Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Paragraph added.
Mind your language, please.
D.o.C.

Damn, damn, damn. Suzanne, could you please put a paragraph break after the italicized Nottingham? Thank you.
Magda
- Thursday, August 31, 2000 at 17:28:34 (PDT)

"Day the Ninety-eighth, in the month of February – In which I return to Nottingham."

When I was a child and still learning my lessons, my tutor would sometimes tell me the story of my great-great-grandfather Wido. He was the Norman warrior who came to England with William the Conqueror, cut his bloody way through hoards of Saxons at the side of his king and as a reward received Nottingham and all the lands surrounding it from the hand of a grateful sovereign. Of course, the tutor would add, it hadn't been quite that straightforward; the king had originally given the town to someone else but when my ancestor took sword in hand and lopped off the recipient's head in front of the entire court, the king immediately saw that a mistake had been made and transferred ownership on the spot. Thus Wido of no particular place in Normandy became Wido of Nottingham and the first in a long line of great warriors who would hold the shire until doomsday.

It was an affecting tale and one that never failed to thrill me as a boy. It wasn't until many years later - not, in fact, until I stood on a hill overlooking the town after ten days of travel from Barnesdale - that I realized my tutor had left something out of his account.

Great-great-grandfather Wido was a fathead.

What other word could better describe a man who built a castle with sheer cliffs on three sides, ensuring no other way to the gates but through the length of the town? A town inhabited by over two thousand people who knew my features better than they knew the backs of their own hands (or at least those hands that I hadn't ordered cut off for various misdemeanours). And a town crawling with Robin of Locksley's soldiers. All because the founder of my family hadn't thought it was necessary for a back entrance to the castle in case of trouble. There was a limit to the respect owed the ties of kinship. I examined the ramparts of the castle in disgust.

“What’s wrong, George?” Behind me, Adam's voice had an impatient edge.

I looked over my shoulder. My companions waited under the trees with the horses. Adam stood up in the stirrups, craning his neck for a view of the castle. His horse shifted uneasily under him. Peter lounged in his saddle, scratching himself under his monk’s habit and looking around with indifference.

"Nothing's wrong." I called back. "Just taking a good look at the town. I want to get the lay of the land." After a moment, Adam nodded and sat down. Peter yawned. I resumed my perusal of the landscape.

It had been like this for ten days. Adam was on fire to get to Nottingham to tear Melisant from the arms of her affianced husband. He had convinced himself that the king and Robin of Locksley would be so grateful to us for exposing Walter of Krone’s evil ways that they would willingly reward him with the hand of the girl he loved.

Peter, on the other hand, was quieter. Once the immediate euphoria of freedom had passed, his attitude was one of indifference to most of what was going on around him. He shared Adam's determination to ruin Krone (if anything, he was the more bloodthirsty of the pair) but years of crusading had taught him to marshal his resources until they were needed. The only thing that could rouse him from a stolid torpor was the sight of a tavern wench at the inns along the way. Then he came alive with enough energy to overrun an entire phalanx of Saracens. We had considerable difficulty restraining him from an activity that would have shredded our monkish disguises completely. At first he simply sulked but on the sixth day he devised the strategy of throwing off his clerical robes at the edge of a village and claiming to be our groom. In the interests of peace, we let him get away with it, and the tavern wenches let him get away with a lot more.

And after ten days of steady riding, we were finally on the outskirts of Nottingham.

We did have one bit of good luck. The banners flying from the castle towers were Locksley colours, not the king's, meaning that the Lion-Heart hadn't arrived yet. If he were in residence, there would be no way to get past the royal guards. But it would be tricky enough as it was.

"For God's sake, George, what are we waiting for?" Adam came up beside me. His horse stamped the snowy ground and blew mist into the air. "The day's almost over and then the gates will close for the night. Let's go!"

"We're not going anywhere until we've got someplace to go." I folded my arms across my chest. "There are only three inns that take guests and they're probably full up by now. There are farms around here. We can spend the night in a byre and enter the town in the morning." When the guards wouldn't be checking incoming visitors as carefully and there was less chance of me being recognized.

"Another night in a hayloft?" Adam sounded incredulous. "No! Not again. Come on, we can at least get through the gates."

"I'm getting cold." Peter complained out of the deepening gloom.

Just as it looked as if the matter would have to be settled by force of arms, we were interrupted. A low, moaning sound came from the bottom of the hill. We turned to look. At first we saw nothing but the empty road. Gradually the sound grew louder and then a cluster of men appeared out of the dusk, carrying staves and wearing the long robes of some religious order. Their continuous chant rose and fell on the wind, filling the stillness of the winter eve. There were at least a dozen of them, and probably more. One of the marchers in front looked up the hill in our direction and raised his hand to call a halt. The others stopped behind him and fell silent.

I decided to take the initiative. "Peace be with you, brothers, on this fine night."

"And with you." The voice was deep and hollow, as if it came from the bottom of a great barrel. "What do you here at the edge of the forest so late? There are wolves in the area, both man and beast."

"We are resting from our exertions, brother." Adam chimed in. "Just before we enter the town." This last sentence was accompanied by a sidelong look at me.

The monk thought about that for a minute. "Strange that two of you wear the robes of our order, yet the third is a young knight. Stranger still that those two ride horses rather than walk like our Lord did when he was on this earth." His voice throbbed with disapproval at our luxurious ways.

"I rode many horses when I was on Crusade." Peter kicked his mount forward. "So did the bishops who accompanied us."

"On Crusade?" The monk's tone was suddenly warmer. A ripple of approval swept over his companions. "To be sure, I have often heard tales of the Crusades. Had I been a younger man…" He trailed off, thinking of might-have-been's. Then he roused himself again. "We go as far as Nottingham, to attend the wedding of a great patron of ours. You are welcome to come with us and share our evening meal."

I sat up straighter. "You speak of Walter of Krone, I believe?"

The monk's manner became almost friendly. "Yes. Has your house also benefited from his attention?"

"Let's just say that we have a great interest in his marriage." I gestured to Adam. "This young knight gave us protection on our travels and provided us with these mounts. We would gladly share your meal this night."

"Come then. Night is falling quickly and we have not much time." The monk stamped the ground with his walking stick to punctuate his command.

We rode down the hill and Peter and I dismounted. As we fell into line behind the other monks, Adam rode behind us, leading the extra horses. When we reached the gates, I was in the centre of the group and filed past the bored guards without attracting any undue attention.

And so I returned to my home.

"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
- Thursday, August 31, 2000 at 17:27:30 (PDT)

The Stables, Delaford

Therese froze as she rounded a corner of the stable, only to have a strong hand come down gently upon her shoulder. She shrank from the contact, cursing herself for doing so, and turned to face Colonel Brandon.

