The Very Thought of You

by Lynn Kurland

  "I'll wait here," George said, clinging to the rock wall like so much stubborn lichen. "Just to save your place," he added.

  "You will not," she said, grasping him by the elbow and pulling. "If I must go, then so must you."

  "I'll be of no aid," George protested.

  Margaret glared at him. "If I must endure the rampage that awaits below, then so must everyone else in the keep, including you."

  She thumped down the stairs as quickly as possible, sprinted down the passageway with as much haste as her mail would allow, then descended the final set of circular stairs to the great hall. She pulled up short at the silence there, a silence only broken by George's huffing as he tromped down the steps behind her.

  "Oof," she muttered as he plowed into her back. She threw out a hand to steady him and to cut off his apology. By the saints, she should have been more attentive. It was obvious by the looks of strain on the faces of those gathered in the great hall that she had indeed come much too late.

  Baldric the Bard was atop his small stool, scratching his wrinkled, stubbled cheek. Aye, 'twas a very bad sign indeed.

  Margaret started across the hall floor slowly, so as not to bring notice to herself, nor interfere with the bard's concentration.

  He was rubbing his jaw now. By the saints, 'twas an action of evil portent!

  "Rower?" she offered as she came to stand near his stool.

  He looked down at her with annoyance and gave forth a disdainful huff.

  "Sword thrust?" she ventured, watching his expression for any sign of hope.

  He shook his head.

  Margaret swept the other souls gathered there with a questioning glance. To a man, they looked back at her helplessly.

  "My lady," Timothy whispered up at her, "he begun 'afore we could gather. No warnin' at all. Just up on his stool, he was, and halfway through 'afores I could blink."

  Baldric looked down at her with a frown. "You missed the start of it," he announced, sounding rather put out.

  Margaret dredged up a look of contrition. "Other concerns kept me, good Baldric."

  "Womanly concerns," he said with a scowl. "By the sweetest of saints, you women are too troubled by such things!"

  She nodded. "Aye, 'tis true. I beg sincere pardon, good sir, for surely 'tis my fault we were not properly gathered before you chose to delight us with another verse or two. Perhaps you would begin again?"

  Baldric considered.

  "My heart breaks that I did not hear the beginning of your song."

  "Hmmm," he said, sounding slightly appeased. "Very well, then." He cleared his throat, hacked, and then spit over his shoulder into the fire.

  Margaret resisted the urge to put her face in her hands and groan. Why one of her brothers hadn't taken Baldric crusading was a mystery. Not only had she inherited her father's estates, she'd inherited his minstrel—who was as daft as a duck. He had long since ceased to have any sense. The saints only knew from which font of madness he dredged up his verse forms, for they were like nothing she'd ever heard before. But create such verse he would, if it killed them all to listen to it.

  "Ahem," Baldric repeated, looking at her sharply.

  Perhaps he wasn't as daft as all that, Margaret thought with a wince.

  One bright shining morning in June, he began,

  Young Margaret her true love did seek.

  She roamed over hill and o'er dale,

  And in every small stream she did peek.

  "Sounds as if you've gone bloody fishin'," George muttered from behind her.

  Baldric shot George a look that could have wilted a hardy bloom at fifty paces. Margaret heard her captain grumble something under his breath, then felt him move behind her, out of Baldric's sights. Margaret couldn't find fault with that, for she surely wished to do the same thing. By the saints, she had no stomach for listening to lays about her searching for a bloody lover!

  Along came a man swathed in black,

  Who wielded his sword with great skill.

  He clapped eyes on our wandering lady,

  As searched she atop a small hill.

  As on yon sweet maiden he gazed,

  A smile soon replaced his dark frown.

  He said, off with us to a priest!

  And our Meg said...

  " 'I'd sooner drown,' " Margaret muttered. Baldric harumphed, sounding thoroughly offended.

  And our Meg said, I fancy men in brown!

