Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

“Day the Forty-fourth, in the month of December – Christmas Day - In which Joya asserts her authority again.”

I have always heard that Christmas is a time of joy and merriment when people take the time to really enjoy themselves in a holiday spirit. Of course, when I was Lord High Sheriff of my own shire, I did that everyday so the novelty of the thing meant nothing to me. And even now that my life has become (temporarily) more straitened, it's still just a chance to have goose for dinner. But appearances must be maintained and I resolved to keep up my end of the festivities.

We crowded into the sheriff's house and sat on benches around the long table in the main room. Odo offered his own great chair to Sir Walter of Krone with only slightly less servility than a serf paying his quarterly taxes. Krone accepted the offer with a gracious wave of his hand and took his seat at the head of the table. Estrilda returned to the room after breaking the bad news to the cook about the extra guests and took the chair at the other end of the table. Odo hovered in an agony of uncertainty for a moment, then sat down on the bench between his wife and Adam.

Joya and I were sitting side by side; Estrilda was on my right and Krone was on her left. Estrilda had managed to ignore me since her initial nasty look outside the church, for which mercy I was intensely grateful. There had been no sign of her two thugs in the house but it was possible they were out looting a monastery or something and would drop in later.

A maid came in with good spiced wine (one of my favourite beverages) and we all toasted the season and drank deeply. Krone set his empty cup down and watched the maid refill it. He leaned over to Joya and smiled. "This is right good wine. I'm reminded of Christmas in the Holy Land last year when I was on Crusade."

He launched into a long story that seemed to involve King Richard, several dukes and something called (I think) a camel. Adam was hanging on his every word and Joya laughed politely in all the right spots. I was becoming bored when I suddenly felt something grip my knee. As casually as I could, I glanced down to investigate. It was Estrilda's hand, sharp nails digging into my clothing and leaving small grooves scratched into the fabric. I was getting annoyed; the woman was hell on good leather.

I hazarded a look at her profile. She was watching Krone at the other end of the table but her eyes flickered to my face and then away again. Her breathing was becoming ragged. I looked across the table at her husband but he was fixated on Krone. I shifted position in an effort to remove her from my leg. She dug in deeper and finally looked directly at me.

"Oh, Sir Walter, you are so amusing! I'm sure you Crusaders had so many adventures while the rest of us stayed safely at home." Her voice trilled in a saccharine tone that made my teeth ache. She squeezed my knee again and turned to me with a wide smile. "George, you must have several stories to tell us as well."

I smiled tightly. Krone stared at me with raised brows. Joya looked at me with an unreadable expression. Adam turned to me eagerly. "Really George? You were on Crusade too? Why didn't you say something before?"

"Oh, well." I coughed modestly. "I'm sure my small efforts pale into insignificance beside those of men like Sir Walter."

"No doubt, no doubt." Odo piped up heartily. "After all, few men can boast of the bravery, the courage, the intelligence of our good lord -"

"Yes, yes, Odo. Enough of that." Krone cut him off brutally. He turned his full attention on me. "Now then, Gervase, what's this about you being a Crusader?"

"It's George!" Adam whispered behind his hand. Krone waved it aside like an irritating insect.

I took a deep breath and jumped in. Dredging up the stories I'd fed Mauger, I repeated them, always careful to put myself in the background while giving other, famous names all the credit for the real work. Krone listened with insulting scepticism but didn't interrupt.

"Well, it's a pity you weren't in my unit." He stuck out his cup for more wine - his fifth refill, by my count. "You would have see some real action. I remember King Richard telling me when we were camped in Cyprus. He said..."

Krone was launched on another story and I sank back with a suppressed sigh of relief. Joya smiled at me before she turned away but her hand stroked my leg under the table. I reached down to trap her fingers before she tugged them free.

As Krone wound up his epic, the servants entered with the food and we heard no more about the Crusades for some time. Estrilda was forced to let go in order to eat and I took advantage of the respite to slide down the bench out of reach. She shot me an icy glare as she cut into her goose.

I knew that Joya and I were both thinking the same thing: how soon after the meal we could leave. It was too late to ride to the lodge so we'd have to spend another night at the inn and that meant we would have a hard time getting away. I was revolving different schemes in my head as the trenchers were removed and more wine was set out.

To my surprise, Krone came to our rescue. As soon as dessert was cleared away he got up and gathered his cloak around him. "Odo, I am most grateful to you and your lady wife for this fine feast. I wish we could stay longer and enjoy this most holy of days with you. But duty calls even now and Adam and I must be on our way." Adam looked startled but rose to his feet obediently.

Of course Odo flew to his lordship's side. "Thank you, sir for gracing our modest home with your presence, with your attendance. We're so grateful that you came, aren't we dearest?"

Estrilda nodded graciously and dropped her gaze in an approximation of modesty. With a final bow for everyone, Krone and Adam left the room followed by Odo, still yipping about the sublime honour they'd bestowed on his household.

Joya pushed her cup away and smiled at our hostess. "Lady Estrilda this has been a most wonderful meal. It cannot be easy to accommodate extra guests at a moment's notice. My compliments to you for running such a fine household."

Estrilda inclined her head an inch in acknowledgement of the tribute and allowed one corner of her mouth to lift in a hint of a smile.

"Indeed, it is such a change from the last time we met, isn't it?" Joya folded her napkin carefully and laid it on the table.

The hint of the smile disappeared from Estrilda's countenance.

"And because you have given us such fine hospitality, I will confine myself to a friendly warning." Joya rose and stepped around the end of the bench, shaking out her skirts in a sweeping motion. She came around me until she loomed over Estrilda, still sitting in her great chair. "Get your hand off my escort - NOW!"

The order was instantly obeyed. Joya looked down her nose at our hostess for some moments, as if contemplating something offensive. "This is the second time I have had to bring this attachment to your attention. Don't let it happen a third time. Come, George, we must be on our way." Without looking behind her, Joya swept out of the room.

I was on my feet instantly to follow her. At the door, I surrendered to temptation and looked back. Estrilda was gripping the arms of her chair with white-knuckled intensity. She glared at me with molten fury. She opened her mouth but could not seem to speak. Finally she managed to croak out her message. "Just wait. That's all. Just you wait."

I nodded once and left the room. Joya was waiting for me on the street. I took her arm and we strolled off in the late afternoon gloom. But I could not shake the feeling that we had made a major strategic error back there and left an enemy behind us.

5“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
- Sunday, January 30, 2000 at 19:46:06 (PST)

Slight flashback . . .

Andrea's guest room at Delaford.

After Mary Anne lets herself out of the room, Andrea is aware that Colonel Brandon remains. She wonders if she has done anything for which she should apologize.

With no way of knowing how much time she has left before her next possible "spell," Andrea takes the opportunity to present herself as the sane, considerate individual she is. "Colonel Brandon, I fear that I have overstayed my welcome in your home. . . . "

He cuts her off. "Miss Andrea, you are more than welcome to stay as long as you care to." But, please keep away from my wife. He can find no polite way to express the thought, so he leaves it unspoken.

Mesmer steps aside so that Brandon may seat himself in the chair where Mary Anne sat just moments before to purge her soul. The colonel is more comfortable now that Andrea can meet his gaze without straining to look up at him. "Miss Andrea, my wife has explained to me the circumstances surrounding your conversation with her. . . . "

Andrea starts to interrupt him, to apologize.

He raises a hand to stay her. "I know that you did not break your promise to me. -- I regret that I was unable to answer your question when you came to me earlier. By withholding the information, I prolonged your suffering and for that I am truly sorry. -- It would seem that you handled the news well and caused no harm to my wife. I am grateful for your understanding. You may have even helped to ease her burden."

Andrea blinks in surprise. Then blushes. Then composes herself. "Colonel. As much as I love Mary Anne and wish to be near her and help her in any way I can, I think it best that I avoid contact with her -- at least until we can be sure that I am not under the control of . . . another, who may desire to harm her."

Brandon's eyes smile at her. Andrea has arrived at his same conclusion without so much as a word from him -- as though there were some connection between them. But this connection benefits them both. Unlike her connection with HIM.

