Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

"Interesting . . ."

The Interrogator smugly reflects on how much and how little can be expressed in one word, although—amazingly enough—HE does not have to lie. Not on this occasion. What he beholds does interest him profoundly.

HE had known his ultimate destination from the moment the guards arrived at his cell that morning, only to find him already awake and dressed. As usual, they had gone about their task of securing him most efficiently and without visible antagonism, though they had given him not the least opportunity to do anything save comply with their procedures. Knowing the drill, he had not been prepared to waste energy on pointless resistance and so it had only taken a few moments to bring him out of the cell.

They had taken HIM, then, through the lower levels of the palace by a complex route, intending to confuse him and disorient his sense of direction. The Interrogator had noticed, however, two things: one is that, despite the care that has been taken to maintain a harmony between the older structures and the new additions, there is a visible difference. There is the appearance of the stonework, for example; the mortar between the stones has darkened with age. Or one might note the texture of the floor in certain corridors—that shallow trough, more perceptible to the step than to the eye, where many, many feet have passed over the years.

HE is certain that he has passed into an older part of the palace. A very old part.

And the other thing that HE has noticed?

Despite the circuitous route, they had always moved . . . lower.

HE knows.

And so HE has the time to compose his face before they arrive at their destination, slipping for necessity's sake behind that glacial wall of indifference or, failing that, mild amusement. It is a most thorough facade, rather to be constructed like a wall than assumed like a mask; he requires time to know that it is sound, that it will hold, that it is mortared together as firmly as these corridor stones . . . for HE is afraid, though he would deny it. The body's natural response to the threat of imminent . . .

My body is afraid, but I am not. (homage) It is an empty threat; she would not. She would not dare. It is a denial of everything she represents, Her Majesty by the grace of God, Empress of the Realm. How does it go, again? A slight curl of HIS lip. That her beauty is exceeded only by her wisdom and clemency—which carries most weight with her? Wise or kind? We shall see . . .

They have arrived, sooner than HE expected—but his control does not falter as two guards grasp the iron rings in the heavy plank doors and draw them open, motioning him forward while two more guards take up their stations on either side of him. If HE will not move . . .

But he does. The Interrogator steps forward without the least hesitation, contriving to bear his chains as if they were medals rather than fetters. HE walks through the forbidding doors . . .

. . . into the old dungeons.

Which have been kept, for the sake of historical accuracy, in as near to original condition as possible.

Fully-equipped.

Though The Interrogator's stomach tightens and his mouth goes dry, he manages to look about him and utter that one word, "Interesting," as though he were in no more peril than a tourist armed with camera and guidebook. HE had thought—had hoped—that antiquity would grant some saving distance, that the surroundings might appear . . . well, quaint. Removed from reality.

But no such kindness is offered to him, as he allows his eyes to take in the contents of this dreadful room. Truly dread-full, filled with dread, though the room has not been used for such a purpose in . . . How long? More than one hundred years? Or so I have been told.

HE recognizes every instrument, every device. Knows them as he would know the body of a constant lover. Fear? Yes. But curiosity as well. HIS fingers almost tingle to touch . . .

"Good morning."

Surprise does what fear cannot. The Interrogator's head jerks around to behold The Empress, seated in a far angle of the chamber. Placed at one side of her is a lighted brazier. HE can see the glowing coals . . .

But what causes HIS mouth to open slightly in astonishment is that on the other side of the Empress there stands . . .

A laden tea-cart. Porcelain pot, china cups, snowy linen napkins, platters with an assortment of breads and pastries.

The Empress gestures to the guards. "Bring another chair." Then, turning back to smile at The Interrogator, she adds, "Will you join me?"

MA--breakfast in the Dungeon Cafe', anyone? ;-)
And Colonel, don't be too hard on Nox--haven't you heard of pet therapy?, - Monday, March 13, 2000 at 17:26:02 (PST)

Delaford--Dev's Guest Quarters

Dev stalked over to the bed determinedly, and grasped the dog by the scruff of his furry black neck. The animal responded by flopping over on his side, the long, silky black hair slipping from between Eamon's fingers. "Listen, you," he informed the dog, "I am not certain just where you belong, but this is not the place."

Therese could not resist running her fingers over the dog's soft, dark fur. At this attention he happily leaned back upon her leg, and rolled over onto his back. When she began to accomodate the obvious request and rubbed her hand over his belly a single hind leg twitched in delight. "What a sweetie," Therese crooned softly to the animal.

Dev rolled his eyes. "You've always been a soft touch," he remarked to Therese; to the dog he admonished, "and you? Utterly shameless!"

The dog's long, plumed tail thumped softly against the bed in acknowledgement.

"Nox? Nox! Where are you, you old scoundrel?"

Dev moved to the still open door. "Colonel? I think we may have what you seek."

Brandon strolled through the doorway at Dev's invitation, and taking in the scene on the bed raised a single brow. "Nox," he demanded, "come to heel!"

The animal shot from the bed at his master's order, rounded the colonel's legs and sat obediently next to his left boot. The dark muzzle pointed upward, serene brown eyes regarded his owner with adoration as he awaited the next command.

"Miss Therese, it is good to see you awake once again, I must apologize for the forward behaviour of my hound. He has not been himself of late. A second puppyhood, perhaps?" he asked of the dignified animal, who had the good grace to look vaguely chagrinned. "I trust you are feeling more the thing?"

"Better, yes, thank you Colonel. And please do not trouble yourself over the dog--Nox did you call him? He is a lovely fellow."

