with a firm and comforting, "No, absolutely not"--or telling her the truth. The ethical instinct is strong in him. But so is the strategic one, and there is something he must know. "My dearest, will you not at least permit the condemned man a last request?" Mary Anne is suddenly having some trouble maintaining her threatening pose. Request? Whatever he requests of her in that VOICE . . . She swallows and leans closer, trying to give the effect of looming over the man who lies there before her. "I'll consider it," she finally allows. A tiny smile. "And this request is . . . ?" But her smile vanishes when she sees Brandon glance toward the door of her private room . . . the door that hangs crookedly from one etched copper hinge. Brandon's gaze returns to her, his eyes imploring. "Tell me," he says quietly, "that I did not do that . . . " We interrupt this program to bring you a report from the BBC World Service, by our correspondent Emma Great start, Magda. I wonder just how long he's going to be able to hold his tongue! "Day the Tenth of my Exile.
Let it be known to all who read this Journal that I, George, past and future Lord Nottingham and Lord High Sheriff of the Shire, do hereby declare my determination to regain the worldly position to which I was born as well as to deal harshly and punitively with those who have proved themselves to be my enemies. I swear this on the hilt of the sword with which I shall fulfil this vow."
There! Even that weaselly little scribe couldn't have done better. And my penmanship is quite good, if I do say so myself.
I've had to learn to do many things in the ten days since I left Nottingham, chased out of my own town by an upstart named Robin of Locksley. And they've been very hard days too.
Getting out of town was easy enough. Late that night after the huge tumult had died down, I stole a horse (from my own stables!) and crept out of the gate. In order to travel as light as possible I packed only the barest necessities. But I was planning ahead as well and made sure I included a strong suit of chain mail and two swords.
Under cover of total darkness I struck north-east in an effort to skirt Sherwood Forest. There were open fields between the villages and manors for several miles after that. I stole across country like a fugitive, riding at night and hiding during the day in haylofts and sheds. Determined to conserve the coins I carried, I avoided the markets and ate what I could forage or steal. To say truth, I don't know how I survived.
For all that, I was doing pretty well until I ran into an early snow squall. The dawn promise of a clear day was betrayed by a solid grey cloud that straddled the horizon as far as the eye could see. By the time I pulled up in the midst of a thicket of firs at the crest of a hill, the sun was merely a small white dot hanging low in the sky. I looked down on an undulating landscape where shadows pooled in small lakes of darkness on the snow. Only the trees were constant, moaning as if in pain when the icy blasts tortured their branches.
I shifted in the saddle and tried to ignore my limbs which ached in those places that weren't numb with cold. My horse was blowing badly and its sides heaved with the effort to lift its hooves out of the drifts. We had not seen a trail or road for miles. As I scanned the terrain ahead of me, I was not confident. Not a light broke the gloom in any direction. I kicked my horse forward again.
I'd lost track but thought I must be at least sixty miles from Nottingham by now. The surrounding countryside was totally unfamiliar and was therefore probably Yorkshire. In all my years as sheriff and lord of my shire, I had travelled only south to London and Winchester, never north.
Eluding pursuit was no longer my goal. Food and shelter from the elements were the reasons I forced my exhausted mount along. Only the need to keep looking for signs of habitation kept me from walking to conserve the animal's strength.
Thickly clustered trees matted their limbs to create a canopy over the ground. I considered the site. If I tore down enough branches I could have a rough lean-to for the night. And if I survived the cold until the morning I could use the foliage to cover my frozen horse.
So depressing were my thoughts that I almost didn't see it. A particularly rough wind pushed open a gap in the trees and revealed a light in the valley below. It was only there for an instant but it was enough for me. I spurred my mount, ignoring the sharp snort of protest.
We plunged through the snow heedless of all obstacles. I kept my face turned toward the place, now closed in again by the trees, where the light had shone. We stumbled out of the brush at the edge of a meadow. My heart leapt in my chest at the sight in front of me.
It was either a small manor or a large farmhouse with four outbuildings inside a straggling palisade. I wracked my memory but could not recall the name of any lord who might have a holding this close to Nottinghamshire's northern border. Possibly a prosperous farmer. Not likely then to be anyone who would recognize me.
