Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

LOL! As a librarian, I'm delighted that the boys are progressing so well with their reading. *grin* But do be careful what you let them read over your shoulder, Clods! Just think of some of the stuff in the Archives . . . *siiiiigh*

MA--is "this Claudia woman" ready to visit the Imperial Palace? 8-)
- Friday, March 31, 2000 at 17:15:30 (PST)

OT: had a surprise today - how well the boys are doing with their reading... started reading over my shoulder.."this Claudia woman..." and thought Joseph was swearing - but he was trying to pronounce FAQ. hahaha
Claudia
- Friday, March 31, 2000 at 12:18:40 (PST)

Our pleasure, dearest.
As always.
- Friday, March 31, 2000 at 09:10:44 (PST)

The palace:

"You took it yourself?"

She nods.

"How? And . . . why?"

Whatever The Empress had been expecting from Rupert, it is not this. She had braced herself for his outrage—yes, that is correct, braced herself, for though she has nothing to fear from him, she values his opinion and to have him think of her as foolish would be most . . . unpleasant. Not that he would ever say so, of course. Certainly not outright, though he is most capable of conveying his disapproval.

But enough. "First, the why." She leans forward and rests her elbows on the desk, looking straight into his level stare. "I needed an edge with The Interrogator and this was a quick way to get it. Did you see HIM in the throne room? So tolerant, so amused. ' I'm just humouring these people.' Even after HE realized he'd been deceived—still resistant. I needed to strike a blow that he simply could not resist."

Rupert nods as though this confirms some inner conclusion. "Yes, I can see that. But how could you affect HIM by taking the radix yourself?"

She smiles a little. "Rupert, what can you smell in here?"

Rupert gives her a sharp look, suspecting some joke, but as she holds his gaze he understands that she is asking a serious question, and he concentrates. Scents . . .

"Floor wax," he replies, "and lemon oil." A slight inclination of his head toward the massive desk, polished to a gleam; likewise the glowing expanses of hardwood floor not covered by the thick squares of Oriental carpet. "The flowers." A porcelain bowl of creamy-pink blooms on a low table. "Wood." Logs crackling in the fireplace. "Ink and paper . . ." Rupert pauses, mildly surprised at just how many scents he can identify. "Was there anything else . . . ?"

"But not . . . me."

He raises an eyebrow. "A trace of dungeon mold, perhaps? Cold iron?"

A look. "You've made your point. But that's the how. Some time ago, when I discovered that HIS people were making use of radix pedis diaboli, I put my own researchers to work on it. It wouldn't do for HIS people to have such a weapon, one that we couldn't counter. My chemists developed certain . . . variants, one of which makes use of human pheromones. You've heard of them?"

He nods. "Attractant scents, I believe."

"Precisely. Much stronger in the animal kingdom, though humans secrete them as well."

Rupert's mouth twists a little in a reluctant smile. "Are you saying, Majesty, that you frightened The Interrogator by how you . . . smelled?"

The Empress laughs out loud at this, finally composing herself enough to exclaim, "I've been around people before who could frighten anyone by how they smelled! But yes, that's it, more or less. I swallowed a micro-concentration of the radix, with some endocrine attachments so that it wouldn't affect me, of course. It altered my pheromone secretions . . . and HE responded. The human sense of smell isn't strong enough for HIM to be consciously aware of what was happening, but that's it. That's why I made certain to keep the guards a good distance from me, while The Interrogator was allowed to be . . . within range."

"You talk as if you had done this before."

"I have, once or twice. Some people cannot be persuaded by ordinary means." Dryly. "I find that it enhances my authority."

"Had you any fears on that score, then?"

"I know what you're trying, Rupert, and it won't work. No, I do not have any fears or doubts about it—ordinarily. But didn't you tell me yourself to be careful? That no one is safe around HIM?"

Rupert cannot deny it. "I did say that, but I hardly call it careful to swallow a preparation of that foul root, just to overcome HIS resistance." Though he has not moved, he somehow seems to draw closer, his gaze practically pinning her to her chair as he finally allows himself the outburst he has been restraining. "Did it ever once occur to you how dangerous it was, to do what you did! Where would I—" A pause. "Where would we be, your subjects, if anything were to happen to you! Did you think of that? Or was it so much more important to you, to gain the upper hand with The Interrogator and reduce him to absolute terror? And while we're on the subject, I would not trust any appearance of submission from HIM. He's first cousin to the devil for cunning; you may not have won so much as you think--!"

"Rupert."

No doubts about authority, now. That voice is to be obeyed, and Rupert subsides.