With the inbred sense of all dogs which allows them to know when they are being discussed, Nox sat up a bit straighter, and perked his ears. Brandon looked at the animal affectionately. "You are far too kind--he is a scoundral and a ham, at best. Will you be down to breakfast this morn? I understand that I've a new horse to discuss with you?"

Brandon paused at the flash of alarm shown in Therese's eyes at his words, and raised a hand toward her. "I am sorry, I do not mean to rush you. . .when are ready."

Therese lowered her head slightly in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Colonel. I will make it a point to rejoin you and the others soon."

Brandon smiled at her gently. "There is no hurry, perhaps I may visit later, and you may tell me about this mare I've managed to acquire?"

Therese's grin widened. "I should like that very much." Her smile faltered slightly as she added, "And. . .do you think that perhaps Mrs. Brandon could be persuaded to visit?"

"I am certain she would be happy to, I will ask her at breakfast. Again, my apologies for the disruption. Come, Nox."

At his master's command, Nox rose as if to follow Brandon, but after only a stride or two he broke rank, dodged to the right, and leapt back onto the bed.

Dev sighed, Brandon looked aghast. . .and Therese giggled.

Therese
whoa, MA--hang tight down there in Bammy!! , - Monday, March 13, 2000 at 11:12:02 (PST)

Correction made.
And what a maddening gaze you have, My Lord.
D.o.C.

Correction: "I glanced at Joya who met my gaze by rolling her eyes." Sorry about that.
Magda
- Sunday, March 12, 2000 at 06:42:23 (PST)

"Day the Fifty-eighth, in the month of January – In which Melisant's training is undertaken - with mixed results."

"My Lady Melisant." I saw my opportunity and seized it, stepping swiftly to intercept her as she walked across the hall. "Well met indeed. Your smile on this winter morn banishes the frost like a summer dawn."

Melisant stopped dead in her tracks and blinked rapidly. "Th-thank you, my lord. I…I…that is…I mean…thank you!" She looked from side to side for a way to escape me.

I stepped closer to cut off her intended flight. "Do not thank me for telling the truth. It is I who should thank you for bringing such beauty to our humble surroundings." I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed her trembling fingers.

"I…I…please!" Melisant swallowed hard and cast a nervous glance over my shoulder. "Oh my lady…I can't remember!"

From the great chair by the fire, Joya gestured with her quill as she read the parchment. "'You are too kind, my lord. Such words inspire me to visit the gardens with my maid. Fare you well.'" She looked up. "Try it again, dear."

Melisant and I returned to our places. I watched as she took several deep breaths to compose herself, her lips moving as she repeated under her breath the phrases calculated to repel unwanted flirtations by courtiers. I glanced at Joya who met my gaze by rolling her eyes.

It has been an interesting ten days. Melisant's initial resistance on her first night at the lodge has been repeated several times over several issues. Joya was able to wear her down over the matter of clothes and jewels but it was an uphill fight on every other front. Learning to play chess and backgammon was a frivolous waste of time that should be spent praying. Likewise listening to musical instruments and reading books. Personal adornment beyond that necessary for concealment of one's nakedness was vanity and a sure route to hell; she flatly refused to look in Joya's mirror to check her appearance. Riding horses would encourage worldly thoughts that were inappropriate to religious contemplation; after all, Our Lord had never ridden a horse. Joya pointed out that Saint Paul rode one on the way to Damascus; Melisant shot back that what he did when he was a pagan was irrelevant and that there was no record of him riding one after he was converted.

It wasn't all piety and devotion, however; she didn't want to go hunting or falconing because she thought dead animals were "icky". I was tempted to ask her how she felt about the meat she ate every day but frankly I was so relieved to hear her say something secular that I didn't pursue it.

Melisant and I met in the middle of the hall again. Before I could get out my lines, she swept into a deep curtsey and said, "Fare you well, sir. You inspire me to visit the maids with my garden. Too kind." She peeked around me to see if Joya approved.

Joya poured herself another cup of wine. "Why don't you take a rest, dear? It will be time for dinner soon and we don't want to exhaust you."

Melisant clasped her hands and beamed happily. "Oh thank you! I will be in my room with my rosary. We've been so busy I've only had time for one 'Stations of the Cross' today." She skipped upstairs like a spring lamb.

Joya dropped her head onto her hand. I looked at her with sympathy. She's had a tougher time of it than I've had. After all, Joya is the one who spends most of her day with Melisant. Even hearing the details every night can only give me an approximation of the experience.

The morning after Melisant arrived I was surprised and impressed to see her come downstairs wearing one of Joya's gowns. The nun-companion was quite displeased and Melisant herself looked uncertain but she kept the garment on until she changed into another one for the evening meal. That night by the fire I complimented Joya on her powers of persuasion. She confided to me that she had simply waited for Melisant to fall asleep before removing all the nun's habits from the girl's baggage and burning them in the fire. My respect for her went up considerably.

The nun-companion proved to be part of the problem so we packed her off to her convent again in the care of Mauger's servants as soon as the horses could bear another journey. Then we went to work on Melisant. I wanted to lock her up on nothing but bread and water until she came to her senses but Joya disagreed, saying such a proscription was too harsh and that there were other ways to get what we wanted.

I took the other chair in front of the hearth and helped myself to some wine. "My lady, your beauty is as fine as a -"

"Oh shut up!" Joya lifted her head and grinned at me. "If I hear a line like that one more time…"

"She seems very nervous." I tilted my cup and watched the contents swirl.

"I know." Joya looked thoughtful. "We've got to try something else. No one is going to believe that she's a real lady if she acts like a dairymaid whenever a man talks to her."

"Like what?" I waited sceptically. Bread and water still looked like a good plan to me.

"You make her nervous. Perhaps someone else would not throw her into a panic."