I rode through the gate. No one accosted me or asked my business. Only when I dismounted and looked around did signs of life appear.
"Who's there? Answer me!" An old man stood in the doorway of the largest hut, a two-pronged pitchfork held out in front of him.
I took refuge in my most passive demeanour. "I am a weary traveller. I seek the hospitality of your master on this evil night." I kept a respectful eye on my interrogator's weapon.
"Go on up to the house." The old man jabbed the air with his implement in the direction of the manor and limped closer. "If ye bring news of the court down Winchester way, Master might let you sleep someplace warm." He reached for my horse's bridle and pulled it after him toward one of the smaller buildings. I barely had time to pull my bags from the saddle before they disappeared in the swirling snow.
It was a full blizzard by now, with the wind cutting through my clothes like sharp knives. The door was large and solid and I had to pound with both fists to make any noise at all. For long minutes nothing happened and then it creaked open. Another man, even older than the first, stood on the threshold. He seemed to intuit my predicament without being told and stepped back, nodding his head in the direction I was to proceed.
Stepping into the hall was like entering another world. Warmth surrounded me immediately and washed over my body. I flexed my fingers and hissed through my teeth as sensation returned in a rush. Needles of pain pierced me everywhere.
As I gradually became accustomed to my environment, I had a chance to look around the hall. It was not large as the one in my castle but it was sizeable enough. The fireplace was set in the far wall and held a log the size of a small tree. Six large men could have stood shoulder to shoulder in the hearth with some room to spare. A strong scent of stew escaped from a pot on a chain hanging from the chimney. The sight and aroma pulled me like a magnet and I was halfway across the hall before I saw my host.
He was seated at the far end of a long table. A large man in middle age, around fifty I judged, with a large belly and sparse white hair crowning a red face. His robe was thick and fur-lined and was an unmistakable sign of wealth indicating to me that he was no farmer. But as I got closer I saw that the robe was threadbare in places and the fur was looking ratty.
"What do you want?" He pointed his spoon at me with contempt. It was a gesture I would have known how to deal with a bare two weeks earlier but I forced my irritation down; I could not afford to be thrown out before morning.
"I am a stranger in these parts on my way home." I thought a humble bow would go over well and threw it in. Then inspiration struck. "I am returning from the Crusades and got lost in the storm. I crave the indulgence of a night's repose and a hot meal."
He looked me over for several moments and I was hard pressed to keep my tongue behind my teeth. The aroma of stew was getting stronger every second. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, willing my hunger to stay subdued.
"Very well. A Crusader? Then you were with the king." He gestured to someone behind me. The old man scuttled across to the hearth with a bowl which he filled to the brim and brought back to me. I made my way to the bench along the table on legs that were suddenly shaky and began to eat. Everything else could wait until I was finished.
"Of the events of this day and the following events of the rest of the evening, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."
(interrupting, again) The Brandons' chambers: Mary Anne's eyes open. There is a moment of silence as looks sleepily at Brandon . . . and then, as full awareness returns, she sits bolt upright, staring at him. Wide-eyed. Brandon can see the movement of her throat as she swallows, and his heart contracts. This is not good, not good at all! Will I ever be able to win her trust again, after this? For love of her, he is willing to try. "Mary Anne." Hesitantly. He hardly dares look into her face. "I know that I have behaved like . . ." A barbarian? Brandon pushes that memory away. "Can you--?" And then, the world is turned upside down. Or so it seems to Brandon, who finds himself abruptly flattened. Yes, knocked backwards as Mary Anne throws herself into his arms. Hugging him. Hugging him hard. Brandon has often found that in his dealings with Mary Anne, he is prepared for anything--except what actually happens. This is certainly one of those occasions and, while realizing with some amusement that he has once more been taken by surprise, he makes no resistance whatsoever. Far from it. He has no serious objections to lying where he has fallen, flat on his back, with Mary Anne's arms around him as she hugs him. And when she sets her hands on either side of his face, holding his head firmly as she kisses him--once, twice, again and again--he finds it a rather agreeable development, the more so because he had expected her to be terrified of him. And well she might be, if even half of what I remember is true . . . Good Lord! Could she have been drugged as well? At this thought, Brandon manages to disentangle himself from Mary Anne and ask, breathlessly: "My dearest . . . why? What is all this?" Her fingertips travel across his face. Smoothing his hair. "Christopher . . . because you're all right, that's why. I was so scared . . ." She shakes her head. "If you knew everything that's happened . . ." Brandon waits, expecting her to tell him something of what has happened. All that he does not yet know. Instead, Mary Anne sits back on her heels, gazing down at him. "That was one reason," she continues. "And here's another. I had to hug you and kiss you now . . ." Her right hand curls into a fist, which she raises over him in mock-menace. " . . . because if anything happened between you and Claudia, I'm going to kill you!" Elliott and Sam (and entourage) are now available for other story assignments if anyone is interested. I have returned them to the shelf and relinquish all claim. It seemed to Sam Marston that a grey mist had enveloped the world. Objects seemed hazy to her eyes while people appeared and disappeared, their voices hazy and indistinct. Only her brother's hand felt real, solid and warm in her grasp as the two of them walked down the path to the street.
Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt walked beside them, occasionally nodding as Cal Torken remonstrated with him. "Your concern is most praiseworthy, Torken, but the lady and her brother are quite safe with me. I bear no grudge. By God, I can scarce believe it happened!" He shook his head sadly. "You think you know a man after so many years and he does something like this. Incredible."
The narrowness of the path kept Torken behind them as they walked. Sam found it hard to concentrate on his words and wondered vaguely what had happened to her fear and anger of only moments ago. It no longer seemed important what happened. Nothing mattered anymore.
"Now look here Major. There ain't no call for you to take Mrs. Marston to that army barracks and it surely ain't no place for a boy." It was not an original argument. Torken had used it in the front hall once his initial surprise had passed. It was not his only reasoning but he returned to it over and over, perhaps feeling that repetition would succeed where reason had not.
The major paid no more attention to it the fourth time than he had to the earlier entreaties. He waved a hand in sorrowful dismissal. "Mrs. Marston is certainly not going to be put in our jail. And nothing will happen to the boy. Now stop interfering, Torken. If you want to help, find the lady a good lawyer. She's going to need one."
Torken spluttered into argument again but Sam ignored him. They were steps away from the street now and over the small gate she could see at least half a dozen soldiers who had accompanied the major. They waited beside their horses, heads down in conversation, not looking at the group walking toward them. Their scarlet tunics looked like splashes of blood and she closed her eyes briefly in pain.
Niall's hand suddenly clutched hers with bruising strength. She opened her eyes and looked down at him. He was staring straight ahead, his breath coming in quick, rapid gasps. At the same moment Torken abruptly ceased arguing.
The major's hand touched her elbow. "Come along now, Mrs. Marston. We've got a horse for you but your brother will have to ride double with someone." He put his hand on the gate latch and gave her a sidelong glance; she was startled to see him wink.
The soldiers came forward to meet them. One of them reached for Sam's arm and pulled her firmly through the gate and over to the nearest horse. Still clinging to her hand Niall followed closely. There was the unmistakable sound of revolvers being released from their catches and then a voice she had thought never to hear again.
"All right Cal, it's over. Lift your arms over your head and Collins here will take your gun out of your belt. I don't pretend to understand your reasons but you'll have enough time to tell me – before they hang you."
The next moment she was being held tightly against a scarlet coat warm from the sun. She reached out and grasped an handful of fabric and embossed buttons to keep from sliding to the ground as her knees gave out. Through a sudden rush of tears she could make out Elliott Marston's face smiling down at her. "Some women just can't resist a man in a uniform. Now let's go back inside and get out of this heat. Ashley-Pitt has enough men to take care of Cal."
In a daze she allowed herself to be turned around and marched back to the house. Niall skipped beside her, running ahead and then returning to her side in excitement. Marston's arm encircled her waist, strong and firm, surely the only thing keeping her upright. She turned her head only once; to watch the major and his men heave Cal Torken into the saddle of the extra horse and begin their slow, relentless procession back to army headquarters.
"We are so proud of Elliott. He grows bigger and stronger every day and he is not at all afraid of anything. His father says it is good because he will need to be brave as we travel into the outback. The plans for the mission and the school are ready. We will leave in the next ten days. Praise the Lord."