Andrea
MA: Thanks for leaving Brandon behind for me. :-), - Sunday, January 30, 2000 at 17:42:03 (PST)

"Very well. Let's test that theory, that power doesn't interest you at all," Hart replied, adopting the measured, Socratic classroom tone of a law school professor. "What *does* interest you, Ms. Alexander?"

"Justice. Fairness. You know that." Grace all but spat the words at him.

"Ah yes. Justice. Fairness." Hart languidly rolled the last two words around his tongue. "You want to bring the malefactors of great wealth to justice. What is the biggest challenge in your cases? That the people you seek to prosecute have the power,and the will, to prevent you from getting the evidence you need, concrete evidence that would convince a jury." A sidelong look was Grace's only acknowledgment his words were true. But his voice dripped irony even while persuading, "What if the playing field was level? What if you had the power to get the evidence? Wouldn't that help your noble cause?"

"Of course, but there's a process, a legal process -- --"

He rudely interrupted her. "You *are* naive, Grace. The legal process is more susceptible to the exercise of power than almost anything else. . . with the possible exception of the politicians who make the laws." His words were clipped, harsh, contemptuous, knowing.

Grace put up her hands, trying futilely to stop the flow of Hart's logic. She was acutely uncomfortable with the direction this conversation had taken. Where was he leading her? She was no longer sure what her next step should be. Hart was, of course, and regrettably, right. The government itself was a perfect example of the use of raw power to influence justice, to twist it, sometimes to redefine it, regardless of the law. There were questions she had never asked about the sting, about how the U.S. Attorney obtained the documents she and Hart reviewied. She guessed what the answers were and was unwilling to acknowledge them, knowing she didn't want to know.

"But surely, Lukas," she nearly shouted, with more assurance than she felt, "the ends don't justify the means. Judgments with evidence illegally gathered are as bad as the crime itself."

He laughed heartily, genuinely amused. "My dear, don't seek refuge in cliches. They persuade no one. I know you're a better advocate than that." He reached out a hand to gently stroke her cheek, a loving gesture that took the sting out of his last remark and signaled a rapprochement.

Grateful for his touch, she lowered her voice and asked, "what does all of this have to do with me? I don't get it, Lukas, you'll have to stop talking in riddles and just explain." Her voice was confused and weary from the confrontation, but her eyes still sparked with enough of a challenge to make the side of his mouth curve with admiration.

Leigh
- Sunday, January 30, 2000 at 17:06:11 (PST)

Delaford, the music room:

There is no sign of Brandon when Mary Anne enters, though she can see that the room has been prepared for their arrival: a small table has been laid for their dinner and the room is bright with candles burning in the elaborately-branched torcheres.

Slowly, Mary Anne makes her way to the piano.

She is almost afraid to touch it. The Broadwood Grand, superb instrument that it is, is doubtless meant for a better musician than she. This is her husband’s territory and that of the late Marianne Brandon—what business has she to go near it, whose music lessons are now long ago and all but forgotten? Next to Brandon’s power and dexterity at the keyboard, Mary Anne is always a little ashamed of her hesitant attempts; nevertheless, she does finally go and seat herself on the bench and at her first touch upon the gleaming keys, it is as though she has heard the clear and welcoming voice of a long-lost friend.

She finds much to occupy her both in the pieces lying there on the piano and those in the walnut music cabinet that stands nearby. Tentatively at first, then with growing confidence, Mary Anne tries a Bach invention to loosen her fingers, wincing a little at missed notes but smiling at how certain passages come back to her, though it has been years since she has played them. Having worked out a faulty appoggiatura to her satisfaction, she tackles an old favourite: a lively and playful sonatina by Clementi that never fails to make her smile.

Her efforts take more time than she would have anticipated; one practice session does not undo years of neglect, and she finally shuts the music books and falls to picking out old tunes by ear—again, grimacing when she strikes the wrong note but smiling when a chord matches the tune she is hearing in her mind. It is some time before she notices that her choice of music has strayed from the cheerful into the wistful and is soon verging on the melancholy, as she thinks of an old folk song and imposes it over the only melody she can make it fit.

My feet they are sore and my limbs they are weary;
Long is the way and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary
Over the path of the poor orphan child.

Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are hard-hearted and kind angels only
Watch’d o’er the steps of the poor orphan child.

Yet distant and soft the night-breeze is blowing,
Clouds there are none and the clear stars beam mild . . .

With a shiver, Mary Anne snatches her hands away from the keyboard, wondering how she could ever have strayed into such a doleful song. Poor orphan child, indeed—what rot! You’re not a child, Mary Anne, even if you do act like one sometimes. And Christopher’s pretty indulgent when you do . . . but he deserves a woman at his side, not a child. Remember that.

Mary Anne sits quietly for a while, thinking. Yes, Brandon does need and deserve a woman at his side, a true partner in his life—not someone who is so heedless and impulsive that he will always have to take care of her because he cannot trust her to do so for herself. Yet she knows that she is not—truly, she is not--so thoughtless as she once was. A fleeting memory of Safehouse #7 passes through her mind, and of Brandon’s voice in the upstairs hall-- "Always the impulsive one. Always . . ." Mary Anne swallows hard at the remembered sting of all that had followed, but now has the detachment to realize that she is not the same person she had been.

Besides . . . and now, she simply must smile over this. Brandon would not like it if she were always sensible and levelheaded and . . . and . . .

A wry inner laugh. Grown-up?

Well . . . yes. It’s not as though Christopher doesn’t get up to mischief himself, sometimes. It’s just that he’s learned that there’s a time to be an adult and a time to be a child. What’s that old saying? "It’s never too late to have a happy childhood." It’s like Therese and Dev; he really wouldn’t want her to be any other way—except, of course, for the times she worries him to a ghost by doing something crazy. But he told me she keeps him human . . . he wouldn’t change that; I know he wouldn’t.

I suppose Christopher really does love me the way I am. Why is it so hard for me to remember that? I’ll just have to try harder to remember; that’s all . . .

To accept love when it is freely offered: it seems an easy lesson, yet Mary Anne instinctively understands that it is one of the hardest she will ever learn. Her neglected music is child’s play by comparison.

Absorbed in these reflections, she does not notice that Brandon has entered the music room . . .

MA--thanks, Suzanne. We aim to please. 8-)
The Orphan Child song is from Jane Eyre. I just recently discovered that it can be sung to the tune of "Ashokan, Farewell"--if you want to make yourself cry, that is. Very sad!, - Sunday, January 30, 2000 at 09:36:00 (PST)

Re: Palace description. Even better than the pictures, Mary Anne. Magnificent!
Suzanne (holding on tight)
- Friday, January 28, 2000 at 07:25:10 (PST)

Mary Anne’s sleep, though brief, is profound and dreamless and she awakes from it refreshed. She is glad of this, for she has not felt properly rested since Brandon had awakened her with the news of Therese’s abduction, and her recent dreams have been disturbing . . . all except . . .

There had been one that was pleasant, though the details are already growing vague. It had been lovely, though: she and Renie walking about the Delaford grounds and discovering a hidden glen, and—Mary Anne frowns a little, trying to remember—had there been something in there as well about . . . slaying dragons?

She stretches herself, burrowing into the coverlet and enjoying those few moments of languor that follow a nap of exactly the right length: just enough to restore her but not enough to keep her awake tonight.

Tonight.

Her heart is beating faster. Brandon . . . Oh, the poor man. After last night, he’ll probably be afraid to even touch me.

Sighing, Mary Anne pushes away the covers, thinking back over what had taken place in Andrea’s guestroom. Her transient irritation at Brandon’s protectiveness has quite disappeared, leaving in its place a rueful acceptance that that is what her husband is ; guarding her from harm is a part of his nature and she can either rail against it or find a way to work with it.

Yes, well, a choice like this is no choice, really. When I think how tolerant he’s been about some of the things I’ve done . . .

Far more than tolerant. Tender, adoring, self-sacrificing . . . Yes, all of those. A wistful smile. Quite the paragon. Does this mean that when we have a disagreement, he’s always going to be right and I’m always going to be . . .