"I make her nervous? Me?" I raised my brows.

Joya's grin widened. "Yes, you! You can be very intense, lover. It frightens people."

"Don't call me that." I tossed back my wine and reached for the flagon again. "And there is no one else around. Except the servants and that wouldn't work."

"No, not the servants." She tapped her finger against her cup. "I have someone else in mind…"

"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, March 12, 2000 at 06:38:55 (PST)

Delaford, the Brandons' chambers:

Mary Anne awakes from a vague dream of watering a plant.

It had been a strange dream, for she had felt compelled to keep watering even though she knows she cannot expect to see results so quickly. More water. More. Her arms ache from lifting the pail of water . . . her arms are numb . . .

Her arms are numb. In her sleep, she has crossed them and cradled her head on them, cutting off the circulation. Gritting her teeth at the pins-and-needles sensation, she drags her arms from beneath her pillow, trying to rub some feeling back into them . . . then stops.

Brandon is not in the bed with her.

Why this should cause her heart to catch in a quick, painful beat, she does not know . . . until, with the returning feeling in her arms, she remembers the previous night . She looks about the room but there is no sign of the portraits Brandon had shown her; it seems they have been returned to where he kept them, and for that she is grateful.

It seems that Brandon is nowhere in the rooms, but as Mary Anne looks about she discovers other signs of his care and attention: the fire, no longer banked for the night but crackling cheerfully; the drapes, opened to admit the pale sunlight of the cold morning . . . and there was the way the blankets had been carefully tucked about her, enclosing her in warmth.

Mary Anne smiles. After last night, I probably would have slept through an artillery bombardment. Sweet of him not to wake me. After a glance at the clock, she pushes away the covers and swings her feet over the edge of the bed. Get up, lazybones. He's probably been busy for hours—running Delaford doesn't stop just because he's a married man, or because you're a married woman. Downstairs to breakfast, and give your orders for the day to Miss M before the staff decide the lady of the manor is a fainthearted fritterhead.

Mary Anne pauses in tying the belt of her dressing gown. Fainthearted. She remembers when the least unpleasantness could turn her sick and dizzy. Well, I don't faint so often as I used to. And if I didn't while I was helping that medic fix that leg wound, then maybe I never will again.

A rueful smile as she remembers her former adventures. The Safehouse days . . . Egdon Manor . . .

At the thought of Egdon, her mind returns abruptly to the night she had awakened Brandon from a nightmare, and can feel her skin tingle at the memory of what had followed.

That was a dreadful nightmare. Christopher was white as one of his own shirts, but he wouldn't tell me anything about it. I wonder if he was dreaming of his father?

Unless he chooses to tell her, she will never know.

I wish he had told me all of this sooner . . . But hard on this thought comes another so chilling in its implications that she has to go and stand by the fire for several minutes before she can stop shivering—the thought that, if Brandon had told her sooner . . . The Interrogator would know. HE would have seen it all, then, in my mind . . . Christopher was wise not to tell me. I wonder if he's sorry now that he did? But even at that, he had not told her all he could. It is a measure of Brandon's revulsion for the whole topic that she has never heard him speak his father's name. But then he hasn't told you his brother's, either, nor his mother's. All of that bound up together—it has to hurt him. I wish I could do more for him.

More . . .

Mary Anne comes to herself to note that, without even realizing it, she has crossed the bedchamber and stands near Brandon's dressing room. She had seen him go in there to fetch the portraits . . . what else might he . . . ?

Resolutely, she turns away. Her desire to learn more so she could help her husband is very strong, but not so strong as the shudder that passes through her at the mere idea of Brandon coming in and catching her as she searches his dressing room. She moves back toward her own chamber. See what he's given you, out of respect for your privacy? He knew you would need it. He needs his.

With that resolve, Mary Anne busies herself with preparing for the day, wincing a little at the marks that are still visible on her skin—if anything, they look worse than before, having had time to develop. Well, that does it. Long sleeves and a high neck. And in the plans for the day with Miss M—nothing for tonight that would call for plunge-front eveningwear!

Still, she cannot help grinning a little over how her guests would react if they could . . . see. She understands that for Brandon it would be no laughing matter, but her ironic sense of humour comes to her rescue as she imagines her company's immediate and totally erroneous conclusions.

"Of course truth is stranger than fiction," she mutters, fastening her gown. "Fiction has to make sense . . ." (homage)

And with that, Mary Anne goes downstairs, hoping that her stomach will not growl too loudly in anticipation of one of Miss M's breakfasts . . .

MA--homage to Mark Twain in that remark about truth and fiction.
Well, Therese, she's awake now. Whenever you're ready! ;-), - Saturday, March 11, 2000 at 15:05:42 (PST)

Delaford--Dev's Guest Quarters

Therese slept soundly through the night, for which Dev was profoundly grateful. Her peaceful slumber had allowed him to slip from her side and quickly bathe, shave, and change clothes. When a fresh tray of tea and scones had arrived from the kitchens, he could almost think of himself as content. One look at the sleeping form before him on the bed, the dark hints of colour staining her battered limbs, and he moved to pace the room restlessly. No, it would be some time before he would once again consider himself thus.

The nightmare began very suddenly. One moment she slept, countenance calm and peaceful, the next moment she thrashed upon the bed, hands flailing. Dev rushed to her side, and scooped her into his arms, holding her close to his chest; he knew instantly it was the wrong move on his part.

Therese struggled against him, crying out at the restraint, her eyes fluttering open in confusion. The very first thing she saw open gazing up at Eamon was the faint glimmer of light reflecting off of his spectacles, and she was immediately consumed by her flashback.