  He finished the verse curtly, casting her a withering look.

  Margaret struggled to appear contrite, but it was all she could do not to turn tail and flee. Why, by Saint Michael's gnarled toes, had Baldric chosen this subject for his verse today?

  He offered our lady his sword,

  And told her to take him by force,

  For have her he would or feign perish,

  She said, Nay, but I'll have your horse.

  So Margaret rode home with his mount,

  And thought the day quite a success,

  When home, she fed dear Baldric

  all the sweets he loves best

  for he was a very fine poet,

  Margaret held her breath. Already he was losing his sense of meter. The saints only knew what would come next.

  Then she said to herself, I am... I am...

  Baldric frowned in concentration. The entire group leaned forward in anticipation, as if by their very movement they could inspire him to greatness. Margaret leaned forward as well, willing the old bard to find his last rhyme. There'd be hell to pay otherwise. He scratched his cheek.

  Then he took to rubbing his chin. When he started to flex his fingers, Margaret knew the time for action had come.

  "I am blest," she said suddenly. "See, Baldric, there it is. Well done."

  "That wasn't what I wanted," he growled. "It doesn't rhyme."

  "Oh, but it does. Try it, my friend, and see."

  He scowled at her, then turned his attentions inward and muttered under his breath for several moments, seemingly trying on different words to judge their fit. Then he put back his shoulders and said, proudly,

  And she said to herself, such largesse!

  "Of fine minstrelsy," he added modestly.

  "To be sure, my friend," she said, clapping politely. When the rest of her household didn't do the same, she swept them with a glare. They immediately took up the cause. No matter that he'd botched that last line. For the most part it had been a tolerable piece of work, the subject aside. As if she'd ever search over hill and dale for a lover!

  Margaret helped Baldric down from his stool. "Sit you at the table, gentle sir, and sweets will be forthcoming immediately."

  "Two of every kind," he stated, every inch the proud bard having just finished a rousing evening of entertainment for his lord.

  "Of course," Margaret agreed.

  She started back to the fire to George's side, when she noticed the three new men who had rotated in for their forty days' service. They were young men, freshly knighted and sent by their fathers to serve her, though no doubt under much duress. They were staring at her as if she were naked.

  Margaret looked down at herself quickly. The surcoat and over tunic hid her mail shirt well enough. She was certainly well clad. Perhaps they had never seen a woman in mail before. Idiots, she scoffed silently. She was the only thing that kept their holdings secure. Let them try their hand at holding all Falconberg lands, in spite of everything.

  Perhaps it was her person that they found laughable. What did it matter that she stood taller than most men in the keep? Her father had been very tall, as had been her brothers. It was a family trait she was proud of. She viciously suppressed the urge to roll her shoulders down and slump. She was a Falconberg and Falconbergs stood tall. Her father had said that so many times to her that she could hear his voice in her mind as clearly as if he'd been standing next to her. She was not ungainly. Her men were to be blamed for being shorter than she.

  She turned her face toward the hearth and strode over to her c
aptain. He looked at her gently and she could see understanding in his eyes.

  "Cease, old fool," she said sharply.

  "Margaret..."

  "Enough," she said. "Use your wits for something more useful than idle thoughts."

  "After what we've just heard, my wits aren't worth using." He shook his head. "He was just as unskilled in your sire's day. Worse, he had more wind for speaking."

  "Saints, you chatter as incessantly as he does," Margaret groused. "If you cannot think of a way out of this tangle, be you silent and allow me to."

  George sighed. "A pity we've no army at our call to put forth a show of force. Perhaps then Brackwald would think twice about coming against us."

  Margaret shook her head. "And what would we do? Capture his holdings?"

  George smiled. "Why would we want them? He's used his lands so ill, there's nothing left of them."

  "Aye, there is truth," Margaret agreed. " 'Tis a wonder he manages to feed his household. I daresay he doesn't do it very well."

  "No doubt," George said, "else you could hold his larder for ransom."