“My pardon, Miss Therese, I did not mean to startle you,” he said, his voice soft. “I saw you leave your room, and followed you out of concern. Should you be about so quickly?” He looked down at her smaller figure, and she could see the concern and regard for her in his gaze, though she was hard pressed to acknowledge it to herself, let alone the man before her.

“I won’t go back,” Therese said, her tone hollow, her eyes reflecting a mulish cast. She knew she was being rude to her host—unconscionably so, given his kind treatment and generosity toward her, but she felt almost as if her very actions were becoming beyond her control.

Brandon paused, aware of the livery staff witnessing the scene unfolding before them. He knew well that this reaction was not the true nature of this woman, and his concern for her grew.

In his years of service, Brandon had been a leader of men; as a man, he had thought it was his duty to not only guide them in battle, but felt responsibility for them as well. Far too frequently he had witnessed others of his rank make a spectacle of themselves and their power, most frequently at great detriment to enlisted men, solely in order to flex this power in front of others. It was not his way in war, and it was not his way in his home.

“Come with me, Miss Therese, if you will.” Brandon extended a hand toward the open door of the tack room.

Therese considered him warily, gauging his response. He had not ordered or demanded, but merely requested. It was not what she had expected of a military man.

Brandon stood quietly before Therese, awaiting her response as if he had done no more than inquired after the weather, and thought back to the situation that had first taught him this patience.

He had not been in command of his troops long when he’d met with his first act of open defiance, and he had realized that his actions from that point would largely determine his success—or failure, as an officer. The men were standing in formation, all eyes turned toward the one soldier who had spoken out, waiting to see what punishment their freshly appointed captain would deliver. Brandon knew his troops were expecting something along the lines of seeing the man stripped to the waist and publicly beaten, and were therefore completely stunned when instead he directed the offender to Brandon’s own quarters.

Away from the security brought about by the other men, and with no one to witness his recalcitrance, the offender had very nearly been shaking in his boots. That soldier had been little more than a child, and his rash move could have cost him imprisonment, disfigurement, or even worse, from some that held command. Instead, Brandon allowed the boy to speak his mind, away from the prying ears of the others, where it was unnecessary for the soldier’s defiance, and where no damage to Brandon’s perceived authority could occur.

The point had been minor and was quickly resolved; Brandon’s reputation as a fair and honest leader had been indelibly marked. Men fought for the privilege of serving with him, and though there were the horrors of war in his camp as in others, there was loyalty and understanding as well. It was a lesson in dealing with people that Brandon would not forget.

Therese nodded slightly, and stepped into the wooden paneled room, the scent of clean leather apparent as she crossed the threshold. She considered the rows of saddle racks, the bridles neatly hung upon the opposite wall to one side. Crossing the room, she sat down on a tack trunk and looked up at Brandon warily.

Therese
some history on Brandon for you, MA, - Wednesday, August 30, 2000 at 11:01:13 (PDT)

Dev's Guest Quarters, Delaford

Therese slid off of the bed and joied Dev at the window, her arm resting upon his elbow as she peered around his shoulder. Mary Anne could not help but notice that his large hand moved to close protectively over her smaller one. This is easy for none of us, Dev, but most especially you. This not being able to do something. . .well, it's certainly not something which you're accustomed to, by any means.

Standing on tip-toe to better see the spectacle below, Therese gasped. "Oh, the poor thing--she's terrified! How could she have gotten out of the stables again? We had her penned in." Without another moment's contemplation, Therese moved quickly to the wardrobe, and reached for her trousers, quickly stepping into them.

"You're not. . ." Dev's voice was firm, but he faltered after the first few syllables--for clearly, she was. As he crossed the room, Mary Anne could see the frustration written clearly upon his features. Politician or not, it is all there. Helplessness. Rage. Frustration. Impotence. Clearly, he wishes to stop Therese, or at least re-direct her in yet another of her headstrong rushes, and again, clearly, he cannot. Or will not. For what Mary Anne imagines could only be one of the few times in his life, he simply does not know what to do, and it is all too painfully obvious.

"Therese, I've no doubt that Hayes will see to the mare--you must know of the regard in which Christopher holds his stables. Jasper Hayes would not have care of the horses if he were anything other than the best at what he does." Mary Anne moved to the other woman, and laid a staying hand on her arm. Therese paused for a moment, considering what she had been told.

"I'm sure he is the best, Mary Anne. . .but I need to help that mare." She looked toward Dev, sensing his concern and frustration, yet still turning from him and moving toward the door. "I'm sorry, Eamon--I know you want me to rest--and I realize this probably makes little sense to either of you, but I really need to see that she's okay." And with that, she strode quickly from the room.

There was a moment of silence, a tense awkward moment that was abruptly punctuated by the loud, shattering sound of Dev's fist smashing into the wooden window frame. Mary Anne flinched, her face showing her startled reaction to her guest's violence, and though her first reaction was to remove herself from the unpredictible behaviour of the man before her, she forced herself to approach him instead.

Taking one of the linen napkins that had been on the tea tray, she wrapped it loosely around the finger's of Dev's right hand, staunching the slight flow of blood from his knuckles, which had not fared well in their impact against the sturdy structure. He looked down at his arm in disbelief, as if he could not understand what had just occurred, before his features flushed. "My most sincere apologies, Mrs. Brandon, I will certainly make restitution for any damage caused." He lapsed into formality in his distress, and seeing Mary Anne's look of compassion and understanding, added, "I did not mean to frighten you. No doubt," a wry grimace punctuated his words, "no doubt that at this point my Irish temper comes as little surprise."

"Eamon, it's okay. I cannot pretend to understand completely, but I know how Christopher felt when I was taken by The Interrogator." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Some things were somewhat. . . different, in my situation, but in many respects I know what Therese suffered, and I witnessed, through Christopher, to some extent what you must be dealing with. It will take time."

"But she cannot even speak to me about it!" Dev whirled around, leaning up against the wall, one fist clenched and raised above his head. His body trembled in his anger and frustration, and when Mary Anne moved behind him to place a calming hand upon his shoulder, she could feel him flinch from her touch.

"She will, Eamon--in her own time."

"Will she?" His voice was bitter, the words ragged.

"It's normal to have doubts--you know that as well as I--but Eamon--" Mary Anne paused, gathering courage for what she knew she must now say. Under normal circumstances, she would never fear for her safety around this man, but had he been pushed as far as he could bear? Was not a wounded animal the most dangerous beast of all? Releasing a deep breath she said gently, "HE would be most pleased, you know, if HE could learn that you're allowing HIM this victory."