Marston turned over the leaf of the small diary and read the words again. In the past six months he had read some part of the journal every day. He could recite entire pages of it from memory. And to think he had been unaware of its existence for most of his life. A shadow fell across the desk and he looked up.
Sam smiled down at him. "Tea's ready."
He stood up and took the tray out of her hands. "How many times must I tell you to call me first? In your condition," He kicked a stool out of the way and set the tea things on the low table. "You should not lift heavy objects."
"If you have your way, I'll be too weak to lift the baby when he arrives." But she smiled as she sat down and reached for her cup.
He dropped into the armchair and stretched his legs. He could not believe how happy he was. They had returned to the ranch determined to forget that horrible day and had succeeded admirably. Niall threw himself into learning about sheep and soon knew his way around Marston Ranch as well as his brothers, despite their head start of several weeks. The three of them were now fully determined to become sheepmen and never set foot in town ever again. Marston was proud of their interest and enthusiasm.
And Sam's recent announcement had put the final seal on their happiness.
"There was a letter from Molly in the last package." Between sips of the steaming beverage, Sam related the news. "She's happy at her sister's house, being a 'second grandmother' to all the little ones. I'm glad she's content now. It was so hard on her."
"We can put it behind us now." He didn't tell her about the letter he'd received in the same package from town, the one from Melvin Collins describing how Cal Torken was hung in the prison grounds for murder and attempted murder. It was finally over for all of them.
"I'd like to invite her to visit after the baby's arrived. She can give me advice. It's been a lot of years since I helped with babies." She patted her stomach protectively.
"That is an excellent idea. I don't want you to exhaust yourself." He set down his cup and lifted his feet to the table edge, folding his arms behind his head with a contented sigh. "It's so good to be home where it's nice and quiet."
"Yes, dear. But don't relax just yet. Wait until dinner's over." Sam smiled mysteriously.
"Dinner? What's wrong with dinner? You're not doing the cooking are you?" He sat up with a jerk. "I don't want you in that overheated cookhouse any more."
"No, I'm not. But no one could remember whose turn it was and so when she offered to do it herself I couldn't really object."
"No! Please tell me it isn't…" He closed his eyes in pain.
Even as he spoke, the front door crashed open and heavy footsteps pounded into the room. "Mister Marston! You got to come quick! It's Lushy and she's decided to make a special dinner for tonight."
Marston looked up with dread. "How special?"
"Well, she told Jake she needed the key to the storeroom for some brandy to make a special sauce and he gave it to her without thinking like and now there's all this smoke and we think you'd better come." Mick leaned against the door and sucked in a lungful of air.
Sam laughed and sat down on the arm of her husband's chair. "Like you said, darling, it's good to be home where it's nice and quiet." She laughed at his groan and kissed him tenderly on the nose.
Dev's Guest Quarters
Dev stood silently for long moments, observing Therese and not having the slightest idea what to do. His first impulse was to pick her up and carry her away from here, far away from everything, and all that she'd been through. . .but this was not something from which one could run.
He quelled the stirring rage within him, and would have gladly sold his soul for the chance to get his hands upon The Interrogator, with no one there to prevent him from making the man pay for witnessing the sight of Therese trembling upon the floor in front of him. And God forbid if that Claudia woman should cross his path anytime soon. He had known that somehow she was involved, had suspected it from the moment she reappeared. He'd not harm her, no, but by God he wouldn't mind shaking her fool head until she, too, was doing a bit of quaking of her own.
Dev refilled the water glass, and carried it with him as he crossed the room to sit on the floor next to Therese. Taking her into his lap, he cradled her in his arms as one would a child. The room was silent save the sound of Therese's ragged breathing.
Therese turned away from him, hiding her face between her hands, and Dev felt quite certain that someone had taken a knife and twisted it firmly within his gut. He didn't know how to comfort her, didn't know how to reach her, and was terrified of inadvetantly doing or saying anything which might worsen matters. "Please, Therese, please, whatever you do, don't turn away from me. I love you, and I know you're hurting," his breath caught in his throat for a moment, and she lowered her hands, and turned to regard him, her face impassive. He continued, his voice almost pleading, "Just don't turn away."
"I don't mean to, Eamon," she began softly, her voice emotionless. "But I don't know what I want, or need, from you or anyone else. I just don't want to feel like this anymore, I don't think I can bear it much longer." She took the glass from his hand, and sipped from it slowly, before handing it back to him.