The Empress eyes him for a moment, then relents. "Well, whatever it may or may not have accomplished, it's done now. And yes, I do know that it can be dangerous; that's why I couldn't ask anyone else to do it. And so long as The Interrogator doesn't figure out why it happened, HE will automatically be uneasy about me, which is all to our advantage. Let HIM chew on it for a while." Her tone turns brisk, all business. "Meanwhile, we have work to do. I'd be interested to hear what this Claudia woman has to say about The Interrogator; something tells me there's more to her than meets the eye. When the Alliance and UNIT have finished the preliminary questions with her, it may be necessary to have her brought here. We could learn a great deal about HIS organization from her."

With no secretary present, Rupert has automatically assumed some of the functions of one, rising to gather notepaper and a pen from the desk, then resuming his seat and scribbling quick, efficient notes as The Empress continues.

"And there's Andrea. Make certain that I am informed as soon as we have Doctor Mesmer's report. Obviously, if she experienced any severe distress, we'll have to try some gentler tactics with The Interrogator . . ."

Her voices trails off as she watches Rupert, who has drawn his chair close to the desk and is momentarily absorbed in his notes.

Gentler tactics, she muses. So long as The Interrogator doesn't know that's what they are. Let HIM assume that today was only the beginning and that there is far worse to come. In the future, HE will not take me so lightly . . .

MA--my pleasure, Suzanne.
Ideas and suggestions are, of course, most welcome. *wicked grin*, - Thursday, March 30, 2000 at 19:45:48 (PST)

Ooohhhh, you have *no* idea how much I'm enjoying this! (*grin*)

Suzanne
(Thanks, MA!), - Thursday, March 30, 2000 at 06:15:09 (PST)

These Fancies built by writers for themselves
Upon affection and the hands of AR,
This happy breed of fans, this little world . . .
These blessed Flights, this earth, this Realm, this Rickman . . .

MA--amazing how adaptable Shax can be! 8-)
- Thursday, March 30, 2000 at 05:14:31 (PST)

We few, we happy few, we band of [writers];
For [she] today that sheds [her ink] with me
Shall be [a writer]; be [she] ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle [her] condition.
And gentle[persons] in England, now abed,
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here;
And hold their [person]hoods cheap while any speaks
That [wrote] with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Magda
Okay, maybe more than once a week, - Wednesday, March 29, 2000 at 08:26:59 (PST)

The palace:

Despite the tension in the study, The Empress smiles a little at Rupert's savagely precise enunciation: Rrrrrrradix pedissss diaboli. But the smile is brief, no more than a curve of her lips, for to Rupert this is obviously no laughing matter.

"So," he continues when she makes no reply. "You did use it, then."

"Yes. I did."

"You might have told HIM the truth, at least. You said that you had not drugged him—"

"And I did not." She raises an eyebrow. "What's this? A man like The Interrogator, who trades in lies, is entitled to the truth? It speaks well of you, that you have such regard for his rights."

Rupert tightens his already white-knuckled grip upon the cane and refuses to be baited. "HIS rights are not the issue. He's a cruel brute and can rot in his cell, for all I care. But—" The grip on the cane relaxes. "—I am ever at your service, Majesty, and I would serve the truth as well. I would have them be one and the same."

Her expression softens. Why, 'tis a loving and a fair reply, she thinks, with a rueful twinge at the irony of the allusion.

Rupert, meanwhile, returns to the problem at hand. "It's all too much like HIS methods. Was it necessary to drug him, especially with—"

"I have told you—" Warning. "—that I did not give him the drug."

Rupert frowns over this, thinking. She did not give him-- Then, he starts from his chair in horror. "You did not burn it! That brazier--!"

"Sit down!" One imperious gesture, and he sinks back into the chair. "Do you take me for an utter fool? Of course I did not burn it; the fumes could have killed us all! Do you actually think I would have endangered all those lives, for no other purpose than to unsettle The Interrogator!"

Rupert holds up a placating hand. "I do not know what to think," he replies heavily. "If you made use of the radix, then you must certainly have read Dr. Sterndale's research?"

"Yes, and some very interesting reading it was, too."

"Interesting? Is that what you call it?" He leans forward in his chair. "I have read it as well, and I would have to find a stronger term than interesting for something that works directly on the fear centre of the brain. What was it Sterndale called it? An 'ordeal poison' ? And that either madness or death was the certain result? I think 'interesting' hardly covers it. Not to mention the rest of what's in that file. Interesting, no. Damned horrifying, I would say."

A sombre nod from The Empress. "I take it you mean the Tregennis incident. And that Holmes and Watson nearly lost their lives."