A noise breaks into her thoughts—the sound of someone tapping at the hallway door. Quickly, Mary Anne slips into her dressing gown and, opening the door of her room, calls, "Who is it, please?"

"It’s Sal, ma’am."

Mary Anne is beginning to be able to remember the names of the staff about Delaford, an accomplishment she had despaired of at the beginning. Sal and Molly and Hayes and Hawton and Chance and Lily and . . . well, Miss M is in a class by herself. The mere thought of addressing that imposing Scots personage as "Moire" is almost enough to make Mary Anne’s teeth chatter, though it makes her grin a bit as well—a grin that Sal notices and shyly returns as Mary Anne opens the door.

"Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am; I hope I’m not disturbin’ you—" A little curtsey.

"Not at all."

"—but th’ master sends compliments and asks will you join him for dinner."

"Then our guests . . . ?"

"Well, ma’am, it’s been such a day an’ all, and Herself told me as how lots of ‘em have asked for dinners alone, in their rooms and such. Every man for hisself, like." Sal is very pretty, with a face like a freshly-blown rose when she smiles, but the strains of a house of casualties have taken the bloom from her, for the moment.

Sympathetic, Mary Anne does not press her. "Did the Colonel say where I am to meet him for this . . . dinner?"

"He said to say he would meet you in th’ music room, ma’am."

"I . . . see." Mary Anne thinks she can remember the way, but is not about to ask. She has only been in that room once before, at the Delaford picnic; having found out that Brandon might play and being passionately fond of music, she was naturally curious to hear him after listening to Renie’s comments about his accomplishments at the piano. And Renie had neither lied nor exaggerated.

How long ago it seems . . .

Suddenly remembering that Sal is waiting for an answer, Mary Anne dismisses her reverie. "Yes, tell him that it will be my pleasure."

And his, I hope . . .

MA--"Music hath charms . . ."
Sneaking in a post before the storm--hope my power stays on!, - Thursday, January 27, 2000 at 19:49:43 (PST)

“Day the Forty-fourth, in the month of December – Christmas Day - In which we receive an unwelcome invitation to Christmas dinner.”

The world will never know how close it came to losing a great Crusader because this one had the sense to drop Joya's hand before I reached him. I came to a halt immediately behind her and pushed my cloak aside so that my sword was visible to anyone who cared to try something.

"Well met, George!" Adam smiled at me with real warmth. "I was wondering where you were. We didn't see you in church."

"I was making arrangements for our departure and by the time I finished there was only room at the back." I nodded at him but kept my eyes on his companion.

Sir Walter of Krone was about my age and height with the solid build that comes from a lifetime of bearing arms. It would be easy to imagine him in chain mail and helmet, holding a broadsword at the throat of some luckless infidel. He wore his expensive clothes well although it was apparent that they were still new; he had obviously put off his soldiering very recently. So intent was I on examining him that I didn't realise at first that he was scowling at me.

"You left your lady to fend for herself in a crowd?" His scowl grew harder. "If you were my retainer, you would pay dearly for that oversight, sirrah!"

Now I can say without fear of contradiction that I'm a tolerant man (those who might contradict it aren't around anymore). But no one calls me that and gets away with it. I dropped my hand to my sword hilt and braced myself.

"Oh, Sir Walter! You are the soul of chivalry." Joya stepped back and stomped firmly on my boot, grinding her heel in to make her point. "But I cannot allow you to abuse George. He is no retainer but a knight and vassal who is serving his lord in an important assignment."

It worked; the big ox was diverted. "Yes, so Adam has been telling me. And of course I know the young groom. Will of Locksley is a fine lad indeed. We could have used him at the battle of Acre, I can tell you."

Only for target practice, I thought, but I released my sword. Joya rewarded me by getting off my foot.

"Sir Walter has been telling me of his adventures." Adam gazed worshipfully at Krone. "More than ever I wish I'd been old enough to go on Crusade."

"Well, well, your ambitions do you credit." Krone chuckled in what was supposed to be a paternal manner and slapped the youth on his shoulder. "But considering your little contretemps yesterday, it's well you weren't. Isn't that right?"

Adam flushed crimson to his hairline and stared at the ground, mumbling incoherently. Joya frowned and turned a baleful eye on his lordship. Krone didn't notice; he looked past her and waved importantly at someone in the crowd. "Odo! Come here!"

We all turned as Estrilda and the man she accompanied to church joined us. Estrilda glowered at me for a moment before greeting Krone with a demure curtsey. Odo bowed low until his nose almost touched his knee.

"My lord, my lord, so good to see you! I had no idea you were going to grace Barnesdale with your presence on this sacred day, this mostholy day." Odo beamed at Krone and ignored the rest of us. "Such an honour, a beneficence!"

Krone smiled indulgently. "A joyous Christmas to you both. Allow me to introduce this fair lady who is resident in your jurisdiction for some months." He made the introductions and everyone engaged in the polite fictions for a few minutes.

"And what are your plans for dinner, for the evening meal, my lord?" Odo turned back to his lordship with an eager smile.

Krone frowned in thought. "Well, I rather expect we'll be dining at one of the inns. I hadn't given it much thought. On Crusade we would have fasted on a day like this."

"Oh, my lord, you must come to my house for dinner." Odo's hands fluttered madly in the air and he rose on tiptoe in his eagerness. "I entreat, I positively beg you to dine with us."

"Why that is a wonderful idea." Krone nodded politely. "And Lady Joya must join us, along with...um...Gerald."

"George." Adam said quickly.

"Of course. Stupid mistake." He laughed heartily at something. "Don't know what I was thinking. Well, Odo looks like there'll be the four of us. Think you can handle it?"

Odo wiggled like a puppy. "Oh my lord, yes my lord. Indeed we can. Please to come with us, if you please to come, sir." He bowed his way across the road, turning at every step to check behind him for obstacles. Estrilda curtseyed again and joined her husband, adjusting to his crab-like pace but managing to face the same direction the entire way.

"Well Adam, you see? It's just as I've been telling you. We had no firm prospect of a meal but we trusted something would come up. The good Lord provides for His followers." Krone slapped his thigh in great mirth before holding out his arm to Joya. "Now then, my lady, shall we proceed to the good sheriff's house?"

She accepted with a smile that I wouldn't have trusted for a second and they set off. Adam and I fell into step behind them and Sal brought up the rear.

“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
Quiet this week. , - Thursday, January 27, 2000 at 16:24:23 (PST)

Thanks, Leigh. You know, Hart is making me jumpy as well as Grace.

"Power." The word resonated from the depths of his soul.

Yeah, well, I'm "resonating" a bit myself, here . . . *quiver*

Also, I just wanted to say that I don't want to hog this Interrogator thread--could be a lot of fun, so if anyone has any great ideas for what should happen to HIM, don't keep them to yourselves. Feel free to share! *wicked grin*

MA--who else is planning to enter Claudia's Writing Project this time?
Clods, my entry will be there soon--thanks for the extension!, - Wednesday, January 26, 2000 at 05:26:28 (PST)

"What is this really about, Lukas?" Grace asked, challenging him, and adding an edge to her own voice, but one that invited peace as well as war.

He refused to rise to the bait. His voice calm, almost bemused, he replied, "You *could* fly, Grace."

He could not have confused her more had he started to speak in Swahili.

Unperturbed, he continued. "You could escape the crushing ordinariness that most people settle for. You have the ability, and you seem to want to, but every opportunity I give you to acquire the independent wealth you need to thumb your nose at the rest of the good little sheep, you refuse. Your ambivalence is. . ." his tumbling rush of words paused ". . . perplexing. I am running out of ways to teach you how to -- " he quickly changed what he was going to say to "make your life your own instead of someone else's."

She could only stare at him. She could not understand what he was talking about. Her eyebrows furrowed together in a puzzled frown. "Is that what you've been trying to do? Teach me how to be rich? By giving me things? By marrying me?" She folded her arms in defiance and looked hard at him, eyes blazing with indignation. "I'm not for sale, Lukas, if that's what you thought. You should have known that about me, if nothing else."