Eamon flinched as though she had struck him, and slowly turned to face the gentle blue eyes that regarded him with such compassion and understanding. He exhaled, his breath escaping in a deep sigh as he pushed the hair back from his forehead with his undamaged hand. "I am grateful for your kindness and understanding, Mary Anne--I seem to be devoid of reason at present, forgive me."

"Few men find themselves tried as you are now, there is no reason for you to seek forgiveness, though I gladly give it to you if you wish. All I ask is that you go to her--just be with her so that when she is ready, you'll be there."

Dev nodded, his features once again assuming a less revealing mein. "Your servant, madam," he said, his slight grin belying his formality, and revealing the true affection he held for Mary Anne. "You servant, who, should you need him, will apparently be found in your stable yard."

Turning to watch his long legged stride as it carried him swiftly from the room, Mary Anne then crossed to the window. Looking down upon the skittish black mare, and the several men who had gathered to capture her, she frevently hoped that Therese might find whatever solace she sought in the animal.

Therese
MA--email on the morrow, I promise., - Tuesday, August 29, 2000 at 20:33:44 (PDT)

Dev’s Guest Quarters, Delaford:

Yes, there is relief in Dev’s tone, but there is something else as well. Glad though he is to see Therese in better spirits, there is his quick glance that darts from Therese to Mary Anne, a subtle communication of Why could you help her, when I could not?

"No, Dev, you aren’t interrupting anything," puts in Mary Anne before the situation has a chance to become awkward. "In fact, we need some help—Miss M’s leftovers from this morning are enough to feed an army."

Dev raises an eyebrow. "Help, you say?" as he gestures to their crumb-strewn plates, the flatware liberally smeared with cream and jam, and the half-ruin of the table. "At the moment I’d say you were fair competition for a swarm of locusts—"

Therese pauses a moment in trying to wipe her mouth with her napkin, long enough to put out her tongue at Dev before resuming her cleanup operations.

His heart soars at her expression—now that is more like Therese!--but he contents himself with a half-smile, adding, "—however, I am happy to be of service, if I may."

"Yes, you may, you great Irish oaf. Tell me if I got all that cream off of my chin!"

Mary Anne half-rises. "I’ll be glad to get you a mirror, if you’d like."

"I would not like," retorts Therese. "What Eamon said about the locusts? I probably look like all the plagues of Egypt, in one package!"

"Therese." Dev’s voice—calm, but stern.

"Uh-oh," murmurs Mary Anne.

"What?" Therese folds away her napkin. "What’d I do?"

"Wellll," Mary Anne inserts, "methinks, Therese, that Mister De Valera doesn’t like it when you say bad things about yourself. The Colonel doesn’t like it when I do that, either." A smile, with a twinkle in it, as Mary Anne nods toward Dev. "If he’s anything like so severe as Christopher, I’d watch myself, if I were you."

"Severe?" Therese hrrrrmphs, but there is a sparkle in her eyes as well. "I see what you mean," she agrees, turning her eyes toward Dev, who is sitting still for this devilment in a resigned manner that speaks well of his patience—however temporary it might be. However, his own little smile suggests that his situation is far from intolerable.

"So long as we are on the subject of a swarm of locusts," he announces loftily, "I hope that you still have sufficient room for some more tea, at least. Miss M insisted on sending up a fresh pot, and—" His grimace all but convulses his listeners with repressed giggles. "—it would have been worth my life to refuse."

Mary Anne reaches for another scone. "Well, I’ll have you know that I’m just getting started."

"Same here," agrees Therese. "I don’t understand it—I’m ravenous. Mary Anne, would you pass me the cream, please?"

And so it goes. The conversation is cheerful, agreeable, frequently hilarious as Dev joins in to help dispose of the scattered remnants, hailing with delight the fresh pot of hot tea when it arrives, passing around the cups—and watching Therese. Watching with his heart in his eyes, watching as closely as a man can watch and still attend to other matters . . . without simply resting his chin in his hands and staring, wide-eyed, and Mary Anne’s heart contracts with pity and pain at the sight. These few moments of lightness, as if nothing were the matter—what was it Therese had said? That she wished she and Eamon could simply go on from that point, and not even think of this as something from which they might never recover. All this conversation, this laughter and joking among friends: graceful but careful skating over the thin skim of ice on a pond. Below them, the waters. Deep, cold, and dark.

Fortunately, Mary Anne is distracted by a noise from outside—a noise she recognizes an instant after Therese, who sits up straighter on the bed, even as Dev steps to the window and peers out.

The noises again. And Dev, with a roll of his eyes: "They have not caught that animal yet?!"

MA
Therese--happy to be of service, if I may. 8-) *hug, size extra-large*, - Tuesday, August 29, 2000 at 19:01:37 (PDT)

Dev's Guest Quarters, Delaford: "Someone had their revenge, Mary Anne, but it is unlikely I'll ever see mine." Therese paused as she considered her thoughts, it was difficult to voice what she was feeling, the words just would not flow.

Mary Anne leaned toward the other woman, patting her gently on the arm. "It's okay, whatever it is you want to tell me. Don't think that I'll ever judge you, no matter what you say."

"Though I think I'll regret not killing HIM when I had the chance until my dying day, it's not my revenge--or lack of opportunity for it so much that I fear--it's Eamon." She paused, wiping at the tears streaming down her cheeks with a frustrated motion. "I know him, and he won't rest until he has some form of retribution."

"Well HE has been taken into custody--"

Therese gave a wry half smile, which appeared almost more of a grimace. "That means nothing to Eamon, I assure you. The Empress could imprison HIM for life, chained to the wrack, stretched out and suffering for the remainder of his days, and it would have little bearing on Eamon's feelings--and you and I know well that her higness is a fair and just judge. It is unlikely HE will ever know freedom again, but HE will not be harmed. I'm not sure that Eamon can be content with that, and I wonder if HE will still be able to harm me by the effect on Eamon, even after the damage has been done." Therese paused, her grief evident on her tear stained face. "And this I know before I've told Eamon everything--can you imagine what he'd wish to do if he knew all that HE'd really done?" Therese leaned foward, her face cradled in her hands, "I just want to feel normal again, Mary Anne. I want Eamon and I to go on from this point, without having to think that we'll never truly recover."

Mary Anne watched the other woman give way to her tears, her thin shoulders shaking as she cried. She knew it was necessary, this release, but Mary Anne felt helpless as she watched the suffering of this woman she had come to regard as her friend. "It will be okay," she soothed, moving to hug Therese, "I know it's hard to imagine that now, but it will, truly. And you must believe in Eamon--I know him, Therese, and yes, he may wish revenge--who could even blame him for feeling such a thing? But know this. Eamon loves you, and you are his first priority. He won't do anything that will prolong your feeling so badly, trust me on that much at least."