"That is exactly what I mean. It's much too dangerous for any sort of casual use." Dryly. "Or even any urgent use, in my opinion. What were you thinking? And how did you administer it to The Interrogator without driving HIM mad?"

There is a moment of silence as The Empress gazes across the desk, and Rupert waits as calmly as he can. Few men in the Realm could speak to her as he has, and does, and will continue to do; he has not become her most trusted adviser through cowardice or subservience. However, there are moments like these, in which he wonders if he has stepped out too far . . .

"How did I administer it to him? I have told you at least twice that I did not give him the drug. Am I a liar?"

"No." Resoundingly. The look on her face would send even an Imperial Guardsman to his knees in terror but Rupert meets her eyes without flinching. "However, you can be most evasive when it suits you. You still have not answered my question."

She laughs a little, as the regal, freezing glare she had directed at him melts away. "Quite correct. Well, if you must know . . . I did not give The Interrogator the drug. I took it myself."

MA--slow times at FOF . . .
Once a week, Magda? Fine--just glad to see there's someone else alive in here! ;-), - Tuesday, March 28, 2000 at 20:15:40 (PST)

"Day the Sixty-third, in the month of January – In which our fortunes increase in a most satisfactory way."

We managed to keep hostilities damped down during dinner. Adam wrapped himself in the shreds of his dignity and conversed stiffly with Joya and warmly with Melisant. He ignored me completely and for my part, I didn't say much to anyone. Joya kept shooting glances at both of us throughout the meal.

"So you don't regret leaving the convent, Lady Melisant?" Adam refilled her cup with cider and smiled encouragingly.

"Well, I did at first. Sister kept telling me that I would not fit in with everyone at court." Melisant frowned in thought. "And yet it does not seem to be so very difficult. It's just so new to me."

"Well of course it is." Adam leaned over and patted her hand. "That's what I'm here to help with. More roast chicken?"

"Thank you, sir." Melisant hesitated, then burst out. "I'm so afraid of forgetting something! It's so complicated!"

Adam spooned some chicken onto her plate. "Now there'll be no more of that! You will not forget anything when I am here. And the first thing you'll have to remember is that my name is Adam. It's your first lesson. Don't forget it."

Melisant giggled. Adam grinned. Joya beamed across the table at them. I summoned Thomas to refill my wine; it looked like this was going to be three-goblet meal.

It was just as sickening throughout the afternoon. Fully briefed over lunch about what was expected from him, Adam entered into the spirit of the thing with enthusiasm. He strolled across the hall and met Melisant with mock surprise, bowing low over her hand with gallantry. For her part, she managed not to bolt for the open spaces as soon as he came close. She tossed her hair, smiled at his pleasantries and laughed at his jokes. Joya sat in the great chair by the hearth, smiling in a quasi-maternal manner. I sat on the bench by the table, trying not to yawn.

But I had to admit that Joya had been right about Melisant and Adam. The girl positively flowered in his company: smiling, laughing, lowering her gaze bashfully then peeking up at him playfully. Had she been a normal girl, I would have said she was flirting.

Joya was quite pleased. As the two of them went through the routine of court protocol, she whispered to me. "You see? It worked."

I grunted in response. I was still annoyed with my "partner". Joya was expending far too much effort in actually training Melisant. How was this going to help us get the gold we needed? I stretched and crossed my legs at the ankles. I gave her a cold unfriendly look which she intercepted with raised brows and a slight smile. After a moment, she turned to the performers. "I believe it is time for a rest. Adam, why don't you take Melisant outside? Some air might be very refreshing right now."

Adam nodded. "Of course. If you would please accept my escort, Lady Melisant, I would invite you outside for a walk around the courtyard."

Melisant beamed. "Oh yes, sir. I would enjoy that." She put her fingers on his proffered arm and they strolled to the great door, his blond head bent protectively over hers. Just before it closed behind them, we heard a high-pitched giggle and a low laugh.

Joya was beside me immediately, plucking my sleeve. "I know what's wrong, George. Come upstairs and I'll make it all better." She tugged me to my feet and pulled me up the stairs behind her.

Well, of course, I needed that as well but I really hadn't been thinking about it. Now that she mentioned it however, I found that I was more than ready for what she had in mind. By the time we reached the landing, I was ahead and dragging her behind me. We almost fell through the door of her bedroom by sheer force. I caught her up in my arms and kicked the door shut with a slam.

"George -" Three strides took us to the bed and I tossed her onto the mattress. She bounced once and waved an arm in the air. "George, listen to me -"

"Later." I pulled her up into a sitting position and began to tug at the laces on the back of her dress. Her veil was in the way so I pulled it off and tossed it at the chair. I missed and it fluttered to the floor.