"It's not about money, Grace." His tone turned almost dismissive, impatient, singsongy, near petulant, near persuasive. "It never is. You miss my point. Money is just a means to get what really matters."

She almost sneered at him. "And what might that be, Lukas?"

"Power." The word resonated from the depths of his soul.

"That may be what you want, but it doesn't interest me at all," she said, coldly, and sat back against the back of the wooden bench looking at him as though he was a stranger.

Leigh
MA: lovely description of the Palace. . . , - Tuesday, January 25, 2000 at 18:45:36 (PST)

The convoy:

All of HIS senses are alert.

The Interrogator cannot claim anything like Mary Anne’s heightened abilities in such areas; nevertheless, he is aware that the convoy must be nearing its destination or else that the landscape around them must have altered. He can feel it: a change in the temperature and even the air pressure, cool and pure and clean. A scent of fir.

He can detect it, even in the transport.

The Interrogator turns to the nearest guard, who happens to be an Imperial—and before HE can even raise a questioning eyebrow, his guess is proved correct by the look on the man’s face: an expression of security and homecoming that could only be explained by the nearness of . . .

The Guardsman catches HIS eye . . . and after a few seconds, the man shrugs. Where is the harm? It is a sight that many of them are longing to see, and if it puts the fear of God into HIM, so much the better.

The Guardsman rises from his seat and slides back the protective steel panel between them and the cab of the transport.

The driver hears the panel slide back and he tenses automatically, though he has himself well under control and betrays his tension only by a hunching of his shoulders as he leans forward, closer to the wheel. He knows that there is another protective wall there of a bulletproof polymer that tests at the same strength as kevlar. Still, it would be a rare citizen of the Realm who could remain completely relaxed, knowing that The Interrogator sits just behind him, separated from him by only a thickness of unbreakable glass.

But The Interrogator has no thought to spare for the driver. HE has leaned forward as far as HIS chains will permit and is gazing at the view through the protective barrier, and out the front windshield of the transport.

The Imperial Palace.

Naturally, the Empress has many residences throughout the Realm and is often known to make a royal progress from one to another, visiting friends along the way. But when her loyal subjects speak of The Imperial Palace, this is the one they envision: the dazzling spectacle of white stone that seems to float among the clouds, a jewel in its setting of lake and forest and mountain. But strong, too, for all its grace—a representation of The Empress herself, welcoming to those who come in friendship. But those who seek it in malevolence will find their own destruction, fortified as it for defense, its secret roads and pathways guarded by nests of weaponry and hidden ports through which the Imperial guard can issue forth at a moment’s notice, sweeping down upon their luckless enemy . . .

The Interrogator is riveted, narrowing his eyes against the shining whiteness, doubled and redoubled by the dusting of new-fallen snow on the palace’s backdrop of mountain peaks.

HE closes HIS eyes. Yes, and while you are admiring the view, take a moment to remember that this will be your prison—for a time. Perhaps short; perhaps long. But if you do not look to yourself, it could quite possibly be your tomb. And the woman you will see on the throne—she may pronounce what she wishes upon you, and there are those who will see that it is carried out. Remember. And survive.

Even as HE thinks upon this, the guard slides the panel closed and there is a ripple of movement through the transport, men and women shifting about on their benches—not taking their attention from HIM, it is true, but heartened and comforted by their glimpse of the palace. Soon, they will have carried out their mission, and Her Majesty’s approval is, to them, a great reward.

Their destination is further away than it had seemed; the clarity of the air among these mountains deceives the eye. Yet the day has not ended before the convoy pulls into one of the entry courtyards and is immediately surrounded by an elite unit of Guardsmen, who are joined by the AR and UNIT troops from the fringes of the convoy.

And, at last, HE is brought forth.

The earlier whiteness of snow lit by afternoon sun has faded from the landscape, to be replaced by the sunset blaze of crimson and gold and scarlet. As The Interrogator is led from the transport, he is briefly silhouetted in black against the molten red glow, his posture upright and elegant despite the confining chains, his gaze unflinching, and a tiny smile playing about his lips as he raises chained hands, eloquently mocking his captors with their numbers and his utter helplessness among them. So many . . . for just one man.

The ranks close about The Interrogator: Alliance Rose and UNIT, flanked by Imperial Guardsmen, and he is escorted toward the immense, thick-planked doors that slowly swing open as the group approaches.

Then HE is within the walls, and the doors are closed . . .

"The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces . . ." I hope I'm remembering those castle pics correctly, Suzanne!--MA
P.S.--Do be careful, now that HE is under your roof. =8-O, - Tuesday, January 25, 2000 at 17:12:06 (PST)

“Days the Forty-first to the Fiftieth of my Exile, in the months of December and January – In which I am moved by the Christmas spirit in an unhealthy manner.”

The news that our bride-to-be was on her way caused the servants to snap to it with a vengeance. Maids scrubbed and scoured every available surface until I wouldn’t have been surprised to trip over one of them in the stables. I couldn’t swear to it but it did seem that even my horse looked somehow shinier by the end of the week.

Of course they paid particular attention to the large central bedroom that was going to be Melisant’s. An extra bed was set up in the corner for the maid who would come with her; bolsters and sheets were aired and sprinkled with lavender water; and the wood was polished to a high glow.

All of this was finished by Christmas and the servants subsided into their usual midwinter state of barely animated torpor. Which was just as well for Joya and I as we had a major problem to resolve as the holiday approached.

Hunting lodges are, by definition, casual dwelling places located in forests and far from towns with churches. They do not have chapels because their inhabitants, being short-term residents, are not likely to need them. We had taken advantage of these facts to pretty much ignore Sunday mass. This was fine with the servants who would just as soon not have to walk for eight hours to get to Barnesdale.

But Christmas was special and not for religious reasons. Walter of Krone, the new lord in Barnesdale, would probably know by now that the lodge was occupied, if not from Adam then certainly from the sheriff. He would be expecting someone from here to attend Christmas mass at the closest church in the area. If we didn’t go, it would arouse suspicion and that was to be avoided at all cost.

Joya and I discussed the matter over the course of several days and finally hit on our strategy. The two of us, with her maid, would ride into Barnesdale on Christmas Eve and stay at the Blue Boar. In the morning Joya and her maid would go to church; I would follow them at a distance, wrapped in a plain cloak. If I was satisfied that I did not recognise anyone going through the doors, I would follow them into church. If I did see a familiar face that would be likely to know me, I would slip away to the inn to await Joya’s return. Should things become really dangerous, I would take my horse from the stables and meet her outside the town. But we did not expect to run into that kind of trouble.

The weather was fine as we set out for Barnesdale. We had to hold to a walk since Sal, the maid, was not comfortable on a horse and yelped in fear at any pace faster than a trot. It was annoying not to be able to give our horses their heads but anything was better than listening to her keening wails. We arrived at the inn in time for a late dinner, which we ate in Joya’s room, keeping away from the public room.

The next morning was crisp and clear as only mid-winter in the north of England can be. Joya dressed with particular care in a deep blue gown that matched her eyes perfectly. A gold cross inlaid with sapphires hung on a thick chain around her neck and her veil was so fine as to be almost transparent. More than one person stopped dead in their tracks as we made our way to church and my hand tightened on my sword hilt more than once as some man showed his interest too openly.

The church in Barnesdale was named after some local saint who’d got the short end of the stick in a battle with the resident pagans some centuries ago. It was more modest than the one in Nottingham and not nearly as spacious. Taking up my position across the road and looking through the open doors, I could see that the pews were packed. Joya glanced at me once, winking conspiratorially, and then she and her maid went inside.

Most of the people going to mass seemed to be peasants or workers from the poorer parts of town; I saw few cloaks of any quality and even fewer furs and swords. I did see Estrilda walking beside a small, thin-necked man with a wispy beard; her husband, the sheriff, I assumed. They entered the church as well. When most of the worshippers had gone inside, I judged it was time to follow them.