HE stradled her, one long leg on either side of her body, HIS weight pinning her beneath HIM. She fought as she'd been trained, but though she was young and strong, she could not match HIS power. The first time, HE had been taken by surprise, and in a sense she had gained HIS gruding admiration. . .but that did not alter HIS course.

She'd brought her legs up underneath her body, feet flat against the floor as Eamon had taught her. This allowed her the force to raise her hips, lifting HIM slightly and catching HIM off balance. It was one quick movement, based upon that moment of surprise, and she turned her body quickly, pushing against HIS forearms as she tipped HIM over on HIS side.

Ideally, she would have added an elbow strike, but he was quick, far more so than any typical opponent. HE deflected her blow, causing it to land harmlessly on HIS palm rather than smashing into HIS face as she had intended. "Do you wish to fight, then?" HE had taunted her before showing her that HE was far superiour to her, both in strength and in malice.

It had been the first time--but not the last, that she had desperately wished HE would simply kill her and have done with it.

Dev held her even more tightly, until finally her struggles ceased. When her head cleared and her eyes focused more clearly, she touched a gentle hand to his cheek where three red furrows crossed his skin. "Did I do that?" she whispered in horror, her eyes heavy with unshed tears.

"It is nothing," he assured her, laying a soft kiss upon her brow.

"I can't go on like this, Eamon," Therese whispered to him, her fingers falling once more to her lap. "I fainted by the barn, didn't I? I remember being there last. . ."

"You will regain your strength, that is merely a matter of rest and time."

Therese turned from Eamon as her tears began to flow, despite her attempt to stop them, her shoulders shaking with the effort. "How long, then, til I can open my eyes to regard you and not see HIM?" she asked miserably.

Though her words pained him more than he cared to acknowledge, he knew that for her to admit this much was a beginning, of sorts. "I do not know," he replied softly, his lips brushing over hers in a light caress. "The sooner you speak of what you suffered, the more quickly you can begin to put it behind you."

"I don't know that I can. . ." she said as a fresh wave of tears began to flow. "Not to you. . .not yet."

Dev was torn by the wave of emotions which assaulted him. He knew it was important for her to share this with someone, and knew that it need not be him. But the idea that not only did his very appearance traumatize her, but that she did not feel as if she could not confide in him left him feeling both useless and helpless. Neither of which set well with him at all.

He squeezed her hand reassuringly within his own. "Mary Anne, then? She would have the greater understanding."

"Do you think she would mind? Perhaps it would trigger memories better left unturned. In both of us."

"And perhaps it would help to ease her own memories by being able to share yours? We cannot pretend to know the lady's mind without asking it of her."

Therese nodded her head slowly. She did not want to imagine sharing what she had been through with anyone else, yet she knew that she could not go on for much longer in her current state. "Thank you, Eamon," Therese said, hugging him close.

He had no time to reply, but immediately started to his feet when a loud *thud* was heard upon the door, followed by longs seconds of frenzied scratching. "What the--??" he asked, striding quickly over to the entranceway he opened it quickly.

A large, ebony form shot through the opening, easily jumping the leg Dev threw into its path to prevent his entrance to the room. Without the slightest hesitation, the large, black dog lept from the floor to the bed, and plunked himself down on the comforter beside a bemused Therese.

"Well who on Earth are you?" Therese demanded of the dark canine, whose only response was to look up at her adoringly, a large, doggy smile upon his face, pink tongue hanging rakisly from one side of his mouth.

Therese
Nox, you know Miss M. would *not* approve!, - Friday, March 10, 2000 at 11:53:40 (PST)

Rick? Fraudian slip maybe Fausta?
Claudia
giggling, - Wednesday, March 08, 2000 at 23:04:47 (PST)

make that riCH
Fausta
- Wednesday, March 08, 2000 at 13:45:17 (PST)

Oh!
It's The rick we'll gobble up!
Thanks, Claire
Fausta
eeew, - Wednesday, March 08, 2000 at 13:44:20 (PST)

Gobble up as in eat, Fausta!

Claire
- Wednesday, March 08, 2000 at 11:30:10 (PST)

Delaford

Dev had barely regained his chair beside the bed when he rose once again to acknowledgme the presence of Dr. McCoy. "Thank you for attending, Doctor," he offered carefully.

Joanna McCoy sized up the figure before her, noted the lines of care and worry etched on the man's face, and saw the distinctive gleam of apprehension in his expressive eyes. She relaxed her guard a mere fraction. "I am only sorry it took me several moments to arrive, Mr. de Valera. Now, what seems to be the problem?"

A quick explanation of Therese's exploits brought high colour to the lady doctor's features, and she was not hesitant to voice her concerns. "What was she doing out of her bed?" she demanded, hands on hips. "Let alone traipsing around the grounds after some horse? She has no strength--she needs to recuperate from one fiasco before becoming embroiled in another! What were you thinking to allow her up?"

Dev's first inclination was to adopt his most formal manner of icy hauteur. . .but he was tired, and instead a heavy sigh escaped him. "And to do this you would suggest what, Dr. McCoy? Am I to tie her to the bed? Detain her by force?" His voice deepened in bitterness as he continued, "She cannot bring herself to look upon me without seeing The Interrogator, am I to employ HIS tactics to ensure she remain abed?"

Joanna was stilled by the emphasis and pain of Eamon's voice, and she faltered awkwardly. "HE--you--there is a. . . resemblence?"

"We could pass for brothers," Dev bit out, and tapped a long index finger along the bow of his eyeglasses, "right down to the spectacles."