She pushed at my hands. "George! We don't have time for this!"

I gave up on the laces. "You're right." I grabbed her legs and pulled. She fell back on the bed with her skirts foaming around her. I yanked off my belt. "You'll have to leave it on."

"That's not what I meant. Just wait -" She grabbed my wrists and held on tight. "A minute! Will you please pay attention?"

"What?!?!" I stopped and glared at her. If I gave her any more attention it would damage me permanently.

"My belt. Reach into the pouch on my belt. There's a letter inside." She released one of my hands so I could obey. I found the note and opened it. The writing was unknown to me but the message was very interesting:

"To Sir Mauger of Barnesdale in Yorkshire, greetings. I hope this letter finds you healthy and well in the light of our Lord's grace. I have undertaken my training as a lady under the direction of Lady Joya and am pleased to report that she feels I am making progress. She will probably send you a letter herself on this matter soon.

I am writing today because I wish you to forward funds for a present I will make to my lord and sovereign, King Richard. I would like to build a small chapel in Barnesdale in his honour and to thank him for the great favour he is bestowing on my future husband. Lady Joya and I have calculated that 2,000 gold marks will suffice for both materials and labour. Please forward this amount as soon as possible so that work may be completed before the wedding. Signed, your most dutiful and respectful stepdaughter, Melisant."

For a moment the lines shimmered as I read them. I focused on the amount again and the world righted itself. 2,000 gold marks. It was more than three times what I received for my imaginary mercenaries. I lifted my gaze and stared at Joya. "How...? Where...? What...?"

She grinned at me. "Take a few deep breaths, lover, and try again."

I swallowed hard. "A chapel? How did you come up with that idea?"

"Oh, it wasn't so hard. Melisant's mind tends in that direction without any help from me." Joya sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. "We'll have to spend some it, of course. But we can have one of the outbuildings dismantled and use the stones and wood. We should be able to pocket over half of it."

I reread the note. In one fell swoop, Joya had more than tripled our hoard of wealth. My worries had been for naught. We would be able to leave in the summer with more gold than I had ever imagined. I looked at Joya again with happiness and pride…and another feeling I could not name. It tugged at my chest with an incessant hold; my throat constricted and shivers went over my body. I had never felt anything like it before.

I shook it off as unimportant and after a moment the sensation faded. But as I watched Joya climb off the bed and adjust her dress, I had a premonition that it would not be the last time it happened.

"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
It's going to be once a week until tax time is over..., - Sunday, March 26, 2000 at 13:27:57 (PST)

The palace:

Rupert stalks down the corridor toward The Empress' study, in so obvious a fury that the guards at the doorway shift a bit, uneasily, as if they mean to keep him from going in. But their training prevails: Her Majesty's standing order is that Rupert is to be admitted to her presence without question at any time, day or night, unless she has specifically said otherwise.

She has not said otherwise, and so he enters the study, just in time to hear her speaking to one of her secretaries. "—as quickly as possible to Doctor Mesmer, and then report back to me. Ask him if Andrea showed any signs of distress during . . ."

There is a delicate pause as the secretary nods. "I'll see to it, your Majesty. How would you prefer we contact Doctor Mesmer?"

"Tie into the telephone extension to Delaford that Hans Gruber installed; that will be quick." A wry smile. "And safe, if I know anything about the Grubers. That line should be well-shielded."

A nod dismisses the secretary, who withdraws and leaves Rupert and The Empress alone together.

She is first to break the silence. "Good day, Rupert."

"Good day, Your Majesty." His tone, quite correct and icily formal.

She sighs. "Why, I wonder, do I have the distinct feeling you'd like to smack me with your cane?" She settles into a chair behind her desk, signalling Rupert to take a seat as well.

"Your Majesty is most perceptive," he retorts, taking a chair and drawing it near to the desk.

"I suppose you've heard all about it by now."

"I had a few words in private with the Captain of the Guard . . ."

"Did you, indeed? I may have to have a few words with him myself, about secrecy."

Rupert shakes his head. "Do not try to divert me by behaving as if I've made trouble for him; I get copies of their reports unless you say otherwise, so I would have heard about this anyway." A pause. "Good God, what did you do to HIM?"

"I took steps to put HIM . . . a little off-balance, as we had discussed."

" 'A little off-balance'?" Rupert gives her a look. "Unbalanced would be more to the point. The Captain said HE was white as a sheet."