It was a long mass. The clergy had got into the holiday spirit in a big way and were swinging the incense censor around with abandon. Prayers were offered for nearly every member of the royal family born within the last century. I looked around while the priest droned on. Estrilda and her husband were squashed up against a pillar due to the press of the crowd and she did not look happy about it. Joya and her maid were close to the front, sitting beside a tall blond man who I finally recognised as Adam.

The final blessing was bestowed and the multitude began to swarm out the doors, gasping for fresh air. I slipped through a side door and was back in my earlier position by the time Joya emerged. Adam was escorting her through the crowd with care; they seemed to be enjoying themselves. I had just decided to join them when another man in a fur cape I would not have disdained myself approached them and bowed over Joya’s hand. Adam made introductions and I could only assume that this was Sir Walter of Krone, new lord of the area and good friend of Robin of Locksley, may he rot in a cesspool.

He was blond, broad shouldered although not as tall as Adam, and he seemed to be paying a great deal of attention to Joya. Not that she seemed to mind, from the exaggerated simpering she was doing. My temper began to sizzle and I dropped my hand to my sword. Joya laughed at something he said and he smirked in the most sickening fashion before he reached for her hand again to press a kiss into the palm.

That did it. I took a strong hold of my weapon and headed across the road to join my partner and her new friend.

“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
Piling cinder blocks of prose on top of each other tonight., - Monday, January 24, 2000 at 19:42:21 (PST)

"The old longing had reappeared in his soul"
THUD
Fausta <emma-mail@mailexcite.com>
I'm OK. I'm OK, - Monday, January 24, 2000 at 17:41:19 (PST)

Great to see you back again, Leigh. Ooooo, things are getting awfully tense with Hart and Grace. Again. *grin* Can't wait to see what will happen . . .

MA
Hmmm, HE should be almost to the Palace by now . . . brace yourself, Suzanne! ;-), - Sunday, January 23, 2000 at 19:34:03 (PST)

Resuming a very much delayed dinner at the Alisal Ranch:

Grace leaned close to Hart to whisper over his menu, "Lukas, did everyone else have supper early? It's deserted in here. . . like we're the only guests in the place."

Hart, absorbed in the menu, didn't look up at her but simply murmured a long, drawn-out "um, hummmmmmm."

Grace knew that she was sometimes slow to recognize the obvious. But she was thunderstruck as realized, at last, that they were the only guests at the ranch. With an effort, she forced herself to casually peruse the menu and ask, just as casually, "Did you buy the entire ranch, Lukas, or just rent it?"

She thought she heard him suppress a snort behind the heavy cardboard menu, but couldn't be sure. He kept his eyes locked on the menu. "Merely rented it for a few days, darling. Didn't want to share it. . . or you . . . with anyone else. Not for a while."

She kept her eyes on her own menu. Once again he had staggered her with the raw emotion in his voice, but again delivered as casually as the weather report. He waited a long beat before he continued. "Would have been a bad bargain to buy the place, since you refuse everything I want to give you." His tone was still casual, but now had a cruel edge of anger that came from disappointment and frustration as much as anything else.

Grace blushed a humiliated red down to the scooped neck of her midnight blue Donna Karan tank dress, thinking he was angry she had refused his offer of the house on the hill. Over the time they had been together, she had been through a wide range of unaccustomed emotions with Hart as he had slowly, methodically, dismantled her distrust of him and replaced it with a mutual passion that sometimes left her breathless. She had seen him angry before, but never with this cold, steely flash of cruelty, and through it all she had never been truly afraid of him. Until today.

Her first blind instinct was to bolt, as she had the first time he had tried to kiss her. She pushed back her chair and walked on shaky legs out of the dining room and onto the broad wooden porch. Then she stopped dead in her tracks, almost laughing at herself as she realized she was in the dark in the middle of nowhere. She heard Hart's quick footsteps behind her, then felt her arms go around her and seat her on the wooden bench outside the dining room. The night had turned cold, and she allowed him to keep his arms around her. There was nowhere to run this time.

It is time to stop being a coward with him, she told herself.

Leigh
Missed y'all. Wonderful stuff going on here!, - Sunday, January 23, 2000 at 17:28:46 (PST)

"Somehow I can't see you doing that." They watched Running Bear use the backs of the cattle to stepping stone across the water.

"You can't even avoid trouble on dry land." PL used the whip length to nudge the last of the cattle away from Sinclair.

"I'll dispute the dry aspect." Wincing as the Indian's final leap took the horse under water. "... But you are right, I couldn't have done that - not even for Claire."

Sinclair wiped an even larger smudge across his forehead. He was talking to noone for PL had bounded off to the the latest wagon drawing up for the crossing.

"Knew you could do it darlin'."

Dana presumed the remark was for her, but where PL was concerned it could always have applied to his favourite lead oxen. Leastwise it was Daisy who got the smack on the rump.

Claire
- Sunday, January 23, 2000 at 14:14:44 (PST)

Stumbling the horse lost footing. Caused neither by the sweep of the river, nor bustling of fellow water borne companions but a sudden doubling of load. If the pommel had not driven speech with the last gasp of air slammed from her body Claire would have given Sinclair a few chosen words. Roughly of the order You left this a bit late.

As the mount regained balance, she coughed. Trying to gradually draw breath without panic. Calmed by the reassuring presence snuggly sharing the saddle, reaching into the water to retrieve the training reins, prodding the nearest heifer to keep a safe distance.

Later she would assume that the cold had numbed more than extremities. Oblivious to the gloveless hands and the missing hide chaps, surely she ought to have noticed the broad shoulders enfolding her could hardly be those of Sinclair.

But it was not so. The next few minutes passed in companionable silence of joint endeavour urging the horse through the last of the waters, steering upstream from the cattle exit towards the corral of newly crossed wagons, already a hive of activity for the evening settlement.

Claire
No haven't forgotten where this place is ... (grin), - Sunday, January 23, 2000 at 12:07:28 (PST)

Andrea’s guestroom:

Mary Anne is out of her chair, moving to Brandon and drawing him off to one side of the room as Mesmer goes to Andrea. She hears his soft questioning of "Awake so soon--?" before it is interrupted by Brandon’s low murmur of, "She promised she would not do this . . ."

"Do what, sir?"

"Ask you about—that. About The Interrogator."

Mary Anne casts an anxious look over her shoulder to be certain they are not overheard, but Mesmer and Andrea appear to be conferring together, with Dot standing by, and none of them even glance in Mary Anne’s direction.

Pitching her voice for Brandon’s hearing alone, she continues. "So, you have already discussed this with her, then?"

Brandon hesitates, resting his hand on Mary Anne’s arm for a moment as if to draw her further away, then removing his hand as if he fears she will shatter at his touch. "I . . . yes, I have, shortly after she first arrived for the wedding. You were fearful of what would occur if people knew—"

"Yet you explained it to Hans. There’s a frightening prospect if ever I saw one."

"I had no choice. He had already gained some knowledge of it; better for him to hear the rest from me, than from some other to whom it would have been no better than a choice item of gossip." Aware that his voice has risen involuntarily, Brandon waits a moment to still himself. "And Miss Andrea’s connection with . . . HIM . . . whatever the nature of it . . ."

"That’s why I told her, sir. I swear to you, she broke no promise. But it frightened her to have felt HIS pain that time and have no idea why. I had to say something—when I hurt The Interrogator, I hurt her, too, and I never wanted that to happen." It has become a weary, repetitious chant for her. "I never wanted any of it to happen . . ."

Once again, Brandon’s hand hovers over her, finally coming to rest lightly on her shoulder. "You could not help it." A pause. "But having her know this . . ."

"Well, sir?"

"Just before we came here, Doctor Mesmer confided to me that he does not know whether he can undo that connection between Miss Andrea and The Interrogator. That perhaps only HE can do that."

"Then if HE goes to trial again--!"

Brandon quiets her. "Doctor Mesmer has already thought of it and I believe he has taken what steps he can about preventing harm to Miss Andrea. But I must think, also, of preventing harm to you."

