The Very Thought of You

by Lynn Kurland

  Through the haze that clouded his vision, he could have sworn he saw an arrow quivering in a tree above him.

  This was not a good sign.

  He felt the definite nudge of a foot in his side. A booted foot. A very ungentle foot.

  He tried to focus, but the pain in his head was blinding. Then he felt cold steel press against his neck. Now he knew he was losing it.

  "You trespass on my lands," a husky voice snarled. "Give me your name and your business."

  Alex blinked against the rain that had suddenly started up again with renewed vigor. All right, so some yahoo had wandered onto Jamie's estate and had decided to rob him. If he could just buy time enough to let his head clear, he could deal with this. He started to sit up, then got help. He was hauled into a sitting position by the front of his jacket and he groaned involuntarily at the agony the motion sent flooding to his brain.

  "Just a minute," he said. He put his hand on his attacker's shoulder to steady himself and forced his eyes to focus.

  Big, brown eyes stared back at him from the shelter of a chain-mail coif.

  A chain-mail coif?

  Alex took in the rest of the boy's outfit. He was sporting chain mail head to toe, topped by a surcoat, leather cross-garters over boots, and crude leather gloves. One gloved hand currently gripped a sword. Alex looked back at the young man's face. It was a face far too beautiful to have been wasted on a boy. Maybe the kid got teased a lot.

  "Your name, you fool!" the boy demanded.

  It was then that Alex realized fully that something was dreadfully wrong. He was still cold, there were still trees around him—but he was being shaken by what looked to be a knight in full battle gear.

  "Hey," he said, "I was heading for Barbados!"

  "If that is your word for hell, then indeed that is where you will be going if you do not answer me!" the young knight said angrily. "Must I cut your name and business from you?"

  Alex was too stunned to answer. Damn it, he'd wandered straight into Medieval England!

  "Just let me sit here for a minute, okay?" Alex said. "And stop shaking me!"

  The knight shook him again anyway. ''I should slit your throat to save myself the trouble of having you on my land."

  Alex watched the boy lift his sword to do that, when ,from the trees behind the knight there came the sound of merry whistling. His captor released him so quickly that he fell back again, smacking his head smartly against the ground.

  "Count yourself fortunate you are so near the border," the young man snarled, ''else I would slay you and not be sorry."

  Alex was vaguely aware of the knight leaving the clearing. He stared up at the sky and let the rain fall on him unimpeded. Well, at least it might eventually soak his shirt enough to get it clean. No sense in time traveling when he was looking less than his best. His horse ambled over and nudged him with his nose. "This is all your fault, Beast," Alex said. "If you hadn't had a cold, I never would have gone into the house and never would have found that damned map.'' Alex tried to sit up, but it was just too much effort. ' 'Just a few more minutes," he promised himself. "I'll lie here for a few more minutes."

  He frowned as the singing came closer. This bozo couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. The singing stopped abruptly to be replaced by a gasp. Alex heard the snorting of another horse and the jingle of spurs. Alex stared up at the sky until the gray was blocked by the sight of another man in chain mail.

  "This is merely hypoglycemic trauma brought on by lack of junk food," Alex said firmly, closing his eyes. "I need Twinkies. I need Moon Pies." He groaned. "Damn it, Jamie, I'll get you for this!"

  "My lord, allow me to assist you."

  "Go away," Alex said crossly. "And stop singing. You suck."

  Soft laughter greeted his ears. "Good sir, you've had a fall that has addled your wits." The scrape of metal and creak of leather preceded a firm hand on Alex's shoulder. "Can you sit?"

  "The question is, do I want to? And the answer is no."

  "You certain do not wish to remain here. We are too near Margaret of Falconberg's land. Very fortunate are you that she hasn't sent one of her men to slay you already."

  Alex was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry. Damn it, why hadn't Jamie locked that map up? Or at least put some kind of decent warning on it? Alex decided that when he managed to make his way back to 1998, he would strangle his brother-in-law and enjoy every minute of it.