Rupert leans back in his chair, placing his hands together and steepling his fingers in the age-old gesture of a man considering possibilities. "Just what, I wonder, would frighten HIM as much as that?"

"Apart from Mary Anne, you mean?"

A joke, but Rupert ignores it and presses on. "The Interrogator is brought into that room and within moments is exhibiting signs of acute anxiety; at one point HE attacks you, knowing that the attempt is completely futile, and after something like two minutes on the column, before HE could possibly be in any real pain, HE breaks down, more or less—"

"Less, I would say."

"—and practically has to be carried from the chamber."

The Empress smiles a little. "And what do you conclude from these observations, Holmes?"

Rupert ignores this dig as well, abandoning all pretense of weighing the evidence and drawing conclusions. "It is interesting—" Coldly. "—that you should mention Sherlock Holmes. He would have seen it in an instant."

"Seen?"

Rupert slashes one hand through the air, a furiously impatient gesture. "Seen!" Then, with a remote politeness that is more intimidating than temper: "Your Majesty, may I be allowed to ask that you drop this pretense of ignorance? It would take a great deal to terrify The Interrogator, especially so quickly as that. HE is not easily frightened." Rupert wraps both hands around the head of his cane, tightly. "But HE is no more immune than you or I to the effect of . . . radix pedis diaboli . . . "

MA--bashing on, regardless . . .
For more on radix pedis diaboli, see "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot," by A. Conan Doyle., - Friday, March 24, 2000 at 19:32:44 (PST)

Once upon a time there was a wonderful, old-fashioned story called "Sense and Sensibility". And in this wonderful story there appeared a wonderful old-fashioned hero...once upon a time...
msdeem9 <msdeem9@yahoo.com>
Though I've watched Mr. Rickman in action for quite awhile, I've only just recently become a serious fan of his work. I'm glad there's another fan out there who took the time to put all this together for everyone to enjoy..., - Thursday, March 23, 2000 at 13:34:49 (PST)

All right you lot, I didn't call a holiday!!

AR, Director
- Thursday, March 23, 2000 at 05:44:12 (PST)

The dungeons:

"Take him."

The Interrogator is at once on his feet and moving, though surely HE above all men knows the futility of resistance, and so it proves: futile. The arms of the guards are around HIM, holding him helpless, though not before he has made one thwarted spring at The Empress and knocked the tea cart over, filling the dim chamber with the crash of broken china and the scent of jasmine tea.

The smell clears his head for a moment—only a moment, until The Empress, having jumped clear as soon as he was on his feet, now draws close to him again. Not too close, he notes with savage satisfaction, even as he feels his heart constrict again with that nameless dread.

"Orders, Your Majesty?"

Her voice. Cool and firm. "The column."

The column?

HE is puzzled. But bewilderment evaporates as he finds himself dragged across the room to a towering stone pillar with a wooden platform at the foot—and, projecting from the column of stone . . . two iron rings.

Memory. The past. It is the jaws of a savage beast. HE can feel the teeth meet in his flesh.

Brandon. The wall rings . . . Mary Anne . . .

Is that why she has chosen . . . this?

The Interrogator is a powerful man, yet the guards hold him fast and force him up onto the platform, lifting his arms—restraining him with extra care as his chains are removed—and then fastening his wrists into the iron rings.

The guards withdraw, and as The Empress steps close once more, gazing up at him, The Interrogator feels that cold touch of panic again, as if someone had laid an icy hand on his throat.

You have been hurt before, and survived. Remember Mary Anne . . .

HE has had much time to think upon that. The memories of HIS torture at the hands of Mary Anne have more than once awakened him to lie staring at the ceiling for hours, the sweat of his nightmare chilling his flesh, but that had been . . .different. He understands, now, that whatever pain she had visited on him, HE had still been the source of it; Mary Anne would never have chosen to do what she had done.

And I have been joined with her, HE could reflect in those hours of darkness, as even Brandon can never be. Soul to soul. I know her intimately now, even as she knows me. I spoke the truth in that letter to her: I had the best of that exchange.

But this proceeding, so coldly methodical, not even the flame of vengeance to light and warm it . . .

The Empress is beside HIM now.

"I trust I need not explain to you how this works."

It is not The Empress' voice but his own he hears . . . his words to Mary Anne, as Brandon had been suspended in the wall rings. Almost as effective as the rack . . . quite painful, really . . .

Already, HIS arms ache with the strain of being stretched upwards, with the bite of the metal at his wrists. Already. And the platform beneath his feet has not yet been removed . . .

Does she know? Is that why she has chosen this, for me—because of what I did to Brandon? No . . . she is intelligent, and that would be too revealing, too predictable . . . no, no . . .