"Talk to me, Therese. Tell me what happened."
The Brandons' chambers: Brandon's eyes, filled with remorseful tenderness, linger over the marks around Mary Anne's wrist . . . How could I have done this to her? But even as Brandon prepares to berate himself, the voice of reason speaks within his mind and it is—for once—stronger in this man than the voice of conscience. First, this was not entirely your fault—as you know quite well. That foul drug is enough to shatter one's reason.. Yes. This much the Colonel knows, but it is hard to set that against the
evidence the predawn light is revealing to him: the discolourations around his wife's wrist—he remembers it now, pinning her hands as he devoured her with kisses—and there at the throat as well, where one of the drawstrings of her nightdress is untied, exposing her collarbones. Brandon's response is immediate and inevitable, though
he quickly looks away, and his fingers tingle to touch her. But what sort of reception can he expect, if he does? To have used her in such a fashion and left such traces . . . Her skin is as delicate as a petal . . . The voice of reason responds with what could only be
described as a snort. And then: Her skin, perhaps. But not her soul. Give her some credit! She knows what that drug can do. And yes, she may have some hesitations—but have you noted well that she follows your example in most things? Brandon allows himself a bitter inward laugh. Not, I hope, in this. He can see her quite clearly, now, follow the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. If she were afraid, Brandon, would she have lain by your side like this, so long as she had the power to be elsewhere? Trust her . . . as she trusts you. If only he could be certain. While he sincerely believes that Mary Anne loves him enough to overlook
certain . . . aspects . . . of the previous evening, he is haunted by his doubts. What of Claudia? I almost . . . Brandon can bear the misery of uncertainty no longer and at once reaches out, before his
resolve weakens, and touches Mary Anne, first caressing her reddened wrist with his fingertips, then leaning forward and drawing the back of his hand lingeringly along her face and throat. And holds his breath, waiting, as her eyes blink sleepily, then open . . .
"You won't get away with this. Lots of people know that we're here." Sam Marston tilted her chin up and level a gaze of scornful contempt at her disagreeable host. "Why don't you -"
"You talk too much. It's aggravating." Cal Torken stopped counting bullets long enough to answer her. "I don't like aggravating women."
"Well, isn't that just too bad." Sam winced. As defiant rebuttal, it lacked a certain something even to her ears. She rushed on. "Elliott has lots of friends in the army. He can have you put away just like that." The sharp snap of her fingers made Molly Torken jump slightly in her chair.
"He won't have them for long." Apparently satisfied with his total, Torken scooped up handfuls of ammunition and replaced it in its cardboard box. "Cause they're likely to get riled when they find him with a dead body again. Yeah, old Elliott's gonna get caught with the late Major Ashley-Pitt lying in a heap on the floor. And there'll be a witness when he makes a run for it."
"You seem to know a great deal about it." Sam eyed him with a wary respect.
Torken leaned his set his loaded gun on the table in front of him and leaned back in his chair. He could have been discussing the weather, so informal was his manner. "That's what he did when they found that old relict who poked his nose into too many corners. He'll come back here and I'll be waiting. The witness will follow him all the way. He can tell the police and the army that Elliott was a dangerous man. I'll have no choice when I shoot him."
"And what are you going to do about Melvin Collins?" Sam folded her arms over her chest and tried to emulate the other's nonchalance.
Uncertainty rippled across the smooth flatness of Torken's face. "I'll…have to see." He reached over and twitched a corner of the curtain aside to peer out the window. "He's taking his sweet time."
Sam closed her eyes and tried to think. A thousand ideas flitted through her mind like ghosts. None of them took on any substance before they disappeared into the misty recesses again. She was ready to weep with frustration.
Torken ignored her. "Hard to believe it's almost over now. For over a year I've been doing nothing else but pushing and waiting. Now it's almost done." His voice dripped with complacency.
She forced herself to look at him. "Why? Why are you doing this?"
"Had no choice. Wouldn't have had to do anything if my mother hadn't started getting funny ideas when she got sick. Started worrying over religion and stuff." He spat the word out with contempt. "Then she told Molly here and I couldn't take any chances. And there were some other things too. Elliott's forgotten how much he owes my family. My father got him started by loaning him the money for his ranch."