  Margaret almost smiled, but her straits were too dangerous for jesting. A pity there was nothing Ralf valued.

  She froze, then slowly looked at her captain.

  "He has Edward," she breathed.

  George blinked, then his mouth fell open. "Margaret, you cannot think—"

  "Aye," she said, feeling the weight lift from her shoulders. " 'Tis perfect!"

  "You've gone daft," George exclaimed. "You cannot ransom him."

  ''And why not? I saw him wandering over my land this morn. If he's fool enough to do so today, no doubt he'll be fool enough to do so in the future. I'll nab him while he's napping under a tree."

  George shook his head. "He was returning from London. He likely won't leave Brackwald once he's there."

  "Then I'll go into Brackwald and fetch him out."

  "By the saints," George spluttered, "have you lost your wits?"

  "I daresay I've finally found reason," she said, feeling a surge of good humor flow through her. "If I have something that Ralf very much wants, then I possess something with which to bargain. When I greet him at my gates in a month's time, 'twill be with my blade across his precious brother's neck. We'll see just how quickly Ralf vows to leave me in peace when that sight greets him."

  George sighed deeply. He looked at her from under his bushy white eyebrows and frowned. He sighed again, very heavily.

  Margaret waited. Of course, she would do what she pleased anyway, but having George's aid would be a boon.

  He frowned again, gave forth another deep, long sigh, then looked at her stealthily, as if he searched for a faltering of her will.

  She continued to wait, unmoving.

  "We'll have to bribe his gate guards," he grumbled finally.

  Margaret fought not to grin. "Easily done."

  "And we'll need a cooperative servant or two. I've been inside Brackwald only once and that was years ago."

  "I've gold enough for that."

  "And disguises."

  Margaret wanted to laugh out loud with relief. For the first time in months she felt as if she might manage to keep her home.

  "Done," she said.

  George shook his head. "This is madness, Margaret."

  "You have a better idea?"

  He pursed his lips. "Your father would have me flogged if he knew I had agreed to this scheme."

  Obviously, he had no better idea. Margaret smiled happily.

  "He would instead praise you for your bravery. He loved nothing more than a good abduction."

  He grunted. "Then I suppose we now know where you come by your notions. You'd best be off to the table and shore up your strength. We've much to do in the next few days."

  Margaret nodded triumphantly and took her place at the lord's table. Her heart was so light she was able to completely ignore the stares of her new knights. Let them think what they wanted. Her permanent garrison didn't pay her any heed. The others would learn to do the same quickly.

  For once, being either stared at in horrified fascination or ignored did not trouble her. Freedom was within her grasp. If she could thwart Brackwald once and for all, her life would finally be peaceful. She could concentrate on the training of her men and the efficient running of her keep. Aye, she might even feel safe enough to sleep without her mail on. That would be a welcome pleasure.

  As she sipped at her wine, she turned over in her mind her memories of Edward of Brackwald. Where had the man come by such strange clothing? And such a breathtaking pair of aqua eyes?

  It did not matter. He would be the coin she used to buy her freedom. She didn't have any more use for him than that.

  Three

  Alex sat on a stone bench and, for the first time in his thirty-two years, felt like a complete pansy. He'd never found himself in that situation before and he realized that he didn't care for it one bit.

  He had four brothers, the elder two of which had gone to great lengths to toughen him up for kindergarten and the ensuing school years. He'd also played football and he hadn't been a wimpy quarterback hiding behind his front line. No sir, he'd been a defensive tackle and he'd taken down men twice his size. He'd never once backed away from a fight on the field or in the boardroom. But now things were different.

  "Can you not be persuaded to lift a sword?" Edward asked, looking just as uncomfortable as Alex felt. ' 'A light one, perhaps?"

  "It isn't that I can't lift one," Alex said defensively, "it's that I won 7."

  "Ah, I see," Edward said, looking very confused. "Some sort of holy vow?"