"Well—I’ve been afraid every time I spoke of it, but so far, everyone seems to understand. You, after it happened . . . well, I was afraid you’d hate me, but you didn’t. And Renie understood, and so did Hans. As for Andrea, it seems to have taken a burden from her, just knowing what happened, and why. I’m beginning to think there’ll be no harm . . ."

"Oh? What do you suppose Mister de Valera would think?"

Mary Anne pales. She had forgotten Dev. And it would terrify Therese, after what she went through. No, better if he doesn’t know—at least, not yet!

Her thoughts are clear upon her face, for Brandon replies with a nod and a grim, "Yes. You see."

There is a lull in the conversation between Andrea and Mesmer, and Brandon speaks in his natural voice, turning Mary Anne toward the door. "I think it would be best, my dearest, if you went to our rooms and rested—it has been a trying day. I will see you this evening."

The spark in Mary Anne’s eye is worthy of Therese; she does not take well, either, to being ordered about, and she does perceive the tone of an order under Brandon’s calm suggestion. In other words: go to your room and stay out of trouble until I call for you!

She is not about to embarrass herself or Brandon by having a quarrel with him before their guests. However, she manages to inject considerable dry irony into her quiet, "Yes, sir," before nodding to Andrea, Mesmer, and Dot, and letting herself out of the room.

*****************************

A place where I can be alone and quiet.

Mary Anne lies in the bed in her little chamber that Brandon had set aside for her. This is the first time she has tried to sleep in this small bed, and despite her lingering irritation and undeniable fatigue, she misses Brandon beside her: his warmth, the sound of his breathing, the occasional touch as he turns in his sleep and his arm settles protectively across her.

He said it would be good for me to have this place where I can be alone and quiet. Private. I suppose so . . .

She could even lock him out, if she wished. The door has been repaired in her absence, though she doubts that delicate lemonwood could keep Brandon out if he wished to enter, especially with the copper works of a lock that is more for show than for safety. But I wouldn’t want to lock him out. I know I wouldn’t. What is wrong with me? Yes, I’m aggravated, but a man can have worse faults than being protective. Maybe even a little overprotective? Hmmmm, maybe I should talk to Therese about that as well. Dev certainly guards her with his life . . .

You do know what’s the matter with you, don’t you, Mary Anne? You’re actually having to live with Christopher now and you’re finding out he isn’t perfect. That some of the same things you’ve always thought were wonderful about him might not be so wonderful every day, or at close range . . .

Oh, shut up. Count yourself lucky. He loves you. So much.

Her eyes are getting heavy. The down coverlet is a cocoon of warmth that lulls her toward sleep as her gaze flickers about the room. This room, that Brandon had added especially for her. The details so tastefully chosen—the gilt-tipped moldings, the rich fabrics in all the colours she favours. The handsome armoire. An oriental-style jewel case, in which it seems she finds some new gift practically every time she opens it. The bedside bookcase. The firescreen, shining brass, formed and painted to resemble a peacock spreading its feathers, with the eye-pattern on every plume picked out in brilliant blue enamel that glitters as the flames shine through it . . .

A drowsy smile. Just like him. A peacock, hmmmm? Appropriate. I am vain, sometimes. More than I should be. Trust him to take a fault and make it a beauty . . .

Her eyelids flicker.

He loves you. So much.

Her eyes close.

MA--Ahhhhh, feels good to make a real post again!
Andrea, I left Brandon there in case you needed him. *wink*, - Saturday, January 22, 2000 at 15:22:40 (PST)

Some petition, Andrea. If that doesn't move Her Majesty, nothing will . . . I could just hear that Mesmer voice as I read it, and it would melt a heart of stone. (Except, perhaps, HIS.)

A couple of other matters: remember that we have a Writing Project coming up at Claudia's! I'm hoping for a big turnout on this one. And, as usual, I'm sure she'd be open to the idea of extensions--wouldn't you, Clods? ;-)

Finally, I regret to report that Therese is having computer trouble and that's why she's been so scarce lately. (Right, Dev, you can relax; she hasn't left you for someone else.) She'll be back ASAP, when "Mac" is better.

And now, on with our thrilling narratives!

MA, Roving Reporter for the Realm
Okay, where to next: Imperial Palace or Andrea's guestroom? Decisions, decisions . . . , - Thursday, January 20, 2000 at 21:07:50 (PST)

Immediately before Mesmer and Brandon stride to Andrea's guest room, the doctor sends a dispatch to The Empress:

Your Majesty,

Thank you for permitting your most humble servant to present this petition. I seek Your Majesty's wise counsel on a matter of utmost urgency.

Your Majesty's loyal subject, and my patient, Miss Andrea, suffers the grave misfortune of enduring the physical and mental anguish inflicted upon the criminal currently in Your Majesty's custody.

And so, I beseech Your Majesty to show mercy to the man for the sake of the woman, at least until Miss Andrea can be released from sharing in HIS torment.

Furthermore, it saddens me to report that the breadth of my knowledge and skill has proved insufficient to secure Miss Andrea's protection from HIS influence. I fear that the prisoner may be the only soul able to effect a remedy.

Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,
Franz Anton Mesmer

Andrea
- Thursday, January 20, 2000 at 20:15:06 (PST)

“Day the Fortieth of my Exile, in the month of December – In which I begin to deal more intelligently with my partner.”

There was quite a spring in my step as I entered the lodge after seeing Adam off. There might have been – I freely admit it – more than a hint of a swagger in my walk. Even the servants noticed. I could feel their eyes watching me as I ran up the stairs to Joya’s room. I couldn’t wait to inform her of the change in our relationship.

I was just outside her door and reaching for the latch when it swung open to reveal her maid on the threshold. The girl blinked at me in surprise, bobbed her head in a respectful manner, then scurried down the hall as fast as she could go. The impression I made on her when we first arrived at the lodge has proved to be indelible.

Kicking the door shut behind me I strolled into the bedroom and sprawled in the great carved chair by the fire. Joya sat up in bed and looked enquiringly at me. I smiled at her and…

Promptly had second thoughts.

After all if I confronted Joya with this new development, it would give her time to turn the tables on me. I have had sufficient evidence of her quickness of mind. And like me, she is playing a high stakes game. It was most deflating to acknowledge that she could outmanoeuvre me. I kicked at the fur in front of the hearth to relieve my feelings.

“What’s wrong, George?” Joya was standing beside my chair; so lost in my thoughts was I that I hadn’t noticed her movements. “You looked so happy a minute ago. Don’t tell me you miss our young knight already?”

I pulled myself together. She didn’t need to know. I would keep this new information to myself. If she found out somehow, at least I would have time to come up with another plan. As I examined this idea carefully from all angles, I became aware that she was speaking again.

“Thomas returned last night while we were having dinner. He brought a letter from Mauger.” Joya tossed a sealed parchment into my lap. “Sal delivered it just now.”

I picked it up and broke the seal. Joya promptly took its place on my knee to gaze at me expectantly. I began to read out loud:

“He couldn’t afford me. I am an expensive wench.” Joya laughed. Raising my voice slightly, I continued:

“So we are to brave the dreaded Sheriff of Nottingham’s depredations on our own, are we?” Joya snorted. “How are we to bear it?”

I folded the letter and slipped it into my belt. Ten days from the writing of the letter meant eight days from today. Our lives were about to become more complicated. And hopefully more lucrative.

Joya settled herself more comfortably on my lap. “I’m afraid Sir Mauger will find that there isn’t much that we can avoid when it comes to spending money. We should get at it.”

“It’s an endeavour we should be able to throw ourselves into, at any rate.” With an firm grip on my soft burden, I rose quickly to my feet. Joya shrieked and clutched at my shoulders to steady herself. “And since we’ve only got another week before our privacy is permanently invaded, let’s take advantage of it now.” I stepped across the room and dropped her on the bed.

Joya smiled up at me while I pulled off my belt. The letter fluttered to the floor. “You still haven’t told me what was bothering you earlier.”

I tossed my more dispensable garments on the floor. “Never mind, sweetheart. It’s not important anymore.” Then I devoted myself to other matters.