Therese leaned back out of Mary Anne's embrace, touched at the other woman's desire to comfort her, but still not able to accept her reassurances. "So then," Therese asked, dabbing at her eyes with the hankie Mary Anne offered her. "What now?"

Rising gracefully from the bed, Mary Anne crossed to the tea tray that rested on the table along the far wall. "Now? Now it's time to eat." Looking at the puzzled gaze on Therese's face, Mary Anne had to chuckle. "It's what I do, Therese, you'll just have to bear with me. Besides, we've enough to worry about without the fear of offending Miss M. She made these fruit scones fresh for you this morning. Lots of cream, right?"

"And jam, too," Therese said, almost without thinking. "Ohmigosh," she added, "I actually think I'll be able to eat--in fact, now that you mention it, I'm starving."

"Having a crying out is a start, Therese--you and I both know you've got a tough road ahead of you--but please believe me when I tell you I want to be here to help you in any way that I can."

"I do believe that," Therese responded, her voice soft, "and I appreciate it more than you can know."

And so it was a most pleasantly surprised Dev who tapped lightly on the door some moments later, and entered his room to see Therese perched comfortably on his bed, eating scones and chatting aimiably with their hostess.

"Am I interrupting, ladies?" he inquired, the relief evident in his tone.

Therese
You're a good friend in r/l too, Mary Anne., - Sunday, August 27, 2000 at 16:47:40 (PDT)

"Day the Eighty-seventh, in the month of February – In which I devise suitable disguises for our trip to Nottingham."

It was high noon and the sun was directly overhead as I waited in the clearing. I'd turned the keys over to Adam and he'd departed for the monastery to secure the release of my former cellmate, assuring me as he rode off that there would be no problem. To while away the time, I examined the weapons he brought from Krone's manor and came up with a plan to get us, first, into Nottingham and then into the castle.

No one knew me in Yorkshire but I was bound to be recognized as soon as we crossed into Nottinghamshire. Disguise was essential. I gave it a great deal of thought as I swished a sword through the air to check its weight and heft. Finally I decided that Adam would escort Peter and I as a couple of monks come to town on pilgrimage to the cathedral. I was a little unclear about what exactly monks did with their time when they weren't praying but pilgrimage had a credible ring to it and wouldn't cause too many suspicions. I ran my thumb along the edge of the blade; yes, it would do nicely.

The sound of a horse roused me. I gripped the hilt, ready for trouble. After an endless moment Adam appeared through the trees, leading a bewildered-looking Peter by a rope halter that tied his wrists and wrapped around his waist. When he saw me, Peter's jaw dropped and then his face lit up with joy. "Bunkie! You didn't forget me after all!"

"So you can talk. I was beginning to wonder." Adam dismounted, grinning from ear to ear. He tied his horse to a tree branch and pulled out a knife. "Stand still and let me get that leash off you."

Peter obediently held out his arms. "I don't mind telling you these past four days were the longest of my life," he said, addressing me. "Adam told me you planned the whole thing. I can't thank you enough."

"Forget it." I dismissed it with a wave. The only thing worse than a lunatic is a maudlin one. Besides, I hadn't done it for his benefit but mine. "We have other things to discuss. Plans have to be made. I don't know how much Adam told you but we are going to Nottingham and you will have a chance to put your story before King Richard himself."

"The king!" Peter's jaw dropped again. I began to wonder if he suffered from some muscular disorder. "But why - what - how?"

"What? To confront Krone with his crimes. Why? Because he's a villain and must be punished. How? By horseback." I let my impatience show. Make that a maudlin, stupid lunatic.

It took longer than I liked but I finally managed to get Peter to understand my plan. He listened to me in silence while Adam ruined a perfectly good blade sawing through the thick rope that bound him. After I was finished he didn't say anything at first, then nodded. "Very well. What's the next step?"

"The next step is acquiring a pair of monks' robes. I'll take care of that. Meanwhile you," I examined him from head to toe. "Will remove those foul rags and immerse yourself in the river. You need to wash off the stench of the cell before we do any travelling."

Peter put up quite a fight, pointing out that the river was probably freezing cold, but the majority prevailed. Leading the horses, the three of us headed down to the river: Peter reluctantly to bath, Adam and I to walk upstream to the laundry works of the monastery to help ourselves to a new wardrobe. It hadn't been cold enough this winter for any of the larger rivers to freeze over and therefore the laundry would still be done close to the water. Soon the unmistakable, pungent aroma of lye assailed our nostrils and we arrived at our objective.

Three shacks sprawled haphazardly along the riverbank. Large double doors stood open to facilitate the workers toiling over the cauldrons of boiling water, standing on blocks and stirring the garments with long poles. Steam poured out of every possible opening in the buildings. A constant stream of men and boys moved between the washing area and the river, dragging full pails to replenish the water supply. Adam watched their activities with interest (he probably had no idea how the clothes he wore every day were cleaned for him) but I wasn't interested in wet clothes. I nudged him in the ribs and pointed out our destination: the drying shed attached to the back of the monastery. We walked up to the single door and looked inside.

Dozens of robes hung on racks that ran the length of the room. Braziers with hot coals provided the heat to dry the wet garments after they left the washing area. The ones closest to us were still dripping on the floor. While Adam hesitated on the threshold, I walked down the main aisle to where the drier garments were probably hanging. At the end of the room, I pulled down two robes that looked large enough and felt dry enough for our purposes. Close behind me a door shut with some force and I turned to find a wizened, ancient monk staring at me.

He glanced at the clothes in my hands and his surprise turned to disapproval. "My son, those robes belong to the brothers of this house. If you require charity, you must apply to the prior in the accepted manner." He swept his gaze from my leather boots to my warm cloak and from his austere manner, I could tell that he didn't believe I needed any charity.

While I considered the possible responses to this statement, footsteps rushed up behind me and Adam appeared at my side. He genuflected quickly and looked at the monk with beseeching eyes. "If you please, most reverend brother, it is not for ourselves that we seek these robes. Rather we have a companion who is destitute and whose rags do not provide adequate protection from the cold. We would not think of stealing these clothes but rather to acquire them in exchange for a contribution to the coffers of the house."

The monk subjected Adam to the same scrutiny he'd given me and with a more favourable result. His features softened but he stuck to the official line. "Your compassion does you credit, my son, but once again I must ask you to apply to the prior for any charity that your friend might need. Our order has an established way of doing things and you must respect that."

