by Lynn Kurland
Facing his own demons in medieval England. In February, no less.
"We're near Falconberg land," Edward remarked. ' 'Perhaps we might manage to keep our heads even if we filch something to fill our bellies. I fear we left the keep without doing so."
"We didn't leave soon enough," Alex muttered. Edward reined in his horse and looked at Alex gravely. "I cannot act against him, you know."
Alex smiled grimly. "I never said you should." "Nay, 'tis my own heart that condemns me," Edward said.
"You couldn't change him, Edward. You'd have to kill him to stop him, and then you'd be no better than he is." Edward nodded silently, then looked off over the field. "He wants this land, my brother," he said quietly. "And he's willing to do anything to get it. Even marry Margaret."
Alex couldn't help his smile. "Is she that bad?" Edward looked at him and smiled in return. "Many years have passed since I saw her last, but I remember her being very tall and very full of choler." His smile faded. "She has humiliated my brother. I fear if he actually succeeds in forcing her to the altar, he will repay her in full measure."
"She humiliated him? How? I'm sure I'll enjoy hearing all about it."
"Supper first, my friend, then the tale."
Edward found a site he thought sheltered enough, then went in search of game while Alex busied himself with a fire. Finding dry wood was no easy task, but Alex had been an Eagle Scout after all. At least some of his training could be put to good use.
As he waited for Edward to return, he decided it was past time he returned home. He certainly couldn't do any good here. If he spent too many more nights under Brackwald's roof, he was going to do something he would regret. Screwing up history was not something he wanted going on his record. The list was long enough as it was.
Edward returned before long with a pair of hares. Cooking them took longer than Alex would have liked. He'd run into a Falconberg knight and had vivid memories of a boot digging into his ribs.
"Are we on her land?" Alex asked around a mouthful of spitted hare.
"Aye, but do not fear. We'll send a maid with a few coins tomorrow to appease her."
"Not up to going yourself?"
"And possibly find myself facing the woman over lances?" Edward shook his head, wide-eyed. "I wouldn't think of it."
"All right, let's have the whole story. What'd she do to Ralf?"
Edward leaned back against a log. "She entered one of his little private tournaments."
"I thought the church had outlawed tournaments."
Edward smiled dryly. "This is my brother we're talking about, aye? Why would he trouble himself over the possibility of excommunication when there was gold to be made or sport to be enjoyed? The king is locked away safely in Leopold's keep and John was in the south eating barrels of peaches. Ralf did as he pleased."
''And Margaret got herself invited?''
"Oh, nay, there was no invitation issued to her. Many unknown knights entered, hoping to hold others for ransom and fatten their purses. It was easy enough for her to arrive unnoticed."
"And then what happened?"
Edward grinned. "She unseated every man she rode against, then finished off her day with the lance by dumping Ralf himself into the mud."
"I don't believe it," Alex said, intrigued in spite of himself. Now, there was a woman with industrial-sized cajones.
"Ah, but 'twas Margaret indeed who took the field that day."
"What a woman," Alex said. "And just how was it she revealed herself?''
"She took off her helmet, of course, and stood over Ralf as he wallowed in the muck."
"I'm sure he was thrilled," Alex said dryly.
"I think he would have done her in if there hadn't been so many witnesses, and if she hadn't already had her blade to his throat. Word spread, of course, to the prince, who abruptly ceased sending men to Falconberg to court her."
Alex shook his head in wonder. ''Why should he, when she could best them all in the lists? She must be built like a tank—ah, a very large knight." Alex winced mentally. It was bad enough he was butchering French. Slipping in little Americanisms wasn't helping.
"As to how she is built, I cannot say. 'Tis most difficult to discern a woman's figure when she is sporting chain mail. Not that I'd dare try." Edward shivered. "She'd cleave me in twain for daring the like, no doubt."
"Then what makes you think Ralf will ever succeed in marrying her? It sounds as if she's already let him know what she thinks of him."
Edward looked at him for several moments in silence. Then he shook his head, a puzzled frown on his face.
"Where exactly is Seattle, Alex? Have you no king?"
Well, this ought to take some explaining. Alex knew there was no way he could tell Edward all the truth, but maybe some of it would help.
"Seattle is a very long way from here, and no, we don't have a king. I've been living in Scotland for the past little while, though."
"Ah," Edward said, as if that had suddenly cleared up the mystery for him. "Then I marvel at the fineness of your garments. I've never been north myself, but I understand your countrymen are somewhat on the, um, free-spirited side. That must be why you don't understand Margaret's danger," Edward said, nodding. "You see, my friend, she has no choice. If the king wills her to marry Ralf, she must do so, else he will take away her lands."
"Doesn't Richard know what kind of man Ralf is?"