"I'm sorry," McCoy said very softly, "I'd not thought of how that could make things far more. . .difficult." She moved to the still figure on the bed, a hand held scanner whirring over Therese's form and then touching a light hand to her forehead and cheek. "She is fine," she said, straightening from that task. "It may have begun as a faint from overexertion, but she merely sleeps now. There is no reason to disturb her, the rest will do her good." When the doctor had taken her leave Dev stretched out beside Therese on the bed, and was grateful to feel her curl toward him instinctively. He laid a posessive arm over her shoulders, and for the first time in a long while, both Eamon and Therese slept soundly.
Therese
- Wednesday, March 08, 2000 at 11:02:56 (PST)

Re: Sound file,
The rich will What?

Fausta <emma-mail@mailexcite.com>
- Wednesday, March 08, 2000 at 05:48:39 (PST)

"Day the Forty-eighth, in the month of December – In which Melisant gives us a unwelcome surprise."

I rolled over and thumped my pillows hard. It was a relief from frustration. Sleeping on my stomach hadn't worked either. I lay on my back and stared up at the canopy over my head. By all rights I should have been exhausted; it had been a busy night.

Dinner was quite as interesting as I hoped it would be. It was simply the three of us since the companion nun had decided to partake of cider and bread in her room before going to bed.

The servants did it up quite a bit in honour of the occasion: several more courses than usual and the best wine dug out of the cellar. Instead of simply the cook's assistant, there were four servants waiting at table. Quite a bit of pageantry but it was completely thrown away on the new arrival.

It wasn't that Melisant didn't appreciate the extra effort; she simply didn't recognise it. Her experience of life apparently did not include multiple course meals. She ate whatever was put in front of her with the result that by the fifth dish she was looking a little ill. Joya, who had followed the usual pattern of eating only a little of each item, watched her with concern.

"Would you like a little cider, Melisant?" Joya signalled to a servitor to bring the flask.

"Oh my lady." Melisant quavered, eyeing her cup warily. "My stomach feels so strange."

"I suspect it's a result of your travelling. Just a mild upset, no doubt." Joya frowned away a servant coming forward with yet another dish. "Now drink up your cider and we'll chat about your upcoming wedding. You must be very excited."

"Actually I am very anxious." Melisant sipped obediently from her cup. "Stepfather explained to me what an honour it is that the king has promoted this marriage. I must do my best. It is a big responsibility."

"It's more than that, my dear." Joya smiled across the table. "We'll have such fun planning your wedding. There will be fittings for pretty gowns and jewels to select. It will be very exciting."

"Oh no, my lady!" Melisant stared at her aghast. "I do not wish for pretty gowns and jewels would be very inappropriate. This is my vocation and I must approach it reverently. I will be married in my novice's habit and will put if off only after I am wed." She nodded with decision and set her cup down on the table with an emphatic thump.

Joya and I exchanged looks. This was not what we were expecting. A bride-to-be who wasn't interested in new clothes meant no bills to pay and thus no opportunity for skimming off the top. Joya had some work to do on that front.

"Your attitude does you credit, my dear." Joya smiled warmly at Melisant. "And I am sure the king will not be too insulted by your decision."

"Insulted?" Melisant looked up quickly.

"Yes. After all, the king will be attending the ceremony and thus it will be a grand occasion. Everybody will be wearing their best outfits in deference to King Richard. But I am sure that everyone will understand your position and there will not be too much adverse comment about it. More cider, dear?"

Melisant looked rather pensive as she allowed her cup to be topped up. Joya looked over at me and winked.

Since the nun was already sleeping in Melisant's room, the two women went to Joya's room after dinner to talk about whatever it is women talk about when they're alone. I noticed that Joya took a container of wine with her; obviously she felt the need for sustenance during the evening ahead of her. I went around the lodge checking that the doors were secure and then I went to bed.

Since there was a door connecting Melisant's room with Joya's, our days of uninterrupted privacy were over. Or rather, our nights. I was sleeping in my own room at the end of the hall. It is a fair-sized room with a feather bed but I was very dissatisfied with it. All I could hope was that I would finally fall asleep from sheer exhaustion.

At first I thought it was the lack of a warm body beside me. Back home in Nottingham I had rarely slept without one or two women in bed with me. But after mulling it over, I realised that wasn't it. The truth was that I miss the rituals Joya and I had developed over the past month. I miss sitting in the big chair by the hearth, watching the fire highlight gold threads as she combed out her long hair. Sometimes I would set aside my wine and sit on the floor behind her, taking the comb out of her hand and stroking it through the honeyed tresses myself. I miss our talk about the day's events as we lay in bed, watching the fire die down to embers before we fall asleep. I would miss being the first one to wake up in the morning. That was always fun.

I had no idea what time it was. The household had gone to bed hours ago and the lodge was completely silent. It was going to be a long night.

"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, March 05, 2000 at 09:14:01 (PST)

Delaford, the Brandons' chambers:

After Brandon's bitter words, there is an aching silence.

"Christopher . . ."

He shall have what comfort she can offer, but it is so little. Only now is it revealed to Mary Anne what Brandon must have endured. And that he has concealed it from her . . .

"Why did you not tell me, sir?" Gently. It is a question, not a reproach.

Brandon takes the portrait and sets it well away from them, outside the glow of lamplight that falls upon the bed. Banished to the outer darkness, then? Be careful, sir, what role you play . . .

"How could I speak of this, to you?" he quietly replies. "As if it were not enough that my father was . . . what he was, and then to discover . . . can you guess my feelings, Mary Anne, the first time I ever set eyes upon The Interrogator?"

Brandon's tone is hushed and still but, glancing at him, Mary Anne can see the light sheen of moisture on his forehead.

"I can imagine how it must have been."