Adam looked like he was going to argue again but I'd had enough. I shifted the garments to one arm and unsheathed my dagger. "Look, monk, either let us take the robes now or," I held the blade up in front of his eyes. "Your vow of celibacy will become much easier to live up to." The metal gleamed as it caught the weak sunlight coming in the window.

The monk blinked several times, reeled back a few steps and then took off down the aisle, pursued hotly by Adam with coins in hand. Whether he caught him or not, I have no idea; I was on my way back to the river so Peter and I could don our disguises and we could get our journey underway.

I was going home, and I wasn't tolerating any more delays.

"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
- Friday, August 25, 2000 at 17:48:51 (PDT)

The Imperial Palace:

As the door closes behind her, Claudia turns to look at her cell and her heart gives a painful little thud at the sight of this place where she will be spending . . . who knows how much time?

It is not that her quarters are either dreary or threatening—far from it. The room is neat, spotlessly clean, warm and well-lighted, not at all the straw-strewn hole imagination supplies at the sound of the word "dungeon." A minimum of furniture, yes, but what is there is modern and attractive, and appears quite comfortable—especially the bed, which is full-sized and not the hard, narrow cot inevitably associated with prisons.

But still . . . Claudia hesitates at the door. It is a cell, nevertheless. She can see from where she stands that the bed is bolted to the floor, as is the washstand in the corner and the night table beside the bed. So they can’t be picked up and used as weapons. And the plaque of polished metal that serves as a wall mirror—anyone who has spent time with The Interrogator would be wary of it, knowing that it must serve as a device for spying.

The Interrogator. Hesitant as she is to fully enter the room, Claudia crosses to the bed and sinks down to sit at the edge of the bed, her knees weak from her journey here and the strain of this day and yes, it must be admitted, from the memory of HIM.

Memory and imagination. Both are traitors to her now, just when she would be strong and prepared for whatever awaits her. The Empress had said that if she told the truth, there would be no need for unpleasantness. But what is the truth?

Claudia allows her eyes to close as she sits, every muscle taut and quivering. HE is under this roof, somewhere. In this building. If HE were to walk into this room, what would I do?

The truth is that she honestly does not know.

HIS voice, in her mind, as if the past were present: I can make you beg me to stop or beg me not to stop . . . in the end, she had done neither, but only because he had roused in her such feelings as left her beyond speech and almost beyond coherent thought.

I promise I won’t hurt you this time . . . and he had kept his word, but it had not taken her long to realize that pleasure can be a weapon, every bit as much as pain, in the hands of one who is bent on control and domination. In HIS hands . . . and Claudia feels a long shudder ripple through her at the memory of those strong, elegant fingers caressing her, loosening her muscles and with them her powers of resistance, tantalizing her, mastering her as completely as if he had created a world there in the curtained recesses of that bed, and she had been his own creation, helpless to do anything save respond, marvelling at his touch, drawing her hands over his body . . .

Claudia’s eyes open. Those scars on HIS chest—what had he said? HE said Mary Anne did that to him, but that can’t be true. There flashes before Claudia’s internal eye a picture of Mary Anne, her delicacy, her willowy slimness, the appeal of those large, long-lashed blue eyes. Yeah, right. Whoever did that was trying to kill HIM, probably, and Mary Anne isn’t capable of killing time, let alone The Interrogator. Maybe HE just meant that she was responsible for how that happened to him, not that she did it herself. However . . . Claudia shifts about uneasily on the bed, remembering Mary Anne’s face at their last meeting. That hard, level stare.

I don’t know you, Claudia.

Perhaps she has been wrong about Mary Anne.

Perhaps she has been wrong about many things.

"This isn’t getting me anywhere," mutters Claudia, and she is surprised to notice that she has spoken aloud. With a little hrrrrmphing noise of disgust, she stretches out on the bed, not bothering to take off her shoes first but planting her feet in the middle of the clean counterpane as a gesture of defiance. For all the good THAT will do.

She is more tired than she had known, and the bed feels good—the mattress is firm but comfortable, and Claudia reaches down to the foot of the bed for the blue blanket folded there and draws it up around her, swaddling herself in it, still wondering what she would do if HE were to walk in this very minute.

But as sleep closes in on her, her last thought is not of HIM, but of Ed, smiling as he had smiled in days when things were so uncomplicated between them. Joy. Laugher. Fun.

Love.

One pang at her heart. Ed. Ed, where are you right now . . . ? And Claudia is asleep.

MA
A little something for you to enjoy, Clods, while you recover. 8-), - Friday, August 25, 2000 at 05:45:43 (PDT)

Hee-hee! Magda, I think you're beginning to know me a little too well . . . ;-)

The "grabbed" MA
But grabbed by whom, I wonder?!, - Thursday, August 24, 2000 at 18:32:28 (PDT)

"Day the Eighty-seventh, in the month of February – In which Estrilda and I play a game in bed."

I leaned against the doorway and watched the gate, fanning my neck with the edge of my cloak. Even though the weather had turned colder, wearing two tunics was uncomfortably warm. Removing my cloak, of course, was unthinkable.

The sun climbed higher in the morning sky as I stood there. Servants in plain, worn clothing walked along the cobbled streets, heading to the market and to the stockyards to buy food for their households. Others headed in the other direction to the shops where cloth and goods were sold. But the particular servants I was interested in didn't appear. Settling back against the thick wooden planks, I folded my arms for a long wait.

Adam should have returned with the horses and weapons by now. He would be waiting in a clearing beside the road to the monastery. It had taken no small amount of persuasion and a couple of outright threats to keep him from coming into town with me. For a healthy young man he had some very strange ideas: he thought I was going to wear a crusader's tunic to overawe the sheriff and force him to give me what I wanted. In fact, the last person I wanted to see was Odo. It was Estrilda I was hoping to find alone. Adam wouldn't have understood so it was just as well that he wasn't along.

The gate swung open suddenly and two women emerged. One was young and slender, her basket dangling from one hand; the other was older and heavier with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, gesturing energetically as they proceeded toward the market. Although they did not look in my direction, I waited until they disappeared completely around the corner before making my move.

Clutching my cloak tight around me, I left the security of the doorway. In four strides I was across the street and at the gate. A quick look around satisfied me that no one was watching. Then it was through the gate and down the path through the garden to the back door. I pressed my hand against the worn wood and took several deep breaths. It will soon be over, I told myself, just remember that; cling to it tightly with both hands. Then I lifted the latch and slipped inside.