"You mean he returned the money you stole." Sam couldn't help herself.
Torken's eye had a mean glitter. "I told you before, you talk too much. Now sit over there so's you're out of the way." He gestured to the sofa where Niall Flanagan sat.
Sam walked over and sat down beside her brother. He scooted over until he was pressed against her side, his hand searching for and clasping hers tightly. She smiled reassuringly at him. He leaned over and whispered so quietly that she had to put her ear to his mouth to hear him. "Will Elliott get here in time."
She squeezed his hand once. "Yes, he will."
The silence that fell was not unwelcome to any of the room's occupants. Torken resumed staring out the window. Molly poured another cup of tea, now tepid and filmy. Brother and sister took what comfort they could from their proximity.
Just when the stillness was becoming oppressive, the sound of several horses could be heard from the road. They were cantering at a steady pace that suggested more than a quiet jaunt was taking place. Torken reached for the curtain just as the noise reached its height outside the window. Suddenly it stopped. The sound of muted voices floated through the window, then the front gate squeaked open. Footsteps crunched up the path to the front door.
Torken wrenched back the curtain and poked his head out the window. "Who's there?"
"Torken? It's me, Ashley-Pitt." The voice sounded unnaturally high and hoarse. "Is Mrs. Elliott Marston there?"
Torken looked back over his shoulder at Sam, as if to check that she was still in the room. "Yeah, she's here. So what?"
"Well, if you want to conduct this business in public, I've no objection." Sarcasm coated the major's words. "I have to talk to her. I have some bad news."
Torken examined Sam once more. He chewed his lower lip for a moment. Finally he leaned out the window again. "Okay, we'll be right down." He stepped back into the room and gestured with his gun. "Let's go downstairs. But remember I've got this."
Sam nodded and rose from her seat. Niall grabbed at her hand but she shook her head warningly. He subsided reluctantly.
It took longer than necessary to negotiate the steps. Torken kept the barrel of his gun against her back all the way down. In the front hall he kept her carefully in front of him. He pulled open the door and stepped behind her again with a quick motion.
Ashley-Pitt walked into the hall and screwed his monocle firmly into place. "Thank you. It's too hot to yell in the dusty street like that." He examined Sam through the glass with an exaggerated eye. "Mrs. Marston? I have some bad news for you."
Sam cleared her throat and prayed she sounded normal. "What is it, sir?"
"Your husband is dead, madam." The major frowned grimly. "He tried to kill me. Another man who had an appointment with me saw him come up behind me and pull out his gun. He got between us and your husband shot him. By that time I had my revolver out and I killed your husband. I've come to break the news personally to you."
"Oh my God!" For a moment blackness threatened to overwhelm her. Bile rose in her throat as she sought her voice again.
"You have my sincere condolences, Mrs. Marston. Despite everything." The major coughed. "And now I will have to ask you and your brother to come with me. You are under arrest as an accomplice and he is wanted as a witness."
Dev's Guest Quarters
They remained like that for some time, Therese clinging to Dev tightly, her face buried in his shoulder, and Eamon returning her embrace, holding her gently to his chest, and comforting her with quiet, low tones. He was not particular in his speech, his words a mix of Gaelic and English, and knew only that she needed the reassurance of him, physically, verbally, and emotionally.
Finally, she raised her head to look at him, and his breath caught at the horror and sadness reflected in her dark, expressive eyes.
He traced the outline of her cheek gently with a single finger, and she sighed softly at his touch before reaching for his hand and grasping it firmly in her own. "Do you wish to talk of it?" he asked quietly.
Therese shook her head, the adament, mulish cast of old once more reflected there. "No." Her voice was hard and flat.
Dev let her objection pass without comment, leaned forward toward her, and placed a single kiss upon her forehead. You'll not make this any easier on yourself, will you, my stubborn little love? Concern for her, and what she must eventually face was written plainly upon his weary features. "Miss MacCleod has brought you some food, and Dr. McCoy has had me promise to have you drink when you awoke. Shall I bring it to the bedside, or do you wish to rise?"
"I'd like to get up," she looked at him, the frustration at her weakness palpable. "But I don't feel quite right."