"You need not imagine; I will tell you. When I allowed Renie to hide here at Delaford, to escape HIM—"

"Does she know?"

"No, she would not. I had long since removed all portraits of my father, for I could not bear to see them." Brandon pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "As I have said, she was here. Well-hidden. And yet, HE must have suspected . . . for I went out one evening, to walk about the grounds, and . . . "

Mary Anne swallows. Before Brandon even speaks, she knows.

"One moment I was alone, and the next . . . HE was there. In front of me. It was near the front gates. You'll remember that grove, just on the outside? I looked—and HE stood there, just clear of the trees, watching me."

A silence. No sound of the wind outside; no hiss or crackle from the banked fire. Just the sound of my own heart . . .

"I had a pistol with me; after what Renie had told me, I was never without it. Now that I think on it, HE was likely armed as well. But it was no matter—it was over in a moment, though it felt like years that I stood there, seeing HIM and thinking . . . Mary Anne, I truly believed at first that I was seeing a ghost. The look of him, those eyes . . . I did not try to raise my pistol, for who can kill what is already dead?"

Mary Anne bites her lip and squeezes her eyes shut. She can see it. She can picture it all too clearly.

"And then, HE was gone. Just as I knew who it must be—gone. Back into the trees. And I ran for the house as if the devil were at my heels—"

Near enough, sir.

"—for I knew that Renie was no longer safe here. She left Delaford as quickly as I could arrange it and see to her safety elsewhere." Brandon draws a long breath. "Thanks be to God, the worst of my sorrow over Marianne was past, else I might have been tempted to keep Renie here, whatever the danger." He shakes his head. "That I could have contemplated that, for even a moment—"

Mary Anne can bear no more of it and "takes charge" with a dispatch and energy that astounds the Colonel, even as it jars him from his self-reproach, for Mary Anne reaches out and grabs him by the shoulders, shaking him as hard as she can to break his agonized concentration on the past, the never-to-be-changed past. "Stop that this instant!" she snaps, even as he turns toward her, his mouth opening in surprise. "I won't hear any more of it! As if you were to blame for anything! How many times—" Her voice breaks, as her breathing goes hard and thick. "—do I have to tell you—"

"Why, Mary Anne—" manages Brandon.

"It's not your fault! That your father did what he did, and looked the way he did, or that it helped you to have someone with you and were sorry to see her go, or—anything! A man bears his own faults; it's too much to ask of him to bear everyone else's, too. What do I have to do to you to get you to see—"

Brandon, having recovered from his surprise, has caught Mary Anne's hands in his, prying loose her grip on his shoulders and holding her still, and she grows calmer under his scrutiny, that look that both inquires and loves . . . and occasionally rebukes. But it is the love that matters most.

"Do to me, my dearest?" A raised eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"Don't you dare laugh at me," mutinies Mary Anne, trying to sound dangerous but responding to Brandon's teasing in spite of herself. If we keep this up we'll be just like Therese and Dev . . . "If you don't think I can 'do' anything to you, you just ask Dev—he made the same mistake with Therese, but I'll wager he won't be making that mistake again!"

Seeing Mary Anne's grin, Brandon knows it is safe to laugh with her now, though he cannot resist sparring with her. "I shall do nothing of the kind. Mister de Valera deserves his privacy, and as for whatever exchanges you have had with Miss Therese—well, a man meddles in women's confidences to each other at his dire peril. Thank you, but no." Brandon briefly tightens his grip on Mary Anne's fingers. "Now, if I release you—shall I be safe, do you think, or are you still planning to tear me limb from limb?"

Mary Anne's eyes narrow to smoke-blue triangles. "I'm not planning to tear you limb from limb, but—" A low laugh. "—I'll not make any promises about how safe you'll be, sir."

Brandon opens his hands, and his arms. "I shall risk it," he laughs as Mary Anne settles willingly into his embrace, murmuring that she is sorry, that she had not meant to fly into a temper that way, "—but I just can't stand to see you hurt yourself like that, Christopher; if anyone else tried to harm you, I'd—well, you know; you've seen me. Let it go, please, if you can. I hate to see you tear yourself to pieces over something you can't help. Something that's done."

Pot and kettle, my dearest . . . Brandon has never heard of William Faulkner, but he would be heartily in agreement with one of that author's most famous statements: The past is never dead. It's not even past. It touches the present and so it lives on. A ghost that haunts us, an animal that hunts us . . . (homage)

Sensing his mood, Mary Anne whispers, "I'm sorry to get so upset with you, because I don't want you to think you can't speak to me about this, if you need someone to listen. If you must talk about it, tell me. I'll try and control myself better next time."

"I hope that there shall not be a next time." A pause. "And do you know, you were right, of course, when you . . . said that about Eamon."

"Said what about him?"

"When you . . . chose him first, as the man the portrait resembled."

"Well, when you told me about the glasses—"

Yes, Mary Anne, I know what you were trying to do. "As I said—you were right. I would have been angry over what he did to Miss Therese, but I have no doubt that I was doubly angry on that score. That he looked like . . ." Brandon sighs. "I think I could have killed him, or at least injured him severely, but Miss Therese said some very similar words to me, about how we are not responsible for our fathers' faults, nor could I hold Eamon responsible in that fashion." A tight smile. "It may very well have saved his life."

"She was right, sir. A man's conscience, if it's in good working order—" She smiles back at Brandon, who is the most conscientious man she has ever known. "—has enough to bear in one lifetime, without adding another's faults." Mary Anne shivers. "But poor Therese. We know The Interrogator doesn't hesitate to exploit a . . . resemblance. HE has looked like you, more than once. If HE did that to Therese—made himself look more like Dev, I mean . . ."