She has drawn so near, watching him, that her breath stirs his hair, lightly.

No . . . !

HE does not realize he has spoken aloud, transfixed as he is by that horror that overcomes him whenever The Empress steps near.

"No?" she says gently. "If you do not want this to happen, it is within my power to stop it. Whenever you wish."

And now, HE knows he is being heard. "No!" he grates out. I will not . . . But the fear.

HE pauses, twisting his head around as far as he can turn it to stare down at The Empress, who has not yet given the order for the platform to be removed. On his lips, the metallic taste of panic and rage and . . .

The tea. "You drugged me!" he rasps.

She shakes her head. "No, I have not drugged you."

"You must have!" HE insists. No need for elaboration, though he communicates it to her with his accusing stare. It must be a drug, some trickery, or I would not be so frightened . . .

She does not look away. "How could I have drugged you? We both drank the tea, ate the food—"

"Then my cup was treated, or . . ." HE is forced to pause for breath, the tightness across his chest choking off his words.

"No." Her soft, sombre voice--nothing could be less threatening, yet he clenches his jaw at the sound of it. "You have not been given any drug. I know your fear and I tell you, it is from another source."

"My conscience?" HE snaps.

"You have said it, and not I. Do you acknowledge, now, that you have no control here? Will you behave reasonably and answer our questions, or must I prove to you that I will do what is necessary to control you?"

Is it his imagination, or has the platform . . . sunk? Yes. Slightly. She need not remove it; it is counterweighted. It sinks gradually, and the tension upon the muscles becomes greater and greater . . .

Simple, but effective.

Closing his eyes, The Interrogator allows his head to drop forward against the column. Do as you must—and survive. She is clever, but she will make a mistake, sooner or later . . . and when she does . . .

HE nods, finally, and allows himself a sigh, almost a broken sob of defeat--or, with any luck, that is how it will seem. To her.

She returns his nod calmly. No sign of triumph. And at her signal the guards have released his wrists from the iron manacles of the column and re-secured his chains. "Take him back to his quarters and let him rest," she commands, and as he is taken from the dungeons, he keeps his gaze fastened upon The Empress and the mystery of her is with him all the way back to his cell . . .

MA--"2X2L calling CQ . . .2X2L calling CQ . . . Isn't there anyone on the air? Isn't there anyone?"
A reward to the first one who correctly identifies that quotation! 8-), - Monday, March 20, 2000 at 20:06:15 (PST)

"Day the Sixty-third, in the month of January – In which we welcome a guest whose manners have to be improved."

"I don't like it." I folded my hands on the saddle and stared at the road from Barnesdale.

"Yes, lover, I know." Joya sat beside me, a serene smile on her lips as she watched. "I heard you the first ten times."

"Don't call me that." A lone rider came over the hill. Craning my neck, I tried to discover his identity but we were too far away to see clearly. I fell back into the saddle and gave Joya a disgruntled look.

We'd been arguing over this for days. I was dead set against inviting Adam to visit and assist in Melisant's training. He was the vassal of a man who was no friend of ours; his loyalty was first and foremost to Walter of Krone. The last thing I wanted was someone like that running around the place and poking into things. But Joya insisted that he was just what Melisant needed to practice her new skills on.

I shifted in my saddle. That last thought reminded me of another grievance I had. Joya was spending far too much time trying to train Melisant in "ladyhood" when she should have been coming up with different ways to extract more gold out of Mauger. A week earlier I had sent off a reckoning to my employer for sixteen non-existent mercenaries and the costs associated with them: salaries, food, hay and oats for their horses. An illiterate servant carried the message and was back the next day with a small pouch of gold. It had gone straight into a hiding place in my bedroom.

Had Joya come up with a comparable list, we could easily have doubled our take. Instead she asked for a sum that was ridiculously small, excusing herself on the grounds that Melisant still was not comfortable with the idea of sumptuous finery and would have to be taught to think differently. I argued that Melisant would find a stiff regimen of bread and water in the cellars even less comfortable and we could speed up the education process considerably. Joya gave me an offended look.

The rider was close enough now for us to see that it was Adam. We nudged our mounts forward and met him halfway.

"George! Greetings on this fine day!" He waved an arm vigorously in the air and grinned. His hair flopped in the wind as his horse jogged up to us.

I nodded back, examining him carefully to see how an additional three weeks of sanctimony had affected him. He appeared to be none the worse for his new life although there were shadows in his eyes that I hadn't noticed before.