It was a modest house so the kitchen was small but clean and tidy. An appetizing aroma wafted from one of the pots over the fire and mingled with the scent of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. But I wasn't thinking about food as I crept to other door; rather, I was trying to remember the layout of the main room on the other side. There was a long table with benches and chairs. A large chest between the front door and the table that probably contained blankets and bedding. An armoire against the far wall where I seemed to recall another internal door that probably led to the bedroom. I shuddered. Best not to think about that until I had to. The chest and the armoire were my first objectives. The keys had to be there.

I set my palm against the door and shoved with all my might. It slammed into the wall on the other side like a crack of thunder. There was a sound of rattling crockery. I leaped into the room and tore off my cloak, letting it slip off my shoulders to the floor behind me and revealing the great red cross of Krone's Crusader's tunic. Hands on hips, legs spread wide apart, I leered across the room. "Well, well, what have we got here? It looks like a Saracen beauty all alone with no protection. Just what I need to satisfy the hunger in my loins."

With a shriek Estrilda jumped off her chair. Her jaw fell open and her eyes grew round as platters at my outfit. Her sewing dropped from her limp fingers. For several seconds we stared at each other. I knew that this would be the tricky part: would Estrilda's anger with me exceed her frustration as a wife? I knew the answer I wanted but I had no illusions. It could go either way.

Fortunately for me, Odo must have been even more pathetic a husband than I imagined. Estrilda gasped, pressing her hands together under her chin and squeezing them tight. As the colour returned to her face, she smiled - and smiled - until her teeth were completely bared. "Yes! Oh yes!"

Relief flooded over me. To cover the reaction, I swaggered across the room. "I've been on Crusade for years. I no longer remember how to treat a lady with the proper courtesy. I only know how to - take what I want!" I gripped her shoulders with bruising force and pulled her body against mine.

"Oooh!" Estrilda gazed up at me adoringly. "Is this how the knights do it in the Holy Land?"

It's how they do it everywhere but this wasn't a lecture on foreign relations I was conducting, so I fudged. "Yes, it is. When our hunger for a woman's body overcomes all our civilized impulses, we turn into slavering beasts!" I couldn't pull her any closer and remain clothed so I emphasized the remark with a shake that sent her hair tumbling from under her veil.

It went over in a big way. She drew in a shuddering breath and grabbed onto the front of my tunic with hands curled into claws. More than ever I wished I'd worn a coat of mail. "Oh, how I've dreamed of this with some man - any man - who can make me feel like a real woman! What do we do now?"

I released her and retreated back a few paces. "Don't try to escape me."

Estrilda immediately stepped forward. "Very well, I won't."

"Resistance will prove futile." I stepped to the side and put the table between us.

She was beside me in an instant. "I'm sure it would."

"I will not be denied what I most desire." My escape was blocked. I hopped onto the closest bench and then onto the table.

"No reason why you should." Estrilda caught at the hem of my tunic so that I fell off the other side. I staggered, regained my footing and faced her, setting my back against the tapestry for protection. She stared at me with gleaming eyes, her chest palpitating; as I watched she ran her tongue over her lips.

This was not going well. The servants would be back soon, it was even possible that Odo might come in and I hadn't begun my search for the keys. I pummelled my brain for inspiration as Estrilda prowled around the massive carved chair to my side of the table. Hinting wasn't working; I would have to get more explicit.

"Taking refuge in your bedchamber will avail you no protection, Saracen wench." I looked pointedly at the other side of the room.

She paused just steps away. "My bedchamber? Would you really?"

"I will break down the door. You shall not escape my embraces." I took a small step forward, careful to stay just out of reach. "The fire in my blood will consume us both in a conflagration of lust."

"Oh! Yes!" She shivered, backing away. "I mean, no, no! You shall never have me!" Throwing a kittenish look over her shoulder, she ran to the bedroom door and slipped inside. It slammed shut.

No time to lose. I was beside the chest in a heartbeat and yanking open the lid. Blankets and cloths, balls of yarn, some glass utensils too good to leave out where the servants might break them. No keys. I shut the lid, careful to make no noise. Over to the armoire beside the bedroom door. Odo's mail hanging on a pole inside, an extra sword, leather tunics, a couple of belts, more linen, the good plate for serving important people at dinner. Still no keys. Damn. I thought hard. The bedroom. They had to be in the bedroom. I looked at the door and inhaled a lungful of air. Then I reached for the latch and pushed.

It opened immediately, to my total lack of surprise. A small screech from behind the bed curtains revealed Estrilda's not very effective hiding place. I took in the room with one sweeping glance. No armoires but another chest and, on a shelf above the prie-dieu, a hand-tooled writing case. I was suddenly absolutely certain that the keys were there. I tore my gaze away and pretended to hunt for Estrilda.

"Where are you, wench?" I kicked over a stool with enough force to make a racket. A whimper escaped from behind the cloth. "You can't get away from me!" A moment to increase the tension, then I reached for the curtains and tore them open.

Estrilda knelt on the mattress, clothed only in a chemise. Her dress was balled up at the foot of the bed. Her face glowed with perspiration and she panted as if she'd run a great distance. Her eyes were glassy with hunger. She was almost out of control and I began to think she might have to be tied down before I could - Yes! That was it!

Leaning forward, I dropped my voice to a whisper. "Have you got an old piece of cloth I can slice up for restraints?"

"Yes." It came out in a hoarse croak. She tried again. "Yes, over there in the chest."

This chest was smaller and contained women's things. About halfway down, I found a worn linen veil. Using my dagger I cut it into six long strips. Estrilda shuddered and moaned with every rip in the cloth. I sheathed my blade and stalked over to the bed with the rags draped over my arm.

"Now you are at my mercy. My prisoner. My captive." I seized her arm, wrapped one strip around her wrist and tied the other end to a bedpost. She watched me closely and tugged experimentally. I slapped her rump and she almost jumped off the bed. "None of that. I am in charge here."

She didn't move as I secured her other limbs. I could feel her hot breath on me as I straddled her to reach the far side of the bed. Small moans escaped from her throughout. It gave me another idea. I shoved another strip between her teeth and gagged her. For the first time she fought me in earnest. Then I took the last rag and tied it around her eyes. She bucked frantically but to no avail. I waited until she tired herself and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "This is how the Saracens prefer their women to be secured. You're going to learn a lot today." She tensed at the proximity of my voice but relaxed at my words. I climbed off the bed and started searching the room.

"Yes, you have much to learn of the ways of the east, my dear." Back to the chest for a thorough search. Dresses, veils, some jewellery of middling quality and little value, a good set of ivory combs. No keys. "By the time I'm finished with you, other men will seem clumsy and boorish in comparison." I pulled the writing case off the shelf. Papers, wax sticks, two seals, an official badge of the sheriff's office, several quills, an inkhorn and - a set of keys in an iron ring! "You will burn for a Crusader's touch and no one else will satisfy you." I closed the case and shoved it back on the shelf.