"You were given a sedative, the effects shouldn't last much longer. Let me help you." He lifted her from the bed, his actions careful and precise, then held her protectively as she swayed unsteadily upon on her feet.
"Better?" he asked after several moments when she was once again able to stand without aid. Taking her arm he led her to the chair he had sat in while waiting for her to awaken, then poured a glass of water from the pitcher Miss M had brought. She took it carefully in both hands.
"What else would you like?" Dev asked, as he moved quickly to the hearth, and added several logs, the sudden blaze providing a hiss of welcome warmth to the room.
"My clothes," she began, her voice faltering, "I want out of this." The water glass slid from her hands as she tore at the simple shift she wore, one of the last tangible reminders of the time she had been forced to spend with HIM.
Dev rushed to her side, taking the glass from her lap, and dabbing at the spilled water with a spare blanket. Taking his robe from where it hung at the end of the bedframe, he drapped it around her shoulders and helped her to shed the hated shift. Cursing himself for not having the foresight to have done so while she slept, he then wrapped the soft, silky fabric of his robe about her thin shoulders.
With a speed that he would have found impossible to believe had he not seen it himself, Therese dashed toward the newly kindled fire, and threw the shift into the flames. She watched it for a moment, the cotton materical folding into itself and darkening around the edges before she collapsed to the floor, her body trembling.
Claudia sat back on her haunches, and looked up at the imposing figure of the Doctor, backlit by the open doorway of the Tardis.
"Thank goodness!" she sighed. "Doctor, please can you help me get out of here. I seem to be in a bit of bother."
"In your night things on the roof of the house in the middle of winter, no doubt with a troop of Imperial Guard or some such on your trail. I'd say you're in more than a bit of bother." He stretched out his hand, and pulled her up, so she now had to look down to look him in the eye. "Its about time you admitted, my girl, that you have absolutely no idea what you are doing, and come with us quietly."
"Us? Doctor you promised to take them all safely to Gallifrey. And I do so know what I'm doing!" He hands defiantly went to her hips.
"Did you know then, that the Interrogator has been taken into custody, and whatever trouble you have been causing in the house, was totally unnecessary?"
Claudia stumbled. "Caught?" A thousand thoughts, regrets and an aching emptiness filled her soul. All for nothing. All the pain for nothing.
As she was about to collapse once again to the cold stone, strong arms scooped her up and crushed her to a chest wracked with sobs. Ed had come for her, and somehow, impossibly, he still loved her. But for how long? Claudia gave in to the moment, held onto him tightly, and joined in his tears. Was it over? No, the trouble was just beginning.
A little earlier:
Claudia decided that standing there freezing wasn't going to get her anywhere. The helicopter would be back to get her any moment, or AR guards would find a way onto the roof and take her into custody. It was looking inevitable now. I should never have come back at all. I should have taken HIM in HIS sleep, and not worried about wanting to do more than that. She realised that she had never actually seen HIM sleep. She had fallen asleep before HIM, and when she awoke, HE was gone. Well, she had been moved somewhere away from HIM, anyway. HE'd obviously thought of the possibility she'd act against HIM, even then.
She had to think of a way to make the best of this plan gone dreadfully wrong. Dropping to her knees, she began to feel around for a loose tile or stone. Finding a gap in the masonry, she pushed the film inside. She hoped that when the sun eventually rose it wouldn't be glaringly obvious where the film was hidden.
Now crawling on her hands and knees, so she couldn't be seen from below, she made her way round the edge of the rampart, to the end of the building and turned the corner.
"Going somewhere?" came an all too familiar voice out of the grey predawn.
Claudia
No - this won't be a 2 week long MA & R little chat!