He greeted Joya with a courtly bow and asked after her health. They chatted like old friends as we rode back to the lodge. I watched them and wondered if it was only my imagination that Adam's manner seemed a bit restrained.

We dismounted in the courtyard. As Joya entered the lodge, Adam and I took the horses to the stables. As soon as Joya was out of sight, his easy manner returned again. As I tugged at the straps of the saddle, I considered possible explanations.

Fortunately Adam hasn't learned to keep his feelings hidden. He paused at the entrance of the stall and looked at me. "I was most curious when I received your note, George. I confess I've often wondered how the young novice was doing."

"Oh, I don't pay attention to those sorts of things." I lifted the saddle and set it on the trestle. "What women get up to when they're alone is no concern of mine."

"I wondered because -" Adam kicked at the straw. "That is, I heard some talk at Sheriff Odo's house about the Lady Joya and I wondered about her and the young lady."

"Oh?" Keeping my voice carefully neutral, I threw the blanket on my horse. As I adjusted the cloth, I shot a sidelong glance at Adam. "What kind of talk?"

He flushed up to his hairline. "Just…gossip, I guess you'd call it. Did you know she's a widow?"

I nodded as I threw some oats into the trough. "Yes, I know."

He picked up a straw and stared at it with intense concentration. "Well, apparently she's got a bit of a reputation. She's had some…some…" He stumbled to a halt, frowning at the straw.

"Some what?" In spite of myself I was fascinated. I knew what he meant, of course, and I could guess who had been doing the gossiping. Estrilda, no doubt. I leaned against the stall and waited for his answer.

"Some…paramours!" He spat the word out as if it tasted foul.

"Really?" I affected surprise. "How courageous of her."

"Courageous? Is that what you call it?" He looked at me, his mouth set in grim lines. "I call it despicable. To think that such a woman has the responsibility of preparing a young, pure girl for marriage is terrible to think of!"

I straightened up. "Now wait a minute -"

He charged on. "I almost burned your note when I got it. But then I thought that perhaps I should come and do what I could for poor Melisant."

"Such as?" I took a step closer, then another.

"I don't know yet." He whisked the straw through the air in a sweeping gesture. "I will just have to pay close attention to everything that goes on. Be assured that if there is anything that I can do, I will do it." He crumpled the straw in his fist until the remains drifted to the ground.

"I really think you're being a trifle melodramatic." I pushed past him and headed for the stable doors.

He fell into step beside me. "I don't think so. It's not melodramatic to know right from wrong and to act upon the knowledge. And it's certainly wrong to leave an innocent girl in the hands of a woman no better than a -"

He got no further. I stopped in my tracks and reached for his tunic. The next second he was pinned against the wall with one hand covering his mouth and one arm pressed against his throat. If I leaned with any of my weight, I could crush his windpipe. From the way his eyes were starting from his head and his lashes were fluttering, he knew it too. He clawed at my sleeve but couldn't get any kind of grip to free himself.

"Now you listen to me, little boy." I bent forward until we were almost nose to nose. "I will hear no word against the Lady Joya from you or anyone else. She is more lady and more woman than your puny little mind can imagine. When we go inside, you're going to be polite and charming and as friendly as you know how to be. Do you understand me?" He frantically squeaked in affirmation.

I applied a slight amount of pressure to reinforce my message and his eyes bulged accordingly. Finally I let him go. He gulped in air and put his fingers to his battered throat. His eyes watered slightly as he stared at me.

I pointed to the lodge. "Now get going." We walked across the yard to the door, silence throbbing between us all the way.

"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
Gentleman George indeed..., - Friday, March 17, 2000 at 17:11:01 (PST)

Italics fixed.
That's right.
D.o.C. (in a state of suspended distraction)

help, DoC
Fausta
the voice drove me to distraction . . ., - Friday, March 17, 2000 at 13:58:16 (PST)

It's the suspense, not the pain, that will drive you mad"?
for me, it's the voice
Fausta <emma-mail@mailexcite.com>
- Friday, March 17, 2000 at 13:56:53 (PST)

A most . . . appropriate sound file, Suzanne.

MA
All right, everybody, come out of hiding . . . it's getting lonely around here!, - Thursday, March 16, 2000 at 21:35:47 (PST)

Laughter from The Interrogator.

The response is not unusual from HIM, but this manner of it is, bursting from him in pure astonishment and genuine amusement. For the least instant his smile is as it must have been in happier days . . . until it resumes its cynical chill, accompanied by a lifted eyebrow. "Do you mean to say to me," HE finally breathes, "that you had me dragged down here to this . . ." A wave of his hand, brought up short by the hampering chain. " . . . to serve me tea?"

