February 1st - February 15th, 2000
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Magda--"snorfle," n. sing.--a hastily-smothered laugh, bearing some resemblance to a snort. n. plur.--snorfles.
v.--to snorfle; snorfled; snorfling.
Hope this helps.
MA--These came straight from the OED . . .
. . . the Oxford Ellis Dictionary. ;-), - Tuesday, February 15, 2000 at 20:45:08 (PST)
"Day the Forty-fifth, in the month of December – In which Sir Walter of Krone displays his talent for detective work."
Just as the soldiers began to approach me with practised skill, the sound of a door opening behind me caught everyone's attention.
"Might I ask what in the name of everything holy is going on?" Joya appeared in the doorway to my room, fully dressed and with her hair hanging in two long braids over her shoulders. Her voice had all the warmth of an arctic wind. I looked over my shoulder; she seemed to have herself well in hand again but was still quite pale.
"Lady Joya! Upon my life I had no idea you were here!" Krone crossed the hall in two strides. He lifted Joya's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss onto her fingers. Then he turned with another thunderous scowl. "Knave, your infamy knows no limit! To have brought this lovely lady with you into this vile cesspool of dissolution, this sink of iniquity, this -"
Joya interrupted the sermon. "George and I go everywhere together. We are partners." She adroitly retrieved her hand. "Indeed Sir Walter, I am most curious to know why those men are menacing my escort when he single-handedly saved me from the depredations of a pack of loathsome men."
The four soldiers about-faced and retreated to the stairs. Adam permitted himself a small grin. Krone smiled in a manner calculated to pacify a woman. "Forgive me, my lady. The thought of you being subjected to insult caused me to forget myself. But I am sure you exaggerate. We found no pack of men when we came up here."
Joya frowned. "Of course you didn't. George had already thrown the ruffians downstairs." She stepped closer to my side and slipped her arm through mine. "It was the bravest thing I've ever seen."
This was very pleasant and personally I could have stood there all night watching Krone's face turn various shades of red but we were once again attracting unwanted attention. If Krone were pushed too far he would insist on arresting me just to prove that he was in charge and that would be very bad. I cast about for some way to break out of this logjam. Fortunately Adam seemed to have the same idea. He poked his head up over the crowd. "What pack of men, Lady Joya? Tell us about it."
"The horrible miscreants who battered the doors. Fortunately I had not yet retired for the evening and was able to rush across the hall to George's room. With only one sword he was able to overwhelm them and send them back where they came from." She stopped and drew a shuddering breath. "However one of the fiends managed to get into my room and take the life of my poor, young maid."
Adam stepped around Krone and moved to Joya's side. "Don't force yourself to remember the details. It must have awful for you." He took her hand and squeezed it in a brotherly fashion. She smiled up at him.
Krone saw his chance to jump in again and grabbed it. "I'm afraid I'm not too clear on this, Lady Joya. You say that…Giles…here chased these marauders downstairs but we saw no one of that description." He ignored Adam's whispered correction of my name.
"Indeed." Joya assumed her regal manner again. "Then they must be downstairs still. If you will lead the way, I should be happy to identify them for you."
Krone bowed and gestured for her to proceed us down the stairs. Joya nodded and acquiesced.
The scene down below had changed dramatically since we saw it last. Broken tables were piled in a heap in the centre of the room. The revellers sat on benches against the walls, trying to avoid attention. The landlord and his wife were arguing in the back room with someone, their voices blending into a harmonious cacophony. A dozen soldiers were standing around in strategic positions. Even a cursory glance around the room revealed that our assailants were not present. I began to grow uneasy.
Joya had noticed in the same instant. An uncertain frown appeared between her brows as she scanned the faces staring at her in open curiosity. "They are not here."
Krone's smile oozed over his face. "I'm afraid that cannot be possible. You see, no one has been allowed to leave this inn since we arrived." Adam nodded reluctantly nodded in confirmation and Odo's head waggled up and down with manic energy. Krone turned back to Joya. "So my lady, it seems we have a slight problem. How should we resolve it?"
Joya looked around the room again. "Could they be hiding in some back room or basement, Sir Walter? There must have been great confusion down here when you first arrived."
Krone rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, yes it was. Let us check with the landlord." He jerked his head at Odo who ran back to find the tavernkeeper.
That individual came into the room looking harassed and unhappy, his hair standing on end where he must have run his fingers through it several times. He looked at Krone with reluctant respect. "Aye, sir? Ye wanted me?"
"I did, my good man." Krone swept his arm around to indicate the building. "Are there any rooms on this floor where a man or men could hide themselves after coming down the stairs? Or a basement storage room perhaps?"
The landlord answered so fast I knew he was lying. "Oh, no my lord. We's just a small shop. No need to have those below ground rooms like the big taverns got." His voice turned whiny. "That's what I been explaining to the captain, sir. Ain't fair that you done come to my place like this when so many others do the same thing. Just trying to make a honest pence we is, sir."
Krone swatted this plaint aside briskly. "Enough of that. Just answer the question."
The landlord winced at the gesture. "The answer is no, my lord."
"Well, my lady." With a deep bow, Krone turned to Joya. "It would seem that these men just vanished into thin air." His smirk was almost audible.
"That is highly unlikely, Sir Walter." Joya's face was serene but her hands were clenched with white-knuckled intensity.
"I agree." Krone dropped his jocular manner. His voice became stern. "So why don't you stop protecting this man and tell us what really happened up there?"
"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
"snorfle"?, - Tuesday, February 15, 2000 at 16:34:47 (PST)
Sorry about the brain cramp!!! I can be reached at either katemj@hotmail.com or rickmaniac@ilovethemovies.com but NOT rickmaniac@hotmail.com
Kate Jones <rickmaniac@ilovethemovies.com>
- Tuesday, February 15, 2000 at 09:40:38 (PST)
We briefly interrupt this saga to deliver a brief "hello" from one who loves and misses you all terribly! Happy Belated Valentines Day and Happy Early High Holy Day (need I elucidate? I thought not...)
Hugs and kisses to all
Kate
Kate Jones <Rickmaniac@hotmail.com>
- Tuesday, February 15, 2000 at 09:37:49 (PST)
Dev's Guest Quarters, Delaford
"There now, we'll get your clothes soon enough," Dev approached Therese, his voice soothing. He knew where this was leading, and he didn't like it one bit.
"I need them now, Eamon, and you know it. That horse is hurt," she indicated the struggling animal and the two men attempting to lead it toward the stable area with limited success.
"Therese!" his voice was half sigh, half exasperation. "You can't possibly be serious. . ." he looked toward his betrothed, recognizing instantly the all too familiar mulish cast to her features, her slender arms crossed impatiently across her chest. Taking her firmly by one shoulder he lead her away from the window. "You're weak as a kitten, you need food and rest--not to go traipsing about after some--"
He was interruped by a muffled curse coming from one of the men below, followed by a tense, hurried exchange: Don't let 'er go-- Blimey, she's stronger on three legs than most of 'em with four. Hold 'er lad! I'm losing me grip!