  "Something like that."

  Edward gave him another perplexed look, as if Alex and his motivations were just beyond the comprehension of any sensible man. And they probably were far beyond the experience of any man from the year 1194. Alex shook his head with a grimace. Well, at least Jamie had gotten the time period right on his map. Alex would have to congratulate him the next time they met. It would be a great precursor to familial murder and mayhem.

  Edward was still regarding him quizzically. Alex didn't dare enlighten him. After all, how was it you told a medieval knight that you had methodically taken over and destroyed multimillion-dollar companies for a living? That you'd had very shady dealings with people who were less than solid citizens? Probably even less comprehensible would be choosing to leave it all behind to turn over a new, more wholesome leaf. No, it was better just to let Edward think what he wanted about Alex's vows of chivalry.

  But still, there might be some way to salvage some of his reputation.

  "Look," Alex said, "I've fought in battles before." "As you say," Edward said doubtfully. "Numerous ones," Alex added. "Just a few months ago my brother-in-law and I laid siege to a keep in Scotland. There was a whole lot of fighting and rescuing going on. I know how to fight; I just don't do it anymore." ' 'Then how do you defend yourself?'' Alex shrugged. "I do my best to stay out of trouble." Edward shook his head. "I won't pretend to understand this, but I won't press you further. Indeed, I admire you for the firmness of your convictions."

  Actually, Alex thought, you think I'm a wuss. And he was beginning to think the same thing. But once he picked up a sword, it would be just that much easier to use it.

  And his first thrust would be right through Ralf of Brackwald's heart.

  Alex's teeth ached from gritting them too hard, and his hands were in knots from having clenched them too tightly. He'd been at Brackwald for over a week, and during that week he'd seen more injustices than he had in seven years of corporate piracy. Hell, Ralf even made him look lily white.

  "Then perhaps instead of training we might seek something to ease our thirst," Edward offered.

  "That I can do," Alex said, grateful to be on his feet and moving. He'd been sitting on a bench against the inner bailey wall all morning, watching Brackwald's garrison train. The men were almost as vicious as Ralf himself. How could Edward stand to come back to this?

>   The stench of the great hall hit Alex full in the face the moment Edward opened the door. Not even Zachary's room smelled this bad.

  A loud smack echoed in the room, followed by a weak whimper.

  "I'll teach you to refuse me," a voice snarled.

  Alex's eyes adjusted to the smoky interior, and he followed the sounds to find Ralf pounding on someone. Alex thought it might have been a boy until he saw Edward's brother haul the being up by long hair. Rage flashed through him.

  I'll never harm another human being.

  His own promise to himself mocked him. Harm? He didn't want to harm—he wanted to murder! What right had Ralf to raise a hand to anyone? And to beat a woman senseless?

  Alex felt his blood pressure go up several notches. He wanted to rush across the room and stop what was happening. But he couldn't. He'd ruined his share of lives, too. And if he beat Ralf senseless, was he any better than the volatile lord of Brackwald?

  He looked at Edward. Edward's face was expressionless. Alex wondered how many times Edward had witnessed the same thing before.

  Edward turned to him. "Let us be off. You'll want to see the countryside."

  Alex looked back at the far end of the hall, where Ralf was finishing his work. Then he turned away, despising himself for both his rage and his lack of action.

  A half hour later he was riding with Edward away from Brackwald, away from hell. Slowly he felt the anger seep from him. It was for the best. He couldn't interfere anyway. Who knew what sorts of ramifications he would cause if he changed Ralf's ways, not to mention what might happen if he killed Ralf with his bare hands.

  His fingers flexed of their own will. The latter was almost too satisfying a thought.

  He stared up at the gray sky and let the drizzle wash away his turmoil. He'd wanted a change of scenery. He could have been in Barbados, naked, tanned, and rummed. Lolling about in the surf with half a dozen equally naked, tanned, and rummed women. But instead, where did he find himself?