"I know," replies Brandon, moving to put out the lamp and draw the bed curtains before Mary Anne can get a good look at his face. More memories: those times when The Interrogator had looked like Brandon. The "Ode to Joy" rescue. The Nakatomi abduction, after the Gruber wedding.

Assorted nightmares.

Enough, thinks Brandon, turning back to Mary Anne and gathering her closer to him, each seeking forgetfulness and comfort from the other in the warm, sheltering dark, though all about them lies that haunted country of the past that is never dead and never past . . .

MA
Therese--"Women we both love fiercely"?!?!? Oooooo . . . KLUNK! (Ow, I missed the fainting couch), - Saturday, March 04, 2000 at 10:20:55 (PST)

Delaford

Dev caught Therese, lifting her slight figure easily into his arms and looking down at her prone form with a worried frown. What have you got yourself into this time, little one? he wondered silently, contemplating her pinched, drawn features. Shifting her into a more comfortable position he strode back toward the main house, his long legs eating up the ground.

Various thoughts assailed his senses as he moved, all of them centered on Therese and her behaviour since her return. Emotionally, she was at loose ends, trying to gather in the unraveling strands of her ability to cope with what had transpired at HIS hands. He could see that more clearly now--and should have recognized it far sooner, he admonished himself. She had already run a gamunt of feelings, yet still had not spoken to him of her experiences, or even acknowledged the need to do so, for that matter.

He shouldered open the main door awkwardly, a footman darting to his aid as he recognized the entrant and his burden. "What may I do, sir?" the younger man asked in a worried tone.

"Send Dr. McCoy to my quarters," Dev replied, his tone emotionless. He stepped forward, toward the main staircase, relieved to see that the main hall was largely deserted. He had just mounted the first step when a young maid turned the corner from the kitchen area, took one look at the unconscious Therese in Dev's arms, and with a shriek bolted back toward the kitchen, screeching for Miss MacLeod. Dev allowed himself a heavy sigh. So much for going unnoticed.

In seconds, he was surrounded. Miss M ran from the kitchen, followed closely by the original footman who had been sent at a run for 'the good doctor lady,' and the young maid, who was still flustered, her hands fluttering nervously about her face as she repeated various sounds of distress and concern over and over again.

"Please," Dev said, quietly at first, then in a forceful, commanding tone. "Please! This does not help in any manner. Your concern is appreciated, but I must get Miss Gellert back to her bed. If you please?"

Miss MacLeod stepped sideways gracefully, indicating the kitchens. "Tillie, fresh tea for Mr. de Valera's room, 'n be ye quick aboot i'." Stepping ahead of Dev she lead the way to his room, opening the door wide and moving to smooth the bedclothes before he gently placed her on the soft surface.

"She shouldna be aboot yet, Mr. de Valera," Miss M said simply, turning to face him. Seeing his ire at her words, she raised a calming hand. "And I imagine she will na be kept still."

"You have the right of it, Miss MacLeod," Dev admitted, "I admit that I am at something of a loss." He moved to sit next to her on the bed, his hand smoothing back the hair from her forehead, and playing gently across her cheek.

"Yer a good man, for an Irish lad," Miss M stood above him, hands on hips, her tone gruff. "Ye'll do right by her, I've no doubt o' tha'." She paused, her voice softening. "It will take some time, don't fret over much."

A small, tight smile flickered across Dev's features momentarily. He was touched by the other woman's faith in him, and wished he had such confidence in his abilities to care for Therese.

"I'll leave ye now, and make sure the doctor is on her way. If there's an'thin' I can get for ye. . ." She waited a brief moment for his response, and seeing none, quietly slipped from the room.

Once alone, Dev allowed his head to sink into his hands, fingers running through his hair as a long, low sigh escaped him. He remained that way, eyes closed, for several long moments before slowly raising his head--and reacting with a visible start to find his host standing in the entranceway to the room. "Colonel?" his concern and despair were immediately vieled, and he rose to his feet in a single, graceful move. "My apologies, I did not hear you enter."

"It is no matter, Mr. de Valera, the door had been left unlatched--" he broke off abruptly, crossing the room to clasp Dev's shoulder. "Eamon, how is she?"

He shook his head briefly as if to clear it. "Weak. Stubborn. Worn out. Headstrong." He paused. "She insisted upon going out after a loose horse just now. Short of physical restraint, which is unimaginable at present, she would not be deterred. When she exherted herself, she fainted."

"And our Miss Therese is not the swooning type."

It was Dev's first instinct to bristle at the other man's use of the possessive 'our,' but as he turned to look to Brandon, he was oddly comforted by the compassion and caring shown there. "No, she certainly has never been that."

"Mrs. Brandon has asked after Miss Therese--she wished me to tell you she is willing to relieve you at any time.

"Your wife is a thoughtful and caring woman, Colonel--"

"--Christopher."

A slight inclination of Dev's proud head acknowledged Brandon's request, and he coninued. "She is thoughtful and caring, Christopher, and Therese would welcome a visit when she awakes. . .though I could not leave her, even to the competent ministrations as one such as your wife."

"I thought not." He paced the side of the bed, turned at the foot, and returned to his original stance. "Were I in your place, my actions would be the same. Is there anything I can do to be of service?"

"You are a gracious host, and I am sorry we are forced to continue to infringe upon your hospitality. . ."

"Rubbish!"

Dev was shocked into a momentary silence at the vehemence expressed by his normally proper and staid host.

"That is not only sheer and utter rubbish, Eamon, it is wholly unnecessary. I have grown quite fond of Miss Therese, and my wife holds her in particular regard. You are among friends here, sir, please credit us as such?"