The conversation was abruptly terminated by the distinct, sickening sound of a hoof impacting upon flesh, and rushing back to the window, Therese could see the haunches of the animal as it wheeled away from the handler, pulling from his grasp, and trailing the leadrope.
Therese bolted for the door, her progress halted in mid-stride as Dev's large hand covered the handle before her smaller one could reach to grasp it. "Don't be ridiculous, you are not going out there."
She took a small step back, and glared up at him, features determined. "Apparently you're not, but I most certainly am."
Dev sighed. He was easily capable of restraining her physically--something that he couldn't fathom doing at this point given what she'd so recently been through. She was determined to help chase down the horse, that much was utterly clear, he knew this woman too well not to realize that few things moved her more than an animal in need. . . He opened the door for her, "Allow me," he said with a resigned air.
Therese shot across the hallway and into her own quarters, grabbing quickly from her dresser drawers to acquire the necessary clothing. It took her mere moments to slip into undergarments, trousers, and paddock boots, then run a quick brush through her her and restrain it in her trademark pony tail. Dev tucked a lightweight jacket over her shoulders on her way back out, and she flashed him a grateful look.
They'd only taken a few steps down the long hallway when a very startled Scout Sifuentes met up with them. "Dev?" he asked incredulously, looking toward Therese.
"Lt. Sifuentes," Dev intoned with a half sigh, "my betrothed, Therese Gellert." He made a half turn toward the still walking woman beside him, "Therese, this is Scout, a man to whom we are both indebted."
"Lieutenant," Therese said quickly, coming to a momentary stop, "it's a great pleasure to meet you, and I'm sorry to be so terribly abrupt--but we've a horse to help catch. . ."
"A. . .horse?" Scout asked. "In your condition, ma'am?" he said to a quickly retreating back.
Dev clasped a strong hand around the other man's upper arm. "Well, off we go then--you do know something about equines, right?"
"Not a blessed thing, actually," the other man replied, before turning to follow.
Therese
Thanks, MA--it's good to be back! , - Tuesday, February 15, 2000 at 09:26:29 (PST)
Oh what may man within HIM hide
Though angel on the outward side!
Thanks for the "valentine," dearest . . . and for a few ideas. *wicked grin*
MA
And Clods . . . uh-oh. =8-O, - Monday, February 14, 2000 at 21:08:49 (PST)
In the Tardis. Claudia held in the doorway, by Hans and Colin:
"Zooo, it's true," said Hans, his grip tightening on her arm. "You are working for the Interrogator."
"I am not working for the Interrogator," Claudia's voice trembled. She knew Ed was standing behind her and she was glad she didn't have to look into his eyes. "But I was with HIM, willingly."
Hans growled, and pulled her away from Colin, and into the corridor, pushing her against the wall, and holding both of her upper arms tightly himself, his steely eyes borring into hers. "You tried to hurt Renie, what else have you done while you weren't working for the Interrogator?"
"Please," Renie was by his side, her hand stroking his back, calming. "Claudia has told me everything, and I will tell you. She had honest intentions going to HIM. She probably has no idea how HE has influenced the decisions she has made."
"Let me go Hans," Claudia felt herself being lifted, pushed up the wall, till she was standing on her toes, and was only held upright by the pressure of Hans' grip. "You will no doubt get your chance to speak your mind when I go to trial."
"It is not my mind I vas thinking of exercising."
"Hans, enough!" said Renie, digging her fingernails into his arm.
Colin came between Claudia and Hans, and tried to prise them apart. "Alright Hans, that'll do. You don't want to upset your wife, not in her condition."
Hans finally broke eye contact with Claudia, and moved away, taking his wife in his arms, gently, and turning away, to talk to her in low tones. Colin caught Claudia before she hit the floor, wrapping his arms about her.
"Steady now…"
"I'm alright Colin…"
"I'll take if from here." Colin and Claudia looked up to see Ed, standing, arms folded and face flushed with anger. Colin moved back, allowing Ed to reach Claudia, take her arm, and lead her away, up the corridor. "Perhaps", he said through gritted teeth. "while we walk to the control room, you can tell me exactly why you felt it necessary to go to the Interrogator, willingly. And how willing you actually were."
Claudia
Finally, I think I might be headed out of this place, - Monday, February 14, 2000 at 18:30:34 (PST)
Scene: The dungeons of the Imperial Palace.
The guards outside his cell take their tasks seriously, that HE can see. And feel. Moving about, always with their eyes watching , but never looking at HIM--indirectly, unobtrusively.
Trained at least as well as his own associates and underlings. How many of them had escaped the net so skillfully dropped upon them in the woods of Delaford? Through sheer numbers, some of them would have eluded the grasp of justice. They would regroup--were regrouping even now, he knew. HIS numbers constantly grew, as virtuous men and women turned from the frustration of life's meagre expectations to want something more--to demand something more.
That the forces of "good" should be astonished at this is a source of endless amusement.
But not now. HE has been examined, physically, though none of the faces has yet been familiar, since his initial arrival. Not one soul has given any word or sign that HE is, in fact, the number one cause of suffering and evil in the Realm. On the contrary, he has been treated fairly, almost too well. Honestly, to a fault.
Upstairs, somewhere, preparations have been made. But down here, in the dungeons, HE is in the dark.
Making me think it over? Very well. Reap what you sow.
HE had expected no less. Their devotion: to justice, to the Empress. But their refusal to look at HIM for any length of time . . . perhaps they have been warned against the possibility of hypnotism.
A gratified smirk wavers about his lips. Perhaps they had discovered the keys to that insidious brand of brain-rinsing which HE had practiced on Claudia. All with her help.
So much more effective that way. Giving someone a reason to do exactly what they want to do. People are so very simple. They are always more than the sum of their parts, the trick--if trick it can be called--is to let them reveal themselves. They will, sooner or later. And, knowing their character better than they do, it is little more to play upon them as if they are pipes, and HE, the cool breath moving through them.
Yes, HE had done so with each of the women HE had subjugated, held within HIS power. Within the Realm, only one had truly managed to break herself free. To cast HIM off . . . yet, that look when she had seen HIM last . . .
This is not HIS first imprisonment. Not by far. But will it be his last trial? Memories of the previous trial--fresh indeed, though time has marched through the interval. And his escape--who would aid HIM now? Not Mary Anne, no, not Mary Anne. Nor will she plead for him in the habit of Mariana or Isabella, no mere Angelo he. . .
. . . and for a moment HE pauses, at a moment long ago, when Mary Anne, helpless in the pantry, had been there for HIM . . .
A cruel smile. Without reserve. Would you even raise your eyes to me, Mary Anne, if you knew?