“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
if you keep your eyes covered you won't be able to type, - Wednesday, January 19, 2000 at 14:36:09 (PST)

Oooooo! ACK! Hans upset . . . I don't know if I can watch this . . .

MA
Covering eyes (but peeking through fingers), - Monday, January 17, 2000 at 17:10:06 (PST)

Italics fixed.
Yes, I think you would be safer in the slammer than in Hans's grip.
D.o.C.

Oh, great. Look what I just did. DOC HELLLLLLP! That'll teach me for upsetting a Gruber.
Claudia
- Monday, January 17, 2000 at 17:04:55 (PST)

"You are well, Claudia?" Hans enquired, pronouncing the end of her name like an affirmation ya. She was in the sickbay. Was she well.

"I…" it wasn't the question she had been expecting. She wondered if Hans was asking if she was healthy in the same manner the Interrogator did. Do you have any condition I should be aware of? so HE knew just how far HE could go, without killing the body before breaking the mind.

She tried to push between Hans and Colin, but both reached out and held an arm, stopping her in her tracks. Colin looked concerned, which surprised her. His eyes searching hers.

"What's going on here?" he asked her, and looked behind her at the others in the room.

Renie uncurled from tired position in her chair. She'd made herself so small she'd become invisible, until she unrolled her body and stood. "Its OK, Hans, Colin. I'll explain as we walk."

"Where are we going" Asked Colin, he and Hans still immobilising Claudia, but his other hand nonchalantly in his trouser pocket.

"There are a load of guards of various types out side the Tardis," said Claudia, meeting his eyes with dark sad ones. "I'm going to give myself up."

"Zooo, it's true," said Hans, his grip tightening on her arm. "You are working for the Interrogator."
Claudia
- Monday, January 17, 2000 at 17:03:46 (PST)

ROFL! Well, Clods, that sure broke the tension! ;-D

MA
Or maybe Hans could bounce like Tigger? "That's what Grubers do best!" Nahhhh, don't think so . . ., - Monday, January 17, 2000 at 16:00:34 (PST)

Yes MA, sort of brings to mind Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout to me, hahaha! Time for bed Boiiiiing.
Claudia
- Monday, January 17, 2000 at 13:54:54 (PST)

Claudia--some line, Hans looking like "a coiled spring in a designer suit." *shiver* Yeah, he just might take matters into his own hands . . .

MA
And poor, poor Ed! *sniff*, - Monday, January 17, 2000 at 12:28:08 (PST)

Claudia quickly pulled on a pair of jeans, covering her legs. Ed couldn't even look at her. She hadn't told him how badly she had betrayed him, how she had tried to get close to the Interrogator. But she was sure he must know. It was in his body language. His shoulders shook with suppressed sobs - or was it suppressed anger. His eyes unfocussed, trying not to believe what was happening, taking himself back to a safe time and place.

And this is precisely what she had wanted to avoid. She didn't want Ed hurt, she didn't want him here, or anywhere close to her. He reminded her of their fun and love, and that was all she didn't need right now, when she had to harden her heart, and walk away from him for good. She clasped her arms around her own body, when all she wanted to do was run and hug him, holding him close, stroking his hair and telling him not to worry, it would all be alright.

It was a lie, it wouldn't be alright anymore. She had to go now. Had to walk away, and make it as easy for him as possible. She walked straight by him, and towards the door of the sickbay. "Let's go then Doctor," she said. No physical contact, no last kiss, no promise to wait for each other. It's over Ed, you're free of me, its for your own good.

She reached the doorway and stumbled. Two pairs of eyes scrutinising her, Hans and Colin. Hans' steely glare, standing as always looking like a coiled spring in a designer suit. She knew he was a dangerous man if crossed, and Renie wouldn't have had time to tell him of their talk. And Colin – he just reminded her of betrayal. Her body's betrayal. It was in his eyes, the question. And she couldn't answer it. But she could meet their gazes, pleading for understanding, hoping Hans wouldn't decide now was a good time to take matters into his own hands.
Claudia
- Monday, January 17, 2000 at 12:18:56 (PST)

The convoy:

The day wears on. The Interrogator's eyes are closed and yes, HE has actually slept a little, smug in the knowledge that HE is safe among these people; their obedience and virtue will not have it otherwise.

But behind those closed eyes, behind the feigning of continued sleep, HIS mind muses.

A dream of fair women . . .

HE cannot instantly recall what poet had coined that phrase, though perhaps Mary Anne could tell if she were there. But HE does not allow his mind to dwell for more than a second or two on Mary Anne. That will come later, at HIS leisure. For now, practical matters.

The convoy is proceeding unhindered, and it is likely that HE will stand—or be forced to HIS knees, more likely—before The Empress in a very short time. Mental preparation is imperative. However, it is not The Empress for whom HE must prepare himself so much as the woman who dwells behind that title, a person as yet unknown to HIM despite exhaustive efforts in collecting information.

Of course THEY have a dossier on Her Majesty, but The Interrogator discerns that he faces far more peril from the woman than from The Empress. The ruler, the public presence, will feel some constraints where HE is concerned: the necessity to do justice, tempered with the desire to deal mercifully if at all possible. But how will she in her own person respond to HIM, in what she thinks is the privacy of her own heart? Here is the fine line HE must tread—to perceive what will please her.

The Interrogator knows, of course, how she looks. Her image is everywhere in the Realm. There had been an outpouring of portraits at her ascension to the throne—such as the Throne Portrait itself, the largest of all of the officially-commissioned likenesses. A full-body view, with Her Majesty poised upon that throne known as The Excelsior. Upward. Higher. A throne out of a fairy-tale dream, with the spreading swan-like wings unfolding from the back and in its very construction the subtle pun upon the whole idea of Ascension. A throne meant for a coronation, and this whole portrait had been contrived to dazzle, almost to overpower. The Empress, majestic in authority, blazing with diamonds, her expression solemn, her eyes squarely meeting those of the gazer. One hand gripping the sceptre . . .

HE smiles a little, wondering if any eyes but his had ever noted the beauty and purity of line in that hand—almost too delicate for such a weight . . .

Or there is the Truth portrait, so called because it is a closer view, more intimate. Approachable. More simply clad. One hand extended as if to invite a petitioner to draw near, certain of a fair hearing. And since the view is so close, only part of the Imperial banner upon the wall is visible over one shoulder: the Vere of Vere, Dementer, Graviter.

They are good portraits, HE knows. Revealing. Portraiture is a difficult art, though HE must admit—from what HE had seen in her dossier—that Claudia has a genuine talent for it. HE would have enjoyed discussing art with her, on some occasion or other.

But HE returns to the business at hand. What does all of this paint on canvas reveal of that woman? Not The Empress, but the as-yet undiscovered she who must be confronted or placated . . .

That she is beautiful goes without saying. That she is aware of it and takes pleasure in it is revealed by her expression in all of the portraits without exception—a shine in the eyes, though that sparkle also indicates a sense of irony. Intelligent, then. Not easy to trap in vanity.

No matter. There must be . . . something.

HE allows his mind to rest a little—important for what lies ahead. Those fair women, their passage through HIS thoughts.

Those few moments when Renie had stood before HIM, for instance. Impossible to deny that HIS plans had yet again come to ruin because of her—well, partly. And just as impossible to deny that HIS heart had leapt upon seeing her alive; she was NOT in that Egdon hillside.

Claudia. Oh, but you will have a merry time of it, explaining things to your friends. I wish you joy of your conscience, dear lady.

Therese. Genuinely interesting. HE had not been so challenged in years—not in precisely that way—by a female subject in a standard interrogation procedure. She had earned HIS respect.

Oddly, HIS mind shies from thinking of Mary Anne. It had been hilarious to contemplate what the outraged Eamon de Valera would have thought if he could have known Mary Anne had broken HIM out of prison. But it is not an experience HE cares to remember, for she is the only one of HIS victims on record who successfully exacted such revenge against HIM. As HE had told Therese: many had tried. And many wish to do so, but cannot. However, the exact combination of circumstances that permitted Mary Anne to perform this feat would probably be impossible to duplicate.