As I turned back to the bed, I heard a rider approaching the house. I slipped across to the window and peered out. It was Odo, dismounting and securing his horse at the front door. Perfect timing. I yanked Krone's tunic over my head and threw it on the bed beside Estrilda. She tensed as the cloth brushed against her. I shoved the keys into my belt and climbed out the window. Inside the house a door slammed and footsteps walked across the floor. I took a last look at Estrilda tied to the bed covered with another man's tunic before dropping to the ground outside.

As I rode out of town on Odo's horse, I smiled as I wondered what kind of story she'd tell him.

"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
A bit long this time but the title will grab MA at least..., - Thursday, August 24, 2000 at 16:39:54 (PDT)

The Empress smiles and bows her head in acceptance of such a lovely complement. :-)

Re: sound file. It's Metatron from Dogma......"The Voice" of God, in other words.
But you could pretend it's the Director. *grin*
"Just try to remember, we're working in a time frame here."

Suzanne
Now that I think of it, Directors sometimes think they are God. ;-), - Tuesday, August 22, 2000 at 07:22:33 (PDT)

Something I should have pointed out--the long, italicized portions of my recent posts about Mary Anne and Therese are written by Therese; they are not mine. I'm soooooo glad we have the Archives, beautifully maintained by Her Majesty . . . *grin*

MA
Credit where credit is due, - Monday, August 21, 2000 at 05:44:18 (PDT)

Dev’s guestroom, Delaford:

"HE lost—and you won."

A silence falls as Therese plucks nervously at the bedclothes and Mary Anne sits quietly, resisting the temptation to add to what she has already said. Go carefully, or you’ll undo the little you’ve done.

"I guess that’s true, Mary Anne, as far as it goes." A deep sigh from Therese as she settles back against her pillows again. "But it doesn’t feel like I won. Held out, yes, but—" Softly now, almost tearful again. "—it just hurts so much, remembering it, and it’s always there, every minute when I’m awake, and I dream of it when I’m asleep, too."

"It?" questions Mary Anne, gently.

"Yes. I—I couldn’t say this to Eamon. Not before I talked to another woman about it, first, to see if—" Therese gulps down a sob. "Well, let me just tell you!"

And we are in flashback . . . in The Interrogator’s Lair.

After a time, Therese began to flinch from HIS touch, regardless of whether it brought her pleasure, relief, or pain.

After a time, Therese began to wish that HE would bring her only pain; to that, at least, she knew how to respond.

HE knew that HE was getting to her, she could feel it through the touch of HIS fingers, see it in the swell of HIS chest, and the glint of those cold, yellow eyes. HE reminded her of one of the big cats. HE was a predator. And she was the prey. And as is the manner of felines, HE enjoyed toying with his captive, batting her around a bit, and providing HIMSELF with amusement as she writhed beneath HIS claws . . .

Slowly, the Lair dissolves—and we are back in Dev’s room, as the exhausted Therese concludes her story.

"And that’s what won’t stop hurting," she explains, wiping away the tracks of tears with the back of her hand, then blotting her face with the bedsheet. "Yes, The Interrogator did horrible, painful things to me—and that one moment, when I thought he was going to rape me—"

"That was good thinking, that trick with the door," puts in Mary Anne admiringly. "I’d never have thought of it!"

"All I can say is that I hope you’ll never have to use it," returns Therese, whose lips twitch briefly with something that might be a smile in better circumstances. "But you see—" Bitterly, now. "—I couldn’t make it work long enough for me to get away. I should have killed him when I had the chance."

Mary Anne shifts uneasily in her chair. "It’s no shame to you that you didn’t."

A hollow laugh. "Yeah, shame is the point, isn’t it? I didn’t want HIM—but he could make me feel . . . some pleasure, just the same. Pain, more often, but it was like he wanted to keep me guessing, or prove to me that—" Her voices begins to shake. "—HE could make me feel . . . whatever . . ."

"Therese," interrupts Mary Anne. "When did you last go to the doctor for a check-up?"

Startled at the change of subject, Therese blinks, then replies, "Well, it’s been a while. I usually don’t go to the doctor unless I’m sick. Really sick. But what’s that got to do with—"

"Ever had your reflexes tested?"

"What, you mean where they tap your knee with the little hammer?"

"Exactly."

Therese is beginning to see where this going, but plays along. "I’ve had that done."

"All right, then. When they tap your knee, you don’t make the muscle jerk, do you? It does it all by itself."

"So." Therese’s eyes narrow. "Is that what The Interrogator was doing? Testing my reflexes?"

A raised eyebrow from Mary Anne. "More like pushing your buttons."

Involuntarily, Therese’s shoulders draw together as a chill runs down her back. She can hear the voice in memory: I can cause your motor to purr . . .

"—just another means to show HIS control." Mary Anne swallows. "Would it help, Therese, if I told you he did the same thing to me? When he abducted me from Nakatomi. You remember, I told you HE hurt Christopher so I’d give in . . ."

A nod from Therese. "I remember." A long sigh. "God knows what would have happened if Eamon had been captured with me!" Though it was terrible to be alone there, with HIM. So terrible—but for you to have been hurt, too, Eamon . . . no, my love . . .

"Well, when HE was going to take me to bed—HE . . ." Mary Anne looks down at her folded hands. "HE—made me feel things, too, that I didn’t want to feel. I was so ashamed, I thought I’d die."

Therese nods. "You see why I couldn’t tell Eamon. Not right away." A pause. "Did you ever . . . tell the Colonel?"

"Yes—when I couldn’t avoid it any longer."

"That must have been horrible."

Mary Anne answers the unspoken request. "Yes, it was. For a little while. Christopher was angry—for me, of course, and even a little at me. And certainly at HIM. But he made me understand that it wasn’t my fault. And that’s what I want you to understand," says Mary Anne, raising her eyes. "You’re not to blame for any of it, no matter what HE made you feel."

Therese is calmer now. "I . . . see. HE tried that earlier, too. Putting the blame on me, I mean. I was fighting HIM and I tore his shirt, so--" Sourly. "—of course HE had to go saying that I really wanted to see HIM with his shirt off. That I could only have one reason for tearing his shirt." Her hands curl into fists against the bedclothes. "I’ll tell you, though—I saw his chest, and from the looks of it, someone or other has really torn HIM up in a fight or something. HE is just covered with scars, like little thin stripes—" Therese breaks off, staring at her visitor. "Mary Anne, you’re white as a sheet!"