A sensation passes through HIM. HE shifts his weight, taking a small sip of water from the glass, which is half empty. Claudia was still ready to give up her lover and forswear her friends, but Claudia herself was to be judged for her part in his crimes and cruelties. That leaves Therese, so recently under his . . . oversight. And then, there was . . . Andrea. Andrea, who saw HIM as a good man . . . .
Two guards talk quietly. Is that a note of anticipation in their hushed voices? One of them opens his cell door.
"Get yourself ready. The Empress has called for you." The guard's voice is even, does not betray any fear, loathing, or disgust. Duty only. But her eyes--it is a woman--do not meet HIS.
"Then we shouldn't keep her waiting." HE rises quickly from his sitting position, only to see three men waiting to accompany HIM and his female escort. HE smiles at the implication. "Should we?"
The cell door closes behind him, as HE is led upstairs. HIS face has assumed an interested, deferential, but strong bearing.
The empress, after all, is a woman.
"My false o'erweighs your true."
A Valentine, of sorts. *grin* , - Monday, February 14, 2000 at 16:32:12 (PST)
You're very welcome, Suzanne. Of course, whether HE wants to be wrapped or not is another story . . .
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! 8-)
MA
Chocolate . . . mmmmmmm., - Monday, February 14, 2000 at 07:23:19 (PST)
Now there's a mental image worth pondering for a little while...
no... make that a long while. :-) Thanks, MA!
Suzanne
(gonna have some sweet dreams), - Sunday, February 13, 2000 at 21:42:13 (PST)
Happy Birthday, Suzanne! 8-)
MA--Your Majesty has a very, um, interesting gift in the Imperial Dungeons at the moment . . .
. . . if only I could figure out the best way to wrap HIM! *wicked grin*, - Sunday, February 13, 2000 at 12:24:51 (PST)
Delaford, the Brandons' bedchamber.
Mary Anne lies in Brandon's arms, listening to his quiet breathing beside her and reflecting on the evening.
Dinner, it must be admitted, had been a bit awkward, though she had no quarrel with the excellence of the preparations. No hyacinths, to be sure, but the table had been ornamented with a pleasing arrangement of ferns, courtesy of the gardener Chance and his greenhouses.
And the food . . . Mary Anne can taste again the small rounds of beef, each enclosed in its own crisp pastry crust. Tender vegetables in cream sauce, and roasted potatoes . . . "substantial," indeed. A shame that I couldn't give it my full attention.
Yes, Brandon's demeanour had definitely concentrated her attention elsewhere. Conversation between them had at first been light and bantering but then long intervals of silence had fallen, in which Mary Anne would look up from her plate to see Brandon gazing at her with an expression on his face that, the first few times, had caused her to blush hotly and lower her eyes again.
That, of course, had only made the situation worse.
Finally, there had come the sound of Brandon setting down his fork—nothing violent, but a most decisive gesture indeed; likewise the scrape of his chair being pushed back, as she had glanced up in time to see him stand and approach her. Amazing, she had thought, there are times when he doesn't seem to be moving very quickly—but before you can even catch your breath, there he is. Right there. Right in front of you.
Right in front of her, leaning over her. Then, as if he thought better of it and did not wish to loom over her so, Brandon had knelt beside her chair.
"You are—all is well with you, Mary Anne? Truly?"
She had been startled, unable to think for several moments what he could possibly mean—then realized, with an inward sigh, that he was still worried over the previous night. No matter, her assurances that she was quite unharmed; not so much frightened (well, not after the first few moments) as surprised; untroubled in her regard for him and as much in love with him as ever. Even his brusque, abrupt manner, bypassing his customary courtesies, warmed her heart as evidence of his concern and she had reached out, resting her hand on his shoulder. "Truly, Christopher."
"It is only that . . ."
"I know. I told you this morning—"
"Yes, I remember." Pause. "I am not my father."
If only I could convince you of that. But you'll have to convince yourself, my darling, my love. She had tried, however, to lighten the mood with a lift of her eyebrow and a smile. "See that you do remember. I married Christopher Brandon, and there's no one else like him. I'll accept no substitutes!"
He had laughed a little at that, then risen to his feet and held out his hand to her, with a questioning look. And she had accepted, resting her fingers in his, leaving the remains of dinner upon the table . . .
MA--George in a "ticklish" situation, huh? He'd better be careful not to give Joya any ideas. ;-) Correction: any more ideas.
". . . make sure the place kept its original charms . . ." *snorfle*, - Sunday, February 13, 2000 at 08:49:58 (PST)
"Day the Forty-fifth, in the month of December – In which I find myself in a ticklish situation."
The bellowed question was followed by the sound of heavy treads on the stairs. Sir Walter of Krone appeared, brows drawn together in a frown as he glared at us. Like Adam, he was dressed in stiff leather and mail, the wardrobe of battle.
"What's taking so long?" He barked the question at Adam but he looked at me. "Have you secured all the rooms?"
"Well, sir, there's been some - trouble - here." Adam stood at attention, something he clearly was not comfortable with. "George and I were just discussing it."
"What kind of trouble?"
Adam gestured to the open door of Joya's room. Krone stalked inside and remained there for several minutes. When he emerged he went straight to the stairs and roared down to the ground floor. "Odo! Get up here!"
The sheriff must have been waiting for the summons. There was a frenzy of agitated squeaks like "Yes, sir!" and "Coming, sir!" accompanied a swift pattering of feet and then Odo was with us. He was dressed in combat gear but on him the result was less than intimidating. The mailed armour had been designed for a man with a broader chest and his sword belt kept slipping down to his hips, compelling him to give it a hearty tug every few minutes. My first impression was of being confronted by a squirrel that had been specially trained to attack intruders.
"Never mind that!" Krone waved aside the sheriff's whimpers and pointed imperiously to the door of what was becoming the most popular room at the inn. "Look!"
Odo scampered across the hall and looked inside. He was back almost immediately, his face an interesting shade of green on the jowls and cheeks.
"Oh my! Oh dear!" His hands fluttered helplessly. "Oh Sir Walter! What an unfortunate accident! That poor girl cut herself most severely."
It's a safe assumption that anyone who'd voluntarily marry Estrilda isn't exactly the sharpest arrow in the quiver but this was a little much even for Odo. Krone took a deep breath and held it until the danger point was passed. (I'll have to try to remember this one; it looks like a clever tactic.) Then he exhaled and said very gently, "No, Odo. She didn't cut herself. Someone took care of that for her." He took another breath, not as deep this time. "Now what do you think we should do about it?"
Odo looked at Krone, then at Adam and even glanced at me. Then he kicked the heel of his boot at the floor and gave his belt another hearty tug. "Uh, call a doctor?"