  With a heavy sigh he opened his eyes and looked up. "Who the hell are you?"

  The man's smile deepened into a grin. "Edward of Brackwald, at your service. Be you thankful I am so even-tempered, else your insults would have forced me to challenge you." His grin didn't fade. "Fortunately for you, I committed adultery with the countess of Devonshire a se'nnight past. My penance was to do a good turn for one in need."

  Alex sat up with a groan and gingerly touched the back of his head. "If ever there were a man in need, it's me." He looked at Edward of Brackwald and winced. Chain mail. A surcoat. Cross-garters covering hose and boots.

  Alex sighed. "Let me guess. England, right?"

  "Ah, you're one of King Richard's lads, eh?" Edward said with a soft laugh. ''No Saxony or Normandy for you and your kind. Though I daresay you speak English with the lack of skill only a Norman could boast of."

  "My French is even worse," Alex sighed. He rubbed the back of his neck with his fingers, grimacing at the pull. "Well, the scribbles didn't lie. Twelfth-century England. Jamie did this one up right."

  "Who is Jamie?"

  "My brother-in-law. It's a very long story."

  "I have nothing but time on my hands. Let us return to my brother's hall. I can see by the condition of your garments that you've been traveling for quite some time."

  Alex didn't bother to correct him. "I'd really love to, but I need to be getting home." He closed his eyes and conjured up an image of Jamie's keep.

  No, that wasn't working. All he could imagine was his fingers around his brother-in-law's throat. Satisfying, but not very positive. He turned his thoughts to his car, but all he could see was it wrapped around a tree with Zachary standing next to it looking sheepish.

  'Tis my experience that a body cannot come home until his task in the past is finished.

  Jamie's words hit Alex with the force of a wrecking ball, and he gasped in spite of himself. If what Jamie had said was true, the ramifications were startling.

  First, he might not be able to get home until he'd done what he was supposed to do in medieval England.

  Second, Jamie had been doing more research on the subject than was good for him.

  Either way, Alex knew he was doomed.

  "My lord?"

  "I think I would appreciate some help. For the moment," he said, as a reminder to himself. He'd get rid of his headache, then he'd go home and kill Jamie.

  "What is your name, my lord?"

  "Alex."

  "Of?"

  Alex smiled. "Of Seattle, originally." Maybe it was just as well he didn't admit to any Scottish connections for the moment.

  "Ah," Edward said wisely. "From the continent, I assume. Very well, then. Let us speak French. That will soothe my brother. He's of a mind that the English tongue should be executed along with its Saxon speakers."

  Then he launched into a long, drawn out tale only a portion of which Alex caught. He might have been fluent in Gaelic and fairly respectable in Old English, but his French was so poor as to be almost nonexistent. Too bad he hadn't landed in ancient Rome. His Latin was excellent. Next time he would head over to that X. Damn, but he'd really wanted to wind up in Barbados. If he'd known the map was accurate, he would have worked a little harder at following it. White beaches, naked women, tasty rum. Why hadn't he headed north instead of south?

  "Sir Alex? Or should I call you lord? Is your father a nobleman?''

  Alex had the distinct feeling Edward wouldn't understand if he learned Robert Smith was a pediatrician. Best not to explain. Indulging in delusions of gr
andeur couldn't hurt, could it?

  "My father is a very important man in, ah, Seattle."

  "Ah, a nobleman. Then you are a knight?"

  "Urn, sure," Alex lied. No sense in labeling himself as a serf from the start.

  Edward looked at Alex's feet. "But where are your spurs, Sir Alex? And your sword? By the saints, have you been robbed?"

  "Well, not exactly. I sort of left them at home."

  "Ah," Edward said, "I see. A dangerous way to travel, to be sure, but each man must act as he sees fit. Let us away to Brackwald and perhaps other gear can be found for you there."