"Don’t worry about it," manages Mary Anne, waving off the concern. "I’ll be all right. It’s just—well, it brings back some things—"

"Like when HE hurt the Colonel. Right. Okay, I won’t talk about that any longer. Except to say—" A note of grim satisfaction. "—that whoever did that . . . well, you’ve had your revenge, Mary Anne."

"Yes." Faintly. "I certainly have."

MA--good to see you back, Sandy! *raising a "Sandy Alexander" in salute*
What's the new sound file, BTW?, - Sunday, August 20, 2000 at 19:59:44 (PDT)

"Day the Eighty-fifth, in the month of February – In which I decide to fight back."

Three people, actually. But I did not say it out loud.

"It was sickening." Adam jumped to his feet and strode across the room. "Krone actually had the nerve to tell me he knew how I felt! He slapped me on the back and laughed! It was all I could do not to strike him."

I roused myself. Now was not the time to fall into a reverie; I had to find out certain things that only Adam could tell me. "Then what happened? Did you quit his employment?"

"No. I...went to bed." He kicked moodily at a rough stone in the floor. "We set out for Nottingham the next day. I had some idea that - I don't know - that if I performed some exemplary service for Krone that he would help me after all. I wasn't thinking clearly."

No need to tell me that, some things could safely be taken for granted. I leaned back on my hands and stretched my legs, trying to get comfortable. This was going to be a long recital.

Adam turned and paced the length of the kitchen, trailing his hand along the wall. "We made pretty good time, considering all the baggage we were transporting. The furniture from the lodge went back to Melisant's stepfather but we carried everything else with us." He paused at the far corner and looked back at me. "By the way, Lady Joya insisted on keeping the chest that was in your room. She wouldn't let anyone touch it except the men who strapped it onto the wagon. And she checked every night that it hadn't been disturbed."

"Really?" I tried to keep my tone light. "I'm grateful to her for taking such care of my belongings."

"Krone didn't like it at all. It was the one time I heard him speak harshly to her. He said that you had no further use for your gear and that it was taking up valuable room." He grinned suddenly, his teeth white in the gloom. "Lady Joya wasn't having any of it. She just reared back and told him that you might not need it but she did and it was coming along whether he liked it or not. Then she gave him the cold shoulder for a couple of days until he'd grovelled enough for her liking. Then they were friends again."

He kept talking but I wasn't listening. Why would Joya hang on to my belongings? Assuming that her anger at Adam for preventing my escape was real and she still regarded us as partners, that it. I could understand not wanting to leave them behind in a deserted building but why not leave them at one of the taverns in town and then get word to me? After all, she certainly knew where I was being kept. Then it came to me. Of course! She'd found the gold under my mattress and hid it in the chest! No wonder she didn't want anyone going near it. It made perfect sense. I smiled grimly. Well, perhaps I would have reason to feel grateful to that beautiful little traitor, if I could get my hands on that gold. And then get my hands on her. I pushed that particular notion aside; time enough later to think along those lines.

"Well, at least you'll know where to find it when you want it." Adam's exertions around the room had apparently worn him out; he came back to the hearth and flopped down in front of the fire. He laughed again in that abrupt manner that seemed to be a habit with him now. "Or perhaps the 'imaginary mysterious dagger' is in the chest. Wouldn't that be something?"

"Not so imaginary as you might think." I nodded at Luke, who'd been listening to our conversations with his ears flapping. "Tell him what you told me, boy."

Luke wriggled like a puppy in his happiness at being invited to speak but he managed to tell his tale about the man in the woods and the hiding place with despatch. Adam frowned in concentration as he listened and looked at me when the story was finished. "So there was a dagger after all? Any idea who went to all that trouble to get you arrested?"

"Krone himself is the obvious choice. Who else in this vicinity would have a Saracen dagger?" I picked up a stick and poked at the fire. "But he didn't kill the girl at the inn. I have reason to believe the sheriff's wife arranged that for her own reasons." I described my conversation with Estrilda when I was "questioned" at the sheriff's house and the cryptic comments she made.

Adam's jaw dropped in astonishment. "But...but that means that Krone is nothing less than a villain! And him a friend of King Richard himself! He must be stopped! We've got to do something!"

"I am going to do something." The stick I was holding had caught fire and I watched the flame crawl up its length. "I am going to retrieve my belongings and then I'm going to remove Krone from Nottingham - permanently." How exactly I was going to do that, I had yet to determine.

"I'll help you! Please let me come too, George!" Adam leaped to his feet again. "I was on my way back to Barnesdale to deliver something to the church for Krone but after what you told me, there's no way I'll do it now. Can you believe he was giving his crusader's tunic to the church so the priests could put it with their holy relics? It makes me ill to think about it!"

I opened my mouth to reject his offer of assistance. After all, the last thing I needed underfoot was a boy mooning over his lost love. But then a thought struck me. King Richard would be coming to Nottingham to preside over Melisant's wedding and probably Joya's and Krone's too. If Joya was so eager to become Lady Nottingham, then she would pay dearly to make sure there was no trouble when the king was around. She could be blackmailed into handing over all the gold. And when I had the gold, I had the means to hire mercenaries to take back my lands. But what kind of a threat would be powerful enough to frighten her?

Adam was staring at me with big-eyed earnestness, waiting for my response. I was reminded of another, similar face that had given me the same look recently. Of course! The lunatic in the monastery jail cell! Even if it wasn't true, his story about Krone's murderous actions in the Holy Land would destroy him with King Richard and Joya would see it immediately. Perfect. But how to get him out of jail? An idea began to form in my mind. "Adam, would Odo's guards hand over a prisoner to you without question if you said you were acting on Krone's orders? Even one that was chained up and considered dangerous?"

He blinked. "Yes, that would be no problem. Krone is still lord until someone else is appointed. But we'd have to get the keys to the chains from the sheriff. The guards wouldn't have them. Odo knows better than to trust them with something like that."

"Hmm." I thought hard; the idea took on a more finished shape. Could it work? Yes, it could. I smiled at Adam. "I think I'm going to borrow that Crusader's tunic from you. I need to get a man out of jail."

“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
- Saturday, August 19, 2000 at 15:16:50 (PDT)

Egypt, approximately 100 miles from Giza:

Alexander gave up in his efforts to find another shovel and picked up the last one that had been tossed outside previously. Grumbling briefly under his breath about strange weather phenomena in general, he started shoveling sand away from the rear tires before he and the rest of the group fell into an uneasy silence, working as quickly as possible to leave the area and arrive at the next campsite.

Sandy ~ missing person reporting in for duty!
I hate sand in my clothes, eww..., - Thursday, August 17, 2000 at 13:46:28 (PDT)

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