"No, not a doctor." Krone smiled sweetly. "But you can call for a couple of the soldiers to come up here." He spun around in his tracks with lightning speed. "And arrest this man!" He pointed an accusatory finger at me and his other hand clenched into a strong fist.
I suppose it would have been polite to show more reaction to an indictment like this but I simply raised my brows. "Why?"
Odo gaped. Adam coughed nervously and began to argue. "But Sir Walter, George didn't - I mean, he couldn't have -"
"Oh couldn't he? Well, sirrah? What happened? Did the girl resist when you attempted to have sport with her? Did she protect her virtue so strenuously that you were forced to silence her permanently?" Krone pushed his young vassal aside and stepped forward until we were nose to nose. "And to leave the Lady Joya unprotected while you sought your disgusting pleasures in this tavern which is nothing but a sewer of licentiousness and lust! A pit of depravity! A stews of desire and wanton cupidity! Well? What have you to say for yourself?"
For a man who was supposed to be against that sort of thing and had just broken down a door to prove it, he certainly knew how to make it sound attractive. I began to wonder if everyone was wrong about his motives; perhaps he just wanted to make sure the place kept its original charms and didn't water things down too much for the tourists.
For a long moment we just glared at each other. Mentally I was reviewing everything I could possibly say and discarding those things that would get me killed on the spot. There wasn't much left over, I'm afraid. More than ever I wished I was back in Nottingham where the advantages of high and low law were entirely on my side.
More footsteps pounding up the stairs and over Krone's shoulder I saw four men-at-arms take up their positions in the hall. Odo was talking to them in an undertone, pointing at me. Their faces became, if anything, even more impassive and they held their weapons tighter.
Krone must have heard them too. He stepped back away from me and smiled. "Very well, men. Arrest this varlet! And don't worry about the mess you might have to make doing it."
"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
MA - your mental images are always interesting, - Saturday, February 12, 2000 at 16:43:12 (PST)
Yes, Magda, I did notice that line and chuckled over it. My accompanying mental image was . . . most interesting. *ahem*
MA
"A plague on broth your houses"? Nah, this broth took the plague away! ;-), - Friday, February 11, 2000 at 17:05:01 (PST)
Ah, Fausta, congratulations: you found the MA line.
Magda
A consomme devoutly to be wished..., - Friday, February 11, 2000 at 10:01:25 (PST)
Magda,
Glad to see George is back!
"Krone's idea of a good time was: probably going to church and polishing the statues of the female saints - with a thin cloth."
ROFLOL
Fausta
- Friday, February 11, 2000 at 06:50:39 (PST)
I can see it now on the pharmacy shelves: Magda's Amazing Wonder Broth. *grin*
And welcome back, Therese! *Big hug*
MA--a cashmere tunic, hmmm? I'll fight Dev for it!
Yeah, right . . ., - Friday, February 11, 2000 at 05:20:34 (PST)
"Day the Forty-fifth, in the month of December – In which an unexpected visitor drops in for some holiday cheer - Crusader-style."
A dead body. We had a dead body on our hands. Wonderful.
I looked over my shoulder at Joya. She leaned against the doorframe, her hands clutching her robe tightly around her neck. Her gaze was fixed on the bed and she swallowed hard several times.
Well, best to get the whole thing out of the way. I scooped up her clothes from the chest near the bed and marched her across the hall back to my room. She came with me passively, which alarmed me more than anything else did. "Now listen to me." I pulled her robe off with one sharp yank. "I'm going downstairs to find out what's going on. Get dressed and don't leave this room. Understand?" I gave her a little shake to reinforce my instructions.
She nodded and reached for her shift. I was pleased to see that some colour was replacing the dead white pallor on her face and hurried the process along with a quick kiss. Then I went to the top of the stairs and listened.
The noise from the ground floor had abated somewhat but there still seemed to be quite a crowd milling around down there. It didn't seem as though we would be alone for long; even as I stood there, footsteps were pounding up the stairs. Sword in hand, I stepped back and waited.
A familiar blond head popped up and looked at me through the railing. "George! What are you doing here? Are you part of the operation?" Adam advanced the rest of the way up, pushing the hair out of his eyes as he came.
It's a sign of how far I've had to evolve in the month since I left Nottingham that I didn't at least knock him on his behind for wasting my time with asinine questions. In fact, my only emotion was relief. "We're staying the night in this hostelry. There's been some -" I searched for an adequate word. "Trouble."
"I'll say." He frowned, swinging his own sword to and fro. "This is damnably awkward, George. I don't know what Sir Walter will have to say about it."
I failed to understand why Sir Walter's opinion about anything should matter to me, so I let it go. I lowered my weapon and examined him carefully. He was no longer wearing his best outfit; rather he was clothed in a leather jerkin and mailed vest. Adam was dressed for war.
"At any rate, we won't have to trouble you too much." He looked around. "Anyone else up here?"
"In a manner of speaking. This way." I pointed to Joya's room and he went through the door.
He was back out in under a few seconds, looking grim. "This is not helpful, George."
"Well, pardon me." I was getting a little irked. "Next time I'll just toss the body out the window so it doesn't mess up your evening."
"I'm sorry. It's just that…" Adam flushed to his hairline. He was going to have to learn to control that if he wanted to grow up to be a great, big lord someday. "Trouble isn't the right word to describe this. George, do you know what's going on downstairs?"
The noise from the ground floor had been almost extinguished by now. I could hear someone talking in a normal tone but couldn't make out the words. I looked a question at Adam.
He ran his fingers through his hair in no little frustration. "Sir Walter is down there with Sheriff Odo. We're conducting a raid on this establishment because it didn't keep the holiday peace. Sir Walter says that the drinking and roistering that was going on was disrespectful of the Christmas season."
Don't you just love a fun Crusader? I mean here we were in Barnesdale, in south Yorkshire, in the dead of winter, and the only decent party for miles around gets broken up because the local lord's tender religious sensibilities are outraged by the thought of people enjoying it. For a fleeting moment I wondered what Krone's idea of a good time was: probably going to church and polishing the statues of the female saints - with a thin cloth.
I suppose my face gave me away because Adam flushed even deeper and scuffed his boot on the floor. "Anyway, Sir Walter is going to make an example of this place because he wants everyone to know that he won't put up with licentiousness in his shire. And when he sees her -" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the room he'd just left. "He's going to be in a difficult position. I mean if he's cracking down on drunkenness, he'll have to be very severe on murder."
"Adam!" A most unwelcome voice boomed up from the bottom of the stairs. "What are you doing up there?"
"Damn!" Adam said, forgetting himself in the heat of the moment. "We're in for it now."
"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
Ah, the wonders of broth!, - Thursday, February 10, 2000 at 19:25:22 (PST)
Dev's Guest Quarters--Delaford
"Are you. . .all right?" Dev asked Therese, his dark eyes wide and concerned. He was afraid to touch her, almost afraid to speak, lest whatever he did bring about more tears and sorrow.