Eamon sank to his seat beside the bed, moved beyond words by the other man's expression of support and friendship. After several moments he cleared his throat, and said quietly, "You esteem an honour I am not sure I am due."

"Our women have both suffered at HIS hands, Eamon," Brandon said, his voice deadly calm. "Women we both love fiercely. Neither you nor Therese shall go this alone." He stepped toward Dev slightly, grasping his shoulder quickly and giving it a firm squeeze before stepping back. "You must excuse me, I am to sup with my wife--should you require anything. . .anything at all, you only need ask."

Therese
zowie. . .those Dev pics on the March Rickmanista?? You were right, MA!!! Swwwoooooonnnnnnnnn. . .THUD, - Friday, March 03, 2000 at 12:08:27 (PST)

Delaford

Therese moved quickly down the hallway and to the main stairs, Dev and Scout right behind her. She was in a hurry, taking the steps two and three at a time when half way down the stairs when she felt her knees buckle upon landing, and grabbed at the handrail for support. Strong hands clasped her around the waist immediately, a low voice rumbling a warning in her ear.

"Therese," Dev murmered reproachfully, steadying her until she could maintain herself once again. "You should be resting. . ."

"I'm fine," she replied adamantly as she regained her balance and continued down the landing and out the main doorway. Scout shot Dev an uneasy look, but received only a helpless shrug in return.

They had no sooner reached the driveway when the frightened horse lunged by them, one front leg held off the ground, giving the animal an awkward, stilted gait. Haye's voice carried across the lawn as he instructed the other groom where to stand. There was a startled, silent pause, then a shout of acknowledgement as Therese called to him, "We've got the east side of the lawn, you and your man cover the west grounds!" She turned quickly to Scout, explaining as they walked. "What we need to do is make a moving wall of bodies, and gently push the horse toward the stables. If we keep walking toward the animal, he'll keep retreating, and with five of us, we ought to be able to keep closing off the space until we have the horse where we want him, okay?"

Scout nodded, a look of decided unease on his face. "And what if it comes running back toward one of us?"

"Not to worry," Therese assured him, "a horse will almost always retreat if you yell a bit and wave your arms. They will rarely run a person down."

Scout gave weak smile and moved to cover his third of the space Therese indicated. "Almost always?" he repeated uneasily. Dev took the other side, staying close to Therese.

It wasn't long before Jeeves and Hayes were in sight, and the five bodies made an effective, mobile wall as they slowly moved toward the startled horse, gently encouraging it to head toward the stables.

As they got closer, Therese could see that the horse was a mare, and she was terrified. Her nostrils flared, eyes wide and rolling as she snuffed and woofed her dismay at the encroaching humans. When they were within several hundred yards of the paddocks, Hayes motioned them toward a large, open barn whose main purpose was for feed storage, rather than livestock, but Therese could see his intent. The entire side of the enclosure stood open, and the mare would be much more likely to enter it rather than the narrow confines of the stables.

They paused frequently as they surrounded the animal, the goal being to get her to go in the intended direction, but not to stress her to the point that she would be forced to charge through the surrounding humans. The mare was a mere ten yards from the barn when she began to swish her tail nervously, and pawed the ground in her distress.

Why is she doing that? Scout whispered to Therese nervously.

She's feeling a bit stressed, and trying to decide whether to bolt or allow herself to be caught,Therese explained in a soft tone. Taking a single step forward, and motioning the men beside her to remain, Therese approached the petrified animal, hand held out. She murmured to the animal soothingly in soft, low tones, and the mare swung around to face this new danger, her mane whipping across her neck, sweat darkened hide gleaming. A piercing, snorted whistle of breath escaped the flaring nostrils as the dark head lifted nervously, ears swivling back and forth in her indecision.

Therese! Dev's voice was hushed, but his tone belied his concern.

I can get her, don't any of you move, Therese implored the men behind her as they eyed one another nervously. You're going to let me do that, aren't you girl? Therese continued speaking to the mare, her tone soft, taking tiny, half steps closer each time the mare showed signs of calming.

It was painstakingly slow progress, and it was all Dev could do not to leap foward and grab Therese from within the horse's striking range. Taking a deep breath, he watched as she reached slowly toward the dangling lead rope, the mare eyeing her with fear and mistrust.

For several moments, it looked as if the horse was going to allow herself to be captured. She withstood the gentle pressure of Therese's hand upon the rope which dangled from beneath her muzzle, but when she felt the slack being gathered in hand, and the merest hint of tension was put upon the halter, she spun around quickly, jerking Therese off of her feet.

Therese held onto the rope vainly, but it was pulled from her hands as the horse swung away from the four men who were catapulted into action by the sight of Therese being thrown to the ground.

Scout and Dev rushed to her side, Dev immediately falling to his knees beside her as she weakly shoved at him. "Get the horse!" she implored, "we have to catch her now!"

Dev shook his head in disbelief. He was still shaking from the sight of Therese being bodily lifted into the air, and seeing how alarmingly close the mare's wheeling hooves had come to Therese's blonde head--and her first concern was that the bloody beast not escape. He turned toward Scout, "I've got her, why don't you see if you can help the grooms." He turned back toward Therese, "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, Eamon, really," she said, her voice sounding weak even to her own ears.

"Well let's get you out of the way in case that animal decides to make another run for it." Lifting Therese to her feet, she wobbled unsteadily, and it was obvious to them both that she could not support her own body weight.

"I--I don't think I can stand, Eamon," she said with a small sigh before fainting into his arms.

Therese
I roared at the fish stories, all--good show! You guys are too much. . ., - Thursday, March 02, 2000 at 13:01:57 (PST)

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