Dana <strom@methow.com>
Wagons, Ho!, - Tuesday, December 14, 1999 at 07:02:26 (PST)
Magda
- Monday, December 13, 1999 at 17:17:21 (PST)
Claire
Turning up late as usual (grin), - Monday, December 13, 1999 at 16:00:59 (PST)
Leigh
MA: thank you -- it's good to be back. Magda: looking forward to more George., - Monday, December 13, 1999 at 15:47:28 (PST)
MA
Welcome back, Leigh! 8-), - Monday, December 13, 1999 at 06:34:03 (PST)
Leigh <chilly46@aol.com>
Slowly getting back. I know it's been a while, so if anyone needs a summary, pls e-mail me. , - Sunday, December 12, 1999 at 16:39:37 (PST)
Magda
No, not right away; she hasn't arrived yet., - Sunday, December 12, 1999 at 10:13:45 (PST)
MA--Something tells me George is in for a bit of trouble . . . ;-)
All right, everybody: "Come out, come out, wherever you are . . ." I know Christmas break doesn't start this early!, - Sunday, December 12, 1999 at 08:55:10 (PST)
Magda
- Friday, December 10, 1999 at 15:50:50 (PST)
Therese
This post brought to you compliments of 'The Princess Bride', - Thursday, December 09, 1999 at 08:45:40 (PST)
And the force flows on...
D.o.C.
Fausta
may the force be with you!, - Thursday, December 09, 1999 at 07:19:28 (PST)
"Don't be frightened if you swoon away. Don't resist it. Let it caress you . . . whisper to you . . . murmur to you, as the force in me comes flowing into your fllessssh . . . your nerves . . .your bones . . . "
Fausta <emma-mail@mailexcite.com>
Definitely not resisting!, - Thursday, December 09, 1999 at 07:16:46 (PST)
Dr. Franz Anton Mesmer
Don't be frightened if you swoon away...don't resist..., - Wednesday, December 08, 1999 at 21:16:13 (PST)
Claudia
Anyone - feel free to jump in and write anytime you like - I need some help here!, - Wednesday, December 08, 1999 at 18:50:06 (PST)
Suzanne (calling on Dr. Mesmer)
- Wednesday, December 08, 1999 at 18:47:33 (PST)
MA--oh, goody. "George: The Untold Story." This is going to be fun!
And may I petition the Empress to turn out Imperial Security and search for some of our Missing Persons? Where is everybody?!, - Tuesday, December 07, 1999 at 20:24:35 (PST)
The United States' Surgeon General, Dr. David Satcher, is at the center of a controversy from the International Republic of Rickmania. Apparently an epidemic of swooning, weakness at the knees, sighing, and wicked grinning has developed in that country, caused by the sound files accessible through the Internet at Suzanne's Unofficial Website's Flights of Fancy. Medical officials have requested that Dr. Satcher place a medical warning on this site. However, free-expression advocates would consider any warning a violation of freedom of expression, since the Rickmaniacs are not only not complaining, they are asking for more.
We now return to our regularly scheduled program.
Dr. Satcher is not available for comment.
Reporting from here, this is Emma signing off
Fausta <emma-mail@mailexcite.com>
oh, yes, ask for more we do, - Tuesday, December 07, 1999 at 06:18:04 (PST)
Claudia
- Monday, December 06, 1999 at 18:43:39 (PST)
Magda
He's baaaaaack!, - Monday, December 06, 1999 at 17:33:41 (PST)
Here I am, hard at work (moi?!), when there's The Voice, saying "I do love you . . ."
Mercy!
Fausta <emma-mail@mailexcite.com>
- Monday, December 06, 1999 at 06:41:53 (PST)
MA--right, how many of you believe her? Show of hands . . . yeah, I thought so. 8-)
Thanks for the suggestion, Therese. Magda--you turned Elliott into an actual human being! Interested to see what you'll do next., - Sunday, December 05, 1999 at 20:30:35 (PST)
Magda
- Sunday, December 05, 1999 at 17:25:23 (PST)
Magda
- Sunday, December 05, 1999 at 17:20:41 (PST)
Therese
Sharing "Therese's" disdain for needles. . .donated blood today, sat up, and went THUD. Hmm. . .*that* has never happened before!, - Saturday, December 04, 1999 at 07:21:36 (PST)
MA (some of you had told me you like to "see" Brandon thinking . . . *grin*)
Therese: Awwww, man. *sniff* Clods: Yes, I would say you're in much more than a bit of bother!, - Friday, December 03, 1999 at 19:43:58 (PST)
Magda
- Friday, December 03, 1999 at 19:16:12 (PST)
Therese
- Friday, December 03, 1999 at 13:11:32 (PST)
Claudia
A little quiet in here today? Echo echo, - Thursday, December 02, 1999 at 19:40:43 (PST)
Claudia
- Wednesday, December 01, 1999 at 17:41:03 (PST)
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