She regarded him somberly, holding the blanket she was wrapped in more tightly to her body, knuckles gripping the fabric till they showed white. "I'm not sure," she answered hesitantly. "I need clothes."
"Of course," Dev replied, wondering why he had not thought to have Miss M bring some, or Dr. McCoy--even Scout for that matter. True, Therese's room was only several steps across the hall, there was no danger now that HE had been taken. . .and there was no way on God's green earth that he was going to leave her side for even the merest fraction of a second. "I'll have some brought for you as soon as possible. Will something of mine do for now?" He stepped to the side of the bed to retrieve the robe she had worn earlier, and laid it on the bed. Moving to the bureau he withdrew a single garment, and wordlessly held it out to her.
Looking at the item of clothing, Therese gave him a faint smile before reaching for it. It was an honest response, not borne of hysteria or forced to appear, and it brought Dev great pleasure. "I don't even have to fight you for it?"
Dev moved to Therese's side, and helped her pull the soft fabric over her head. It was a long sleeved tunic of the softest cashmere--one of Dev's favourites--which he was frequently reclaiming from Therese. He smiled at her question, and helped her into his robe. "Are you hungry?"
"I am, now that you mention it," she replied, almost as if this information came as a shock to herself.
They sat together in front of the heavily laden tray, and ate in companionable silence. Dev had expected her to pick at the offerings half heartedly, but instead Therese discovered that she was famished, and managed to consume a hearty sandwhich, follwed by several scones, heavily laden with thick clotted cream and sweet preserves. "What I wouldn't do for a nice cup of tea," Therese said after she'd finished, her hand resting contentedly on her stomach.
"Not till after you've drunk the water--and I mean every last drop," Dev replied, finishing the last bite of his own meal. "Doctor's orders." He gave her a significant look. "And it's not as if you've left me in any position to do anything other than follow the woman's directives to the very letter."
Therese gave him a solem look. "No, I suppose not." She was going to speak again when the sound of scuffling was heard from beneath the window, accompanied by the shrill whinny of a horse in distress, and the scraping of booted feet upon gravel. "What in the world?" she remarked, leaping to her feet she stumbled briefly in her weakness, was immediately steadied by Dev at her side, and rushed to the sill. What she saw caused her breath to hiss sharply between her teeth.
"My clothes!" she gasped her voice urgent.
Therese
almost thought I was going to have to go to the archives for my most recent post! You know you've been away too long when. . ., - Thursday, February 10, 2000 at 13:56:07 (PST)
Magda--hope "George and Joya" are feeling better very soon. Keep that broth going!
MA--shuddering at the mere thought of dealing with a sick Sheriff--
he'd probably be the worst patient in the world! (With the possible exception of myself), - Tuesday, February 08, 2000 at 17:34:13 (PST)
Note to the principal:
Please forgive George and Joya for not coming to class lately. They are down with the flu but expect to be up and around by the weekend. In the meantime they are recovering their strength, drinking chicken and beef broth and squabbling a lot because they're cranky at being housebound.
Thank you for your patience.
Magda
- Tuesday, February 08, 2000 at 14:45:52 (PST)
Correction made.
A Freudian slip?
D.o.C.
A late call for the D.o.C.--that should be "Mary Anne slides closer on the bench and leans against him." Not "leads." Just noticed that a few minutes ago. Thank you.
MA--leaning on Brandon (and leading Brandon on)
Leigh--re: h**ds on the keyboard. Yeah, we've caught that from Renie; she's made us all crazy about his h**ds. (Don't deny it R, dearest; you know it's true!) *grin*, - Tuesday, February 08, 2000 at 05:54:45 (PST)
Yup. Found one of Mozart's variations. The volume sounds a bit low to me so I hope you can hear it. Very pretty, though.
Suzanne
I wish I could hear you sing the words! :-)
The music room:
Mary Anne does smile as Brandon plays the Mozart variations, for the tune is one that would be familiar to almost anyone in the Western World, though with different words from the ones Mary Anne murmurs softly in time to the music.
Seeing that Mary Anne is now laughing quietly to herself and that his music has achieved its aim of cheering her, Brandon lifts his fingers from the keys, turning to Mary Anne with an inquiring look.
She does not urge him to continue but remains where she is, smiling but thoughtful. "Poor child. I understand just how he feels."
Brandon nods. "I suppose most children would think that candy is better than lessons."
Mary Anne grins, thinking of Valmont's pleasure over the millefruits on the dinner table—it seems ages ago, now. "Most adults, too." Then, more seriously: "I think I've always read a little more into it than that—I mean, yes, you can read it that way, that the child just doesn't want to do his sums and would rather eat bonbons instead. But when I first learned the French words . . . it seemed there was another side to it. Papa wants me to think—to reason—like a grown person. And he doesn't want to; he wants to stay a child, with a child's way of thinking." Hint of a smile. "That bonbons are the supreme good. It's what their name means, after all."
It occurs to Mary Anne, suddenly, that Brandon might find it painful to discuss a song in which a child complains of his father's supposed cruelty; however, the same smile touches Brandon's lips as he thinks over the lyrics. "So—we are to suppose, then, that sweetness is better than reason. Quite the little philosopher, he is."
"And he would be right, sometimes. There's a poem about a philosopher who advises that if you have two loaves of bread, sell one; then take the money and buy 'hyacinths, to feed thy soul.' I think he and our little bonbon reasoner would get on famously together."
And as suddenly as that, all is companionship between them; the tension relaxes. Whatever they have to settle will be settled; all shall be well.
"Play that again please, Christopher."
"All of it?"
"No, just the melody."
Brandon commences—but this time, Mary Anne slides closer on the bench and leans against him, singing under her breath—but almost right in his ear.
Ah! Vous dirai-je, m'amant . . .
Brandon startles and almost loses his place. Normally, the change of wording would be undetectable, but her lips are so close—and she had stressed the word; he knows it for what it is. Amant. Lover.
Regaining control of himself, Brandon's brow furrows as he concentrates on the keys.
That contralto. Soft, gentle, and low.
A long silence.
Then, his mouth twitching with repressed amusement, Brandon turns toward her. "Brandons," he enunciates, "are worth more than reason?"
"Well, some of them. I can think of one." One eyebrow lifted, the spark of mischief in her eyes.
Brandon's hands leave the keyboard entirely, to grasp Mary Anne's fingers and lift them to his lips. Then, in the abrupt manner of a human male who must do something at all costs, Brandon leaves the bench and crosses to the bellpull—tugging it a little harder than strictly necessary.
"I take it that you are hungry by now, my dearest."
"Well, yes—now that you ask."
"Good. Because if you are not fed now—" The kindling of something more than mischief in Brandon's eyes. "—then you will not be, for the rest of this night."