  "Sounds good to me," Alex said as he accepted Edward's hand up. He heaved himself up into the saddle and gritted his teeth at the flare of pain in his skull. Edward started babbling again in French.

  "Not so fast," Alex begged. "My French is very poor."

  "How can that be," Edward asked, "if your kin are from the continent?"

  "I've been traveling most of my life."

  Edward's ready smile was back. "Of course, Sir Alex."

  Alex followed Edward's lead and poured all his energies into staying conscious. He was stuck and Jamie was responsible. Medieval England. Of all places.

  Well, maybe it wasn't a complete loss. He'd hang around for a few days, soak up some culture and then head back to the faery ring. He would blink a couple of times, mumble a few old Celtic names as a spell, then be home. Jamie probably was just theorizing about that whole task in the past business. Damn him and his Scottish philosophizing. Alex pushed thoughts of bodily harm out of his mind and concentrated on his return. Maybe he'd manage to get home in time to head off Zachary before he went on his date with Fiona.

  He felt himself begin to slip from the saddle, but found he didn't have the energy to do anything but go with it. He landed in the mud with a bone-jarring thump.

  As his last coherent thought flashed across his brain, it occurred to him that Jamie and Elizabeth had been coming home after long weekends looking quite tanned. Alex had the feeling he knew just where they'd been going on their little overnighters.

  Sunny Barbados.

  And here he was in soggy old England.

  Damn them both!

  Two

  Margaret of Falconberg stood alone on the battlements and looked out over the countryside before her. She stood perfectly still in spite of the cold—and the fear she refused to acknowledge.

  As far as she could see was the land her grandfather had claimed for his own. Her father had then held it in turn, adding to it with his skill and wits. Now, despite how any number of men might view things, it was all hers, to hold or lose. And hold it she would, or die in the attempt.

  She shielded her eyes against the setting sun. The view might have been pleasing at another time. Even tonight it might have been a fair sunset had it not been for the smoke from fires which obscured the evening sky. Damn Brackwald! He grew bolder with each passing week. A fortnight earlier he had stolen a quarter of her herd. The sheep had been recovered but at a cost. The animals had been sent back intact, herded by sheared, naked knights. The five men had been so humiliated, she had released them early from their yearly turn of service to her.

  And now the peasant huts. Only two of them, but even that simple act had displaced two families. Nine people who had been given temporary shelter in the keep. It was just another in a long line of injustices wrought upon her and her people.

  Perhaps what was most insulting was that Ralf of Brackwald did not simply come at her openly. That she could have borne. Indeed, she could have retaliated with an offensive that would have made the king himself take notice. But Brackwald didn't intend to lay siege to her holdings. He'd made it painfully clear that he found her too unworthy an opponent to do the like. Nay, petty thievery and thinly veiled insults were what he thought she deserved. He thought to wear her down, belittle her so much and for so long that she finally broke down and threw herself, weeping, at his feet to pray for his mercy.

  "Bastard whoreson," she muttered under her breath. She would never give him the satisfaction of seeing her cower. She might have been born a woman, but she had the courage and stamina of a man. Neither her father nor her brothers would have given in to Brackwald; she wouldn't, either.

  At least the fires were beginning to die out. There would be more. Brackwald wouldn't stop until he had all her lands and the very mail off her back. She lifted her eyes and shook her fist toward the east, where Brackwald lay. Let him try. He would find out that the last of the Falcon-bergs was not the least by any means.

  "Lady Margaret?"

  Margaret turned to find her garrison captain standing some ten paces from her. His weathered face sported a crusty frown. Margaret sighed silently at the sight. What new havoc had Brackwald wreaked?

  "Aye?" she asked.

  "The peasants have been settled and men sent to reconstruct their homes. A score more sheep were lost and a field looted. This was pinned to a tree with an arrow."

  Margaret took the missive and struggled by the last light of day to make out the words she already knew would damn her.