"And pastry, too, if you like," replies The Empress imperturbably. "Are you hungry?"

Concealing HIS confusion behind that dependably blank expression, The Interrogator approaches The Empress, just as a guard steps up to set the requested extra chair in place. The guard stands as if he expected to stay near the two of them, but The Empress gestures him aside to join his comrades standing by the door.

"Majesty—" the guard protests, plainly considering her unsafe so near to . . . HIM. But a look silences him and he withdraws, though quite plainly under silent protest.

Interrogator and Empress. HE eyes his adversary and she serenely permits it, though he notes that the cart is arranged in such a way that it blocks his access to her; he would have to get past it first, and by then the guards would be upon him. Still, she is near . . . tantalizingly near. All other considerations aside, he finds her alluring, not least for the novelty of her fearlessness in HIS presence, but also for her beauty, bearing, and obvious intelligence. And . . .

HE shifts in his chair, assaulted by a wave of unease.

The cart.

In memory, HE is back in the Valley of the Moon, prisoner in his own home, while Mary Anne . . .

The cart . . .

HE recovers himself, accepting the cup of tea set before him before he quite realizes that he has accepted it, and drinks, wondering what could have come over him, though The Empress behaves as if nothing were out of the ordinary, quietly sipping from her own cup.

"Jasmine," she finally offers, nodding toward the teapot.

Still shaken, HE replies without thinking, "I beg your pardon--?" Then stops, inwardly raging at having given her such an opening.

She does not take advantage of it. "The tea. A rare jasmine. They mix the blossoms with the tea itself. I find it soothing."

HE does not, and scowls into his teacup. What is wrong with me?! He is overpoweringly aware of her, of every motion of her graceful hands, of her scent, her voice . . .

And she is speaking to HIM again. "Let us discuss your case."

HE drinks more of the tea, to give himself something to do, and pauses to admire the cup: fine china of that translucent eggshell quality. Light would shine through it, but there is little light here.

"We have already discussed my case," HE replies.

The Empress selects a croissant and—holding HIS gaze—slowly and deliberately tears it in quarters, one of which she eats before answering. "No, we have not. I have attempted to discuss matters with you, but you have been most uncooperative."

"How would you prefer that I . . . cooperate?" A silken smile.

There is a stir among the guards, though it stills itself immediately; she does not even glance in their direction. I must admit to being impressed, HE thinks. They are as obedient as even I could make them . . .

Her expression is pleasant and her voice polite; they could be discussing the weather. "I am prepared to be as forbearing with you as with any of my most loyal subjects. Not only because it is good publicity—" Her eyes narrow. "—but also because I find the other course quite distasteful. But you above all men should understand that I will do what is necessary."

HE finishes his tea. "Necessary?" he stalls.

She shrugs. "You can give yourself to my judgment and mine alone. The sole authority. While I acknowledge it necessary to halt your violence against my subjects, I abhor waste—and you are an intelligent man. It would be a waste to do away with you unless it was absolutely necessary. But if it became so—" She sets down her unfinished croissant. "—then justice would take its course."

HE does not at once reply, struggling to quell that growing sensation of unease and anxiety in her presence. What is it about her that undoes him so?

"What do you want from me?" HE finally manages, muting his voice to a growl—fearful that it will tremble. Perhaps he is hungrier than he thought. Moving slowly so as to cause no alarm among the guards, he selects a pastry and breaks it apart, chewing the morsels and savouring the crisp sweetness.

She allows him time, just as if she knows and sympathizes with all that he is feeling—and that is the most maddening response of all.

"What I want," she finally replies, "is quite beside the point. We are speaking of what I will have."

"And that is?"

Without visible movement, she transforms before HIS eyes, and he actually blinks in reaction: beautiful, yes, and intelligent, absolutely—but diamond-hard.

"You will answer my questions, that we may have complete information on your activities; it will clarify some of the charges. Perhaps even eliminate a few. And you will display the proper . . . attitude."

HIS muscles knot with gathering rage, but he remains still. "Attitude?"

"You are in my palace, and in my power." Pause. "You will submit."

Never taking HIS eyes from The Empress, The Interrogator lifts his teacup, fingering in appreciation the fine tracery of gold etching that details the royal crest . . . and with all the force his chained arm can summon, he smashes the cup to the floor.

The guards are well-trained—a few start forward, but none cry out, as all await the command of The Empress.

It is brief.

"Take him."

MA--once again, the crockery succumbs to the fury of FOF males.
You've done it now, Mister I . . . !!, - Thursday, March 16, 2000 at 21:20:56 (PST)

Back to top