Mary Anne pulls a face of mock-alarm. "Then I hope you have given orders for something . . . sustaining. Or shall we have hyacinths to feed our souls?"
"No hyacinths tonight, I fear. But yes, something more substantial . . ."
MA--hey, Claire, just as long as that wagon train keeps moving! 8-)
Got a midi for this, Suzanne? The tune is the same as "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." , - Sunday, February 06, 2000 at 19:39:44 (PST)
Encampments, two bright eyes of the Snake split by the wide meandering body, settled for the night. As if linked to the light, voices grew quieter as darkness fell. Rattle of pans gave way to clink of final coffee mugs, cradled for warmth as the wagon owners sat within the steam of drying garments. Palpable relief at their safe crossing matched on the opposite bank by apprehension among those yet to make the journey.
"Did you send Running Bear?" Claire unwrapped Sinclair's fingers from the mug and replaced it with her own. Gentle quizzing.
It was hard not to hear the hisses of Brazen Hussy. The Indian, who had slid silently from their joint mount, fixed the source with a steely stare before melting away. He had understood. Sinclair did not and there was a quiet resentment of those he had lead who chose to attack his woman.
"Does it matter? He acts for me - like a brother. How dare they."
"Sticks and stones will break my bones.." Claire recited pushing the flop of hair away from the brooding face. But words can never hurt. Lies, they both knew, but it brought eye contact and the glimmer of a smile that she anticipated.
Claire
Slowest Wagon Train in history (grin) .. but who cares!, - Sunday, February 06, 2000 at 09:05:34 (PST)
The next morning, Grace woke with a start, sitting up and gasping for breath like a swimmer breaking the surface, the way people sometimes do when frightened awake by a nightmare. Her heart pounding, she leaned back against the soft pillows, finally remembering where she was. She looked over to see whether she had awakened Hart, but there was no sign of him in the broad bed. She untangled herself from the covers and threw on a robe as she strode out to the living room, where empty wine glasses and a fireplace full of ashes reminded her of the night before. She put a hand to her face to hide a blush as she remembered. Their conversation had pulled a trigger for both of them, burning off another layer of cautious reserve between them. The result had been an emotional -- and physical -- conflagration neither of them had expected. She pulled the robe closer around her neck, but it did nothing to make her feel less stripped, naked, defenseless. And no less sublimely happy.
Good heavens, I feel like Scarlett O'Hara the morning after Rhett carried her up the stairs, she almost giggled to herself. But where was Hart? She was used to his unpredictable movements, though, and was not concerned. She retreated from the living room and ran a hot bath. As she slid under the bubbles, she closed her eyes and tried to make her mind a blank.
At the same time, Hart was in the dining room, huddled over breakfast with another man, a brown-haired man with fluid manners and a ready laugh, but whose eyes darted nervously toward the doors and windows, even in this placid place. Hart noted that, but said nothing as he pushed his chair back and stood up. The brown-haired man followed. Hart paused and looked at the man carefully, then said, "It's agreed then. Ten o'clock at the first tee."
The other man fell into step next to Hart as they passed through to the lobby. "Absolutely," he smiled, familiarly clapping Hart on the shoulder. Hart looked at his hand and lifted his eyebrows imperceptibly. The smile slowly faded from the other man's face as he lifted his hand from Hart's shoulder. Hart turned on his heel and walked toward his cabin.
The living room and bedroom were deserted. He tapped on the closed bathroom door, and without waiting for an answer, stepped inside to regard Grace immersed in bubbles up to her neck. He leaned against the wall and just looked at her as she looked up at him expectantly.
"Well," he said, seriously, but his eyes almost merry in spite of himself, "you aren't exactly dressed for golf, are you?"
She looked at him, puzzled. Had she forgotten a golf date? Was that any way to greet a naked lady? And what's this casual, breezy tone after . . . last night? Then she mentally shrugged, telling herself not to expect Hart to bare his heart on a daily basis. His emotional armor was back in place.
"I know I didn't tell you, but we have a ten o'clock tee time. You have . . ." he consulted his watch, "an hour to dry off and find your clubs."
She decided not to comment on his unilateral scheduling, or last night, but instead held out her hand for help climbing out of the tub. He backed away, cautious of her, afraid she would do something kittenish like try to pull him in. "Don't be silly," she said, sounding like the most reasonable person in the whole world, "do I look like the kind of woman who would pull a perfectly dry man into a bathtub?"
"Yes," he answered, quite serious.
"Honestly," she grumbled as she stood and stepped out of the tub. From his safe distance, Hart handed her a towel, his eyes straying as the bubbles slid off of her. Grace detected his distraction and launched herself toward him, enveloping him in a bubbly, soggy hug before he could react.
"Dear God, Grace," he said, disapprovingly, trying to disentangle himself, trying to keep at least part of his clothes dry, and trying successfully not to laugh. Grace did laugh at his pomposity, and irreverently scooped a handful of bubbles across his dark glasses.
Leigh
Dana: great to see you again! MA: the thought of those h**ds on the keyboard...fanning madly, - Saturday, February 05, 2000 at 22:21:57 (PST)
Delaford, the music room:
"You startled me, sir . . ."
"I did not intend . . ." The tension between them is taut as piano-wire. "Forgive me."
Mary Anne swallows. It occurs to her with a small shock that she is nervous of Brandon—more so than she had been even on her wedding night; on that occasion her eager longing, together with the expectation of gentle treatment, had borne her past many of her fears. And things would probably have been all right between us this morning, she thinks, if Nox hadn't interrupted us . . . he's a sweet dog, but Christopher was right: his timing left a lot to be desired. Literally! But now . . . they had not parted on the best of terms in Andrea's guestroom, and they have both had time to think throughout this long day—to think, and to remember the previous night.
I can't let him think I'm nervous. I won't have him thinking he's some vicious brute . . .
"Nothing to forgive," replies Mary Anne, sliding over on the piano bench and patting it, inviting Brandon to sit beside her, which he does.
"Are you hungry?" asks Brandon softly, gesturing toward the table set for their dinner.
Mary Anne tries for nonchalance. "Not just yet . . . would you do something for me, first?"
"What can I do?" (yes, of course, homage)
Mary Anne settles a sheet on the music rack. "I was working on this earlier—there's an appoggiatura here and I can't seem to get the fingering right. Would you help me with that?"
Brandon turns and looks directly into her eyes, holding her gaze for so long that Mary Anne cannot understand why the piano strings do not resonate as they would if a hand passed across them; it is a gaze she can feel.
"Of course," he replies, and it seems to Mary Anne that the whole room breathes its release, especially since she can see a slight crinkle at the corners of Brandon's eyes—the sign of amusement. Does he know what I'm doing, and why I'm doing it? I wouldn't be a bit surprised . . .