Could she even take credit for it? She could never have done it under her own power.

Not her fault, really . . .

HIS hand moves, so lightly that the chains do not even clink as HE fingers his chest, imagining the thin white lines of the healed scars.

The Interrogator turns HIS mind to Andrea—having quite deliberately saved her for last, since thinking of her is soothing to HIM in some inexplicable way. She is, HE knows, sympathetic to the man who saved her life and her pity charms HIM by some manner that not even Mary Anne can duplicate. Mary Anne's pity is a weapon. A dare. A challenge to me, saying that I cannot bring her to my level. But Andrea . . .

If properly approached, she would desire to help.

The Interrogator allows HIS hand to remain where it is--resting upon HIS heart--as if another touched HIM there, and the convoy proceeds . . .

MA--following your example of long posts, Magda.
Yeah, right, as if I needed an excuse! *grin* , - Sunday, January 16, 2000 at 20:21:07 (PST)

"Days the Thirty-ninth and Fortieth of my Exile, in the month of December – In which the pendulum swings in my favour once again."

We lay in bed watching the fire burn down to a pile of glowing embers. It was very late but we had much to discuss before we slept.

"I don't like it, George." Joya propped her head on my chest. "I'm not sure why, but I don't like it."

I shrugged as best I could without dislodging her. "We didn't tell him anything. He's leaving tomorrow at first light. Don't worry about it."

She pushed back the covers and sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees and looking down at me. "I'm not worried exactly, at least not about Adam. But this new lord…" Her voice trailed away. The warm glow from the hearth gilded her features.

An hour earlier I had thought I would never be able to move again. Now my pulse was beating faster and my sluggish blood began to heat. But this was an important discussion, so I crossed my hands behind my head and concentrated on her words.

I knew what she meant, of course. Adam's conversation at the table last night had given us much food for thought. Having assured himself of a meal and a bed for the night, he was more than happy to tell us everything he knew about current events in the area. In order to make sure he didn't suffer an attack of discretion, I kept his tankard liberally topped up throughout the evening.

As the fourth son of a lord in Lincoln, he had been destined for the church as a boy and entered a monastery at the age of six. The deaths of two of his brothers had forced his father to retrieve him from the religious life so that he could be trained as a knight. He cheerfully admitted that he would have made a poor monk and that he quite enjoyed learning how to brawl in a lordly manner with expensive weaponry. But early training can never really be eradicated. Underneath all his high spirits Adam yearns to serve a higher cause than he has yet found in the secular world. And that yearning brings him to Barnesdale.

"I wanted to be a Crusader but I was too young. And besides, I knew Father would never allow me to risk getting killed, not with two of my brothers dead." He sighed deeply and stared at his plate for a moment, then soothed his melancholy with a crust of bread dripping with gravy. "So I'm doing the next best thing." He paused to lick his fingers.

"What a clever idea that is." Joya smiled at him. "Offering your services to a new lord is a great opportunity to acquire wealth. Some more ale?"

"Oh, it's not the wealth I'm interested in." He held out his tankard so I could fill it. "Although my father likes that part of it. No, the reason I chose Sir Walter of Krone is that he most embodies the kind of knight that I want to be. I expect to profit more from his example than his riches."

Proof, if any were needed, that it takes all kinds to make a world. Of course, he is very young still. I am willing to make allowances for youthful folly.

Adam continued. "But he wasn't my first choice at all. My very first choice was Robin of Locksley. He's my hero."

I clenched my fist around my goblet. That name again. The bile rose in my throat and a wave of rage began to build inside of me.

Joya shot me a puzzled look and hastily intervened. "More chicken, Adam? The cream sauce is one of cook's specialties."

"Thank you, my – I mean, Joya." He grinned boyishly at his mistake. "Anyway, it was Lord Locksley who suggested I offer my services to Lord Krone. Locksley has enough retainers for now. All the men who were in the forest with him were knighted by the king."

I was going to be ill. I just knew it. There could be no other explanation for the roiling in my belly.

Joya watched me anxiously before returning to our guest. "I am not familiar with Lord Locksley. Is he new to Yorkshire?"

"Actually he's in Nottinghamshire, right in Nottingham itself. He chased off the sheriff who stirred up so much trouble down there." Adam dipped his spoon into the sauce again.

Under the table, Joya placed her hand on my knee and squeezed gently. It was not an erotic touch but I felt strangely comforted. I placed my hand on hers and stroked her fingers.

"Walter of Krone is a friend of Locksley's from the Crusade. King Richard," Adam bobbed his head to indicate respect for the throne. "King Richard is searching out the barons who were less than loyal during his absence and replacing them with his own men. Lord Locksley will take over Nottingham and Lord Krone will get the southern part of Yorkshire around Barnesdale. And that's why I'm heading to Barnesdale as fast as I can." He gulped down another bite of chicken and reached for his ale.

So we definitely had a lot to discuss in bed last night. A new lord always means upheaval in a shire since there's a lot of poking around by clerks. Every lord needs money and new lords need it more than most. When I came of age and took over my own shire, I sent out armies of nosy scribes. And the last thing Joya and I want to see around this area is a nosy scribe.

We tossed ideas back and forth but in the end decided we needed more information. Our plan is to ensure that we keep in touch with Adam so that we will hear about this Lord Krone's plans well in advance. Joya didn't like it but really, there is nothing else we can do at this time. She bit her lip and was ready to worry the issue some more but I put a stop to that in a way that was mutually agreeable. And then we slept.

This morning I was up early to see our guest on his way. Joya was too tired to rise, something that I flatter myself I was responsible for. Adam and I broke the fast with bread, cheese and milk and I had the cook prepare a lunch for him to eat on the road. He was beaming as I escorted him to the stable for his horse.

"Please express my thanks to the Lady Joya for the gracious hospitality she extended to me last night." He mounted his destrier with one bound and adjusted himself in the saddle. I handed him his lunch and stepped back from the prancing animal. "I'm sorry her ankle is paining her this morning."

"She joins me in desiring you to come back for a visit once you get settled with your new lord." I watched him closely under cover of my most gracious smile. He seemed genuinely pleased with the invitation. I also noticed that he seemed not to be suffering any ill effects from his libations last night. Ah, youth.

"I will be right glad to do that. Actually," He leaned forward in a confidential manner until his head was level with his saddle. "I'm glad it's just us this morning because I wanted to ask you if I said anything last night that wasn't fit for a lady to hear."

I was puzzled. "No, there was nothing. Why do you ask?"

"Well, I'm not used to drinking so much and my father says my tongue can run away with me." He flushed to the roots of his hair. "Lady Joya is the most beautiful lady I have ever seen. I would not want her to think me an uncouth bumpkin. But I saw things in Nottingham I would not want to shock her with."

"Like what?" Still smiling, I reached for his horse's bridle and held on tight.

"Well." He paused to look around then leaned even closer and dropped his voice. "Well, like when I was in the main hall at Locksley Manor and they brought the sheriff's body in so Lord Locksley could identify him. That was too gruesome for Lady Joya to hear about."

I had the distinct impression the earth was heaving under my feet. "The sheriff's body?"

"Yes." Adam sat back in the saddle again and resumed his normal tone. "Apparently he tried to swim across the river and drowned. Some fishermen found his body in the reeds. Lord Locksley identified him and the king agreed with him. So that chapter is closed now and life goes on in Nottingham. As life will go on for me in Yorkshire. I bid you farewell, sir." He saluted me with one gloved hand, pulled his horse's head around and trotted off down the road to Barnesdale.

I stood staring after him for some time, mechanically waving but my mind whirling. So I was officially dead, was I? My first impulse was to tell Joya so we could laugh about it. My next thought was that the balance of power between us had shifted once again, this time in my favour. If the sheriff were declared dead by no less an authority than the king, no one would believe her if she claimed that I was the man. My beautiful thief was once again vulnerable.

"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
Sorry for the length; it's a little crowded today, - Sunday, January 16, 2000 at 10:28:40 (PST)

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