  Lady Falconberg,

  Spare yourself and your people while you still can. A woman is not capable of standing against a man; something your father should have taught you. I have been gentle in the past, out of respect for your gender. I will be gentle no longer. A month is all the time you have to resign yourself to your fate. At that time I will expect to see you open your gates and meet me, dressed properly. I have spoken to Prince John regarding the matter and he has agreed 'tis well past the time you had a husband to control you. He has agreed I should be that man.

  Your servant,

  Ralf de Brackwald

  "My lady?"

  Margaret looked at her captain. "He has gone to John," she said flatly.

  Sir George made a noise akin to a grunt. Margaret wasn't sure how he did it, but somehow he managed to convey without words his opinion of her and her situation. Unfortunately, she knew exactly what he thought, for he'd told her often enough.

  Each time she held a sword in her hands, she knew he would rather she were holding a needle. Each time she planned a stratagem, she knew he thought she ought to limit herself to planning the meals. He believed her place was sitting at a tapestry frame, not a council of war—no matter that he'd watched her learn the arts of warfare right along with her brothers, and no matter that she'd taken over the running of the keep after her brothers, one and all, had perished and her father fallen ill.

  But, despite his thoughts, he had never once failed to stand behind her. When her father had died, he'd turned to her without so much as blinking, gone down on one creaking knee and held out his sword hilts to her. To her, a fifteen-year-old girl who had no spurs. She'd never said it, but that act of trust had given her the confidence she'd needed over the years to keep to the path she'd chosen.

  And keep to it she would. Because of Sir George's fealty and in spite of his grunts.

  "Bloody hell," she said, staring out over her fields. "The wretch hasn't the spine to come against me openly. How dare he go behind my back to the prince!"

  George leaned his elbows on the wall next to her. "You'll have to wed eventually, my girl."

  "Not to him. George, he'd beggar Falconberg inside a year!" She shook her head. "Even if I wanted to wed, which I do not, I would never choose Ralf of Brackwald. By the saints," she said, slapping her hand down atop the rock wall, "I can hold this keep without a man's aid!"

  George grunted. "Hardly among the skills a chatelaine should possess."

  "But they're my skills, and I've paid dearly for the learning of them."

  He inclined his head just the slightest bit. Margaret knew, because she'd been watching closely enough for it.

  "A pity men are too stupid to appreciate my training," she said tightly, "else they might send me their sons to page."

  George cleared his throat. "We do well enough with what we have. Now, how is it you see yourself escaping from this pl
ight?"

  "I'll stave him off 'til Richard returns."

  "And if the rumors of the king's return are false?"

  Margaret looked over her land and felt the noose begin to tighten about her neck. "Then I'll beggar Falconberg myself to buy John's favor. Bribing his henchmen has worked well enough so far. Not a one of them has ever demanded to see my father. If Ralf hadn't discovered the truth of it himself, I would still have my peace."

  George shook his head slowly.' 'Lucky you are that both Ralf and John think your sire has only recently passed on. How we've managed to keep his death a secret all these years, I don't know." He looked at her. "It couldn't have lasted much longer, Margaret."

  "Then I will find another way," she said firmly. "I have yet a pair of fortnights to think of a scheme. I must, for I've no intentions of wedding with that wretch. If only I hadn't bested all my potential allies in the lists—"

  "My lady, my lady! Come quickly!" A young page stood at the tower door. "He's begun again, and we've had no time to prepare."

  Margaret whirled toward the kitchen lad—nay, the page, she corrected herself. Timothy had seemed a promising enough young boy. The saints knew it wasn't as though she had that many to choose from. Others would scorn her for whom she trained as pages and squires, but she did what she could with what she had.

  "My lady, please!" Timothy called frantically.

  Margaret wanted to throw up her hands in despair. First Brackwald, now this. What could the day possibly throw at her more before complete darkness fell?

  "Come, George," Margaret said, with a sigh. "We may as well descend before the hall is littered with piles of thread."