Whatever he might or might not know, Brandon demonstrates the required fingering, first playing the trill himself, slowly, then quickly, according to the notation; then, taking Mary Anne's fingers in his, he places them on the keys and moves her hand through the sequence, requiring her to repeat it until she can play it smoothly and lightly.
Mary Anne flexes her right hand, which to her amazement is tingling from the slight exertion. "You can tell I haven't practiced as I should." She turns her face appealingly up to his. "Would you play a little for me, sir? It's been a long time."
She expects Brandon to demur; to her surprise he consents with a nod and she slides a little further away on the bench, thinking that he may need some room. But he is in no mood for spectacular displays that require the entire length of keyboard. Brandon chooses an arrangement of Bach's Arioso from Cantata #156, and though Mary Anne is thoroughly familiar with this music and loves it well, it seems that she has never heard it as it is rendered by the Colonel, the caress of his fingers on the keys evoking from the Broadwood Grand both sorrow and rapture, the conflicting emotions slowly mingling until, in the final measures, they resolve themselves into peace.
Brandon stills the notes but does not lift his hands from the keyboard, awaiting Mary Anne's response.
"That was beautiful, Christopher," she whispers, blinking hard to subdue a hint of tears. "Just beautiful. I wish I could play like that."
"Shall I . . . continue?"
"Yes, please do. Only . . ."
"Yes?" prompts Brandon.
Mary Anne hesitates. "Don't misunderstand me, but . . . something . . . happier. Something that will make me smile." A quick glance at him.
Brandon is not offended; the Bach had been rather melancholy for all its beauty. Yes, melancholy—but to him, touched with a startling sensuality as well, such as he had never before detected in it. Had that been there all along, or had he infused that into it as he played? With Mary Anne there beside him . . .
Something that will make her smile.
Inspiration strikes. Will memory serve him correctly? Hoping that it shall, Brandon begins a set of variations by Mozart . . .
MA--welcome back, Dana!
And Grace had better be careful . . . , - Saturday, February 05, 2000 at 20:13:14 (PST)
Dana slumped in the wagon seat, the muscles in her arms screaming from the effort of the crossing, allowing the lines to go slack between her fingers. The oxen were moving into place by rote. They seemed oblivious to the milling and bawling cattle as they calmly pulled the wagonin to its nightly position.
PL rode back down the line. A stab of emotion shot through him at the sight of the woman before him. Saints, but she had become thin. As he neared his wagon, Dana looked up and a smile illuminated her features.
"We did it, PL! I was so scared but you were right-everything was fine!"
The light in her eyes suffused him with warmth. He rose in his stirrups and kissed her tenderly, "You're a wonder, Darlin'."
Dana
back in the saddle again (so to speak)!, - Saturday, February 05, 2000 at 09:47:11 (PST)
Hart's voice was silky as he ran his thumb along Grace's cheekbone. "You want justice. You believe in the sting. So do I, and not just to keep myself out of jail. Besides bringing down the Investors, we can make a fortune. For each of us. Enough to buy a lot of justice."
She pulled his hand away from her face as her eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "That's not what the sting is about!" she exclaimed, shaking her head. "I can't believe I listened to you --" she continued to sputter indignantly as Hart waited, calmly, for her to run out of steam.
His voice turned dead earnest as he spat out the next words. "Darling, be sensible. The U.S. Attorney can only do so much. But he's been working for more than a year and still can't make an airtight case against the Investors. He's close, but he can't get any closer. To get the evidence we need, we have to go farther than the government can . . . or will." He paused for breath, slowing down. "I *can* do it. With your help." He picked up her hand and toyed with her fingers, looking down as if afraid to meet her eyes. "For the first time, I need. . . want. . . a partner. Someone I can trust absolutely. And who trusts me."
He looked up at her and she remembered the times he had proven she could trust him. His selfless vigil when she was hospitalized. Putting his own life at risk to pull her from the ocean after the terrible accident on the Sea Dove that took the life of Barnacle Bill. There was no doubt she owed him her life, several times over, and trusted him to care for her more than for himself. Then a half dozen what-if's and maybe's circled her mind. What about the Hansbank? She had already worked out that Hart must be working with Hans Gruber to lure the Investors into the sting through their massive insider sales of Hansbank stock. Wasn't that enough to snare the Investors? What did he need her for? He was doing splendidly on the Hansbank angle without her. And . . . what about Colin? What's happening to him? she asked herself with a pang, remembering his haunted eyes as he feared for the Hansbank. She opened her mouth to ask Hart about the Hansbank, then just as suddenly closed it. He would tell her when he was ready, she knew, not before.
Of course it's the right thing to do. The ends do justify the means. She had already decided that several days ago, as she stood on the Santa Barbara pier and chose to defy the U.S. Attorney's order not to leak what she knew about the Hansbank insider trades to Colin. The threat the Investors posed far outweighed a bent statute here or a twisted evidence code there. Hart didn't know it, naturally, but she had already taken baby steps on exactly the course he was proposing. He's not talking me into anything I haven't already made up my mind would be necessary. My ethical objections to whatever he's proposing would be hypocritical at this point. And . . . maybe . . . I can even moderate whatever extreme measures he has in mind.
"Of course," she breathed, the words slipping out almost involuntarily.
He looked at her for several long seconds. Then he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it in a courtly gesture. She remembered for a fleeting second the morning Colin Molyneux had kissed her hand in exactly the same way, then promptly forgot Colin as Hart crushed her against his chest to hold her as closely as he ever had.
Leigh
No need for St. Bernard's here... glorious sunny smogless day today, - Thursday, February 03, 2000 at 19:20:20 (PST)
Delaford, the music room:
Brandon pauses in the doorway, aware that Mary Anne has not yet seen him and treasuring the chance to secretly observe his wife—a pleasurable habit from which he cannot seem to free himself, though it always causes a slight pang to his more gentlemanly instincts, to take this advantage of her unguarded moments. But he can no more resist the opportunity than he could resist . . .
Brandon pauses in the thought he had been forming, the better to simply watch Mary Anne as she stands fingering sheets from the music cabinet, her fair hair and skin caught in bright relief against the dark wood of the cabinet and the Broadwood Grand—and she is wearing her rose-print muslin.
Brandon sighs, remembering how she had donned it for the Delaford picnic and come to display it for him, thinking to delight in his admiration and being faced instead with his embarrassment. A beautiful gown, yes, in its shadings of cream and pink and soft brown and leaf-green, and she had looked extremely fetching in it, but it had not taken her long to notice that he was flushing and looking everywhere except directly at her, because the gown, in strong sunlight, was virtually transparent.
At the memory, a grin steals across Brandon's face. He had certainly been far more taken aback than Mary Anne; nothing daunted, she had gone to change into a more substantial aqua sateen. But he had noted that she did not appear in the muslin again until she had lined it. He wonders if that memory dictated her choice of that gown this evening, and if so, what she had intended by it. Perhaps after the events of last night, she is sending a message that she is trying not to tempt him?
No, that is not likely. A look of wistful amusement. And it would be most out of character for her. What is more to the point, she has failed miserably if that had been her intent. For an uneasy moment Brandon wonders if some of The Interrogator's drug lingers in his body, so strongly is he drawn toward the graceful figure of his wife as she stands leafing through the music sheets spread on top of the cabinet. She has pinned her hair away from her face but left the back of it free to fall over her shoulders; even from across the room, Brandon imagines that he can detect the fragrance of it along with a trace of the cedar lining from the armoire where the gown had been stored, and a faint touch of Mary Anne's evening perfume—light but penetrating, with its notes of sandalwood and tropical exotics. Brandon has always been glad that Mary Anne does not favour heavy scents; it always seems to him that sweetness breathes from her very skin . . .
So powerful is the effect of these imaginings, along with the enticing rustle of Mary Anne's crystal-pleated skirt as she moves to seat herself again at the piano, that Brandon is halfway across the room before he realizes that he is moving . . .
Mary Anne whirls on the bench.
They stare at each other for a moment, wide-eyed and motionless, until Mary Anne releases a long breath. "You startled me, sir . . ."
MA--What's that great line from Pe'pe' le Pew?
"Do not come with me to ze Casbah--we can make beautiful music together right here!" *wink*, - Thursday, February 03, 2000 at 17:14:29 (PST)
Ooooooo, new sound file . . . mmmmmmmm!
MA
No St. Bernards needed here--but yeah, it is awfully lonely of late! 8-(, - Wednesday, February 02, 2000 at 20:20:25 (PST)
"Days the Forty-fourth and Forty-fifth, in the month of December – Christmas Day and early the following morning - In which we have a most unpleasant surprise."
We walked in silence for some time. Evening was coming on rapidly and a stiff wind was starting to blow. I could hear Sal behind us skipping along the road to keep up.
"That was quite delightful." I kept my voice neutral. "I've never been fought over by two women before."
Joya laughed and took advantage of the encroaching dusk to slip her hand into mine. "Don't let it go to your head. I won't be making a habit of it."
The inn loomed out of the darkness ahead of us. The only noise on the street came from a couple of lowlifes sitting on a bench by the front door who were swilling down the innkeeper's foul ale with enthusiasm. They looked around as we came up and the bolder one craned his neck around his companion to ogle Joya. He slunk back when I pushed back my cloak and revealed my sword.
The front room was surprisingly crowded for a holiday. I would have thought the innkeeper might be warier of the local authorities but he was patrolling the premises with a jovial air, handing out tankards to customers right and left. I was still shaking my head as we went upstairs.
Joya and Sal disappeared into their room. I gazed at their door with some regret. Another night of sleeping alone to observe the proprieties was not at all to my liking.
The chill was apparent as soon as I tossed my cloak and gloves on the bed. With numb fingers I managed to strike a spark to light my candle. The feeble glow did nothing to make the small room more welcoming. I unbelted my sword and laid it on the floor beside the bed. Then I wandered over to the window and gazed out at the night.
There was nothing much to see. The noisy duo out front was arguing about something, their voices rising and falling. Light spilled onto the road when the door opened and some customers began to weave their way home. I pulled my head in and secured the shutters.
Three commanding knocks echoed round the room. I pulled the door open and caught my breath. Joya stood there, a cloak wrapped around her and clasped loosely in front. Her bare shoulders gleamed in the pale light of my candle. She smiled as I fought to breathe. "Aren't you going to let me in? It can't be colder in there than in this hall."
I stepped aside and she glided in, letting the cloak slip down to her waist at the back. I swallowed a lungful of air and slammed the door shut. "What's this all about?" I couldn't believe she was willing to take such a risk.
Joya looked over her shoulder at me and the cloak slipped again. "It's time to exchange Christmas presents, George."
The next few hours were taken up with a thorough examination of the proposition that it is better to give than to receive and we had by no means exhausted the subject when we were invaded. The merriment downstairs had lessened but not ceased even though it must have been past midnight. The quiet in the street below was broken by the sound of many running feet. The noise abruptly stopped outside my window and was followed by a crash as of a door splintering under an assault by a heavy weapon. The front room was plunged into silence and for a moment nothing happened. Then all hell broke loose.
The door was hit again and must have given way under the blow. A shout went up in the street and continued into the inn. A woman screamed shrilly. The innkeeper was shouting at someone in an angry tone. The sound of breaking crockery was constant.
Joya and I looked at each other. For a long minute neither of us moved.
The sound of feet pounding up the wooden stairs jolted us into motion. I was up and dressed in seconds, my sword unsheathed and ready. Joya wrapped herself in her cloak and sat on the edge of the bed, never taking her eyes from me. I pressed my ear to the door to listen.
There were at least five men in the hall, kicking open doors as they went. An outraged shout from the last room indicated at least one disturbed sleeper. Laughter greeted his protests. Then they were immediately outside my room and I decided to take the initiative.
I swung the door wide open and strode into the hall. A large, dirty individual was just outside and roared in delight, lifting a wooden club over his head to strike. I swept my sword in front of me in a wide arc and he fell back, eyes wide with shock. He dropped the club and scampered to the safety of the stairs.
Two others - younger but no less filthy - then stepped forward. Neither of them had a blade although one carried a long stick. The armed one thrust his weapon at me. I ducked and sent my blade under his arm in a direct hit. He dropped his stick and staggered back, blood dripping down his arm. His companion retreated even faster.
There were two more at the far end of the hall but their view of the proceedings apparently did not inspire them to take a hand. They climbed over their friends to get down the stairs to the safety of the ground floor.
I advanced into the hall with my sword ready for action and in seconds the other three were flying down the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Joya fly across to her room and slip inside. There was silence on our floor although the noise from below continued unabated.
I was standing at the head of the stairs, waiting to see if another attempt would be made, so at first I didn't hear her. She told me later that she called me twice before I looked around.
Joya was standing in her doorway, white and trembling. "George." It was a feeble croak and she licked her lips before trying again. "Please come here."
I backed up until I was beside her. She threw herself onto my chest and wrapped her arms around my waist, hugging me tight. I was amazed that my strong, proud Joya could be so upset by a mere brawl. Keeping my sword at the ready I put my hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture. "It's all right. They're gone now."
"No!" She made a choked sound and jerked her head in a negative motion. "Not them. Inside. Go inside and look."
I set her aside and stepped into her room. A candle was burning on a small table beside the bed. The curtains were looped back and I could see the outline of a form under the blankets. I looked closer; it was Sal, sleeping. Or so I thought until I saw her eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling and the thin line running down her neck onto the sheet.
Her throat had been cut. She was dead.
"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
Is everybody buried in snowdrifts this week? Send in the St. Bernards..., - Tuesday, February 01, 2000 at 20:03:11 (PST)