Edward shrugged. "He has been gone from our shores for many years. What happens in such a small shire is likely of little import to him. All that matters is how well he thinks Ralf can hold both Brackwald and Falconberg. If he thinks it can be managed, he will not hesitate to command the alliance."
"Doesn't Margaret have any other family?"
"Nay. All her brothers, save the eldest, went crusading. The eldest was gored while hunting, and her sire fell ill several years later. She's held the keep alone for the past year."
"How old is she?"
Edward shrugged again. "A score and five? Too old to be wed easily. She could only be desired for her lands. I know 'tis the only reason my brother considers her."
Poor Margaret. Alex didn't even know her, but he felt sorry for her. No woman deserved that. She might have a face like a sow and the cuddliness of a porcupine, but she was a woman, after all.
Edward sighed and threw his last bone into the fire. "Again, 'tis none of my affair. I've heard rumors that the king's ransom has been paid. He will likely return to England to see to his affairs here, and I mean to rejoin his company then." He looked at Alex. "Do you care to come? We could use another blade in the French wars—"
He stopped, then grimaced. "Forgive me. I forget myself and your vow."
"Never mind. I need to be getting home anyway. I think I'll start out tomorrow."
Edward nodded. "Fortunate are you to have only one more night to spend in that hellhole. I envy you."
Alex scattered the remains of the fire and watched as it died out. He couldn't blame Edward for his sentiments. He was very lucky that he had a home to go to where there was love and affection.
And it was well past time he started his own family. He nodded to himself as he swung up into the saddle. So he'd put away his sword for good. That didn't mean he couldn't lay a siege. Fiona MacAllister had no idea what she was in for. He was a much better prospect than Zachary. He could cook. He had his pilot's license and owned half of Jamie's Lear. He could fly her anywhere she wanted to go and have enough change left over to take her out to dinner. Maybe he'd go home and fly her to Barbados.
That was the only way they were going to get there. They certainly weren't going to be two-stepping it over any of those damn X's.
It was early evening before he and Edward returned to Brackwald. Alex left the dinner table as soon as he could and escaped to his room before he inflicted bodily harm on his host.
He knew he was fortunate to have a private chamber, and he had gone out of his way to thank Ralf for it. So what that the room was smaller than hi
s bathroom at home; it had a door and a makeshift mattress. He couldn't have asked for more.
He lay down on the straw mattress and put his hands behind his head, staring up at the cracks in the wooden ceiling. What was going on above him was very distracting. By the grunts and moans, he had little trouble figuring it out. Man, what a life.
But what else was there to do? Speculate on how many of their peasants would die of malnutrition this week? How much food they could wring out of their soil this month? Who would lay siege to their holdings this year? Alex let out a long sigh, immensely grateful he had been born in another century. At least all he had to worry about was his car getting dinged in the parking lot and whether or not his mutual funds were yielding what they should. How removed the majority of twentieth-century men were from the day-to-day struggle against death. Here it was inescapable. Alex could understand why Jamie had such a forceful personality. How could he not, when the Middle Ages had been the environment to shape his character? Even Elizabeth, who had only been in Jamie's time a few months, was more difficult to push around than she had been in her youth.
Alex pulled a scratchy sheet over the lower half of his body, feeling the faint hint of a draft. It was no wonder Margaret of Falconberg was such an Amazon. Was she truly as formidable as Edward's stories had made her sound? Alex sincerely hoped he never met up with her. The memory of almost being decapitated by one of her young knights was enough for him. Heaven help him if he ever ran into the old battle-ax herself.
He fell asleep, dreaming of Fiona MacAllister's lovely freckles.
Margaret yanked George back into the shadows behind her.
"You stay here," she commanded softly.
"By Saint Michael's knees, have you gone daft?" he returned in an angry whisper. "You stay here. I've been inside Brackwald."
"I move with more stealth."
"Barely."
She glared at her captain. By the saints, he was easily old enough to be her sire. As if he could move about without his bones creaking! "Now is not the time for insults." She threw her reins at him and started off, only to be jerked back by the collar of her tunic. She whirled around to face him, ready to give him full measure of her irritation. The look on his face stopped her words abruptly.
"Watch your back, my girl," he said, looking genuinely concerned. "The last of the Falconbergs wouldn't want to end up in Brackwald's dungeon. I'd likely kill myself trying to free you."
Margaret felt an uncomfortable unfolding in her chest. So George had unbent far enough to show her concern. That was hardly reason enough to weep. She took a step backward, away from him.
"I will return posthaste with young Edward and we will be on our way."
Without another look, she crept quietly along in the shadows. She was taking a very great chance moving about with her mail still on, but it was the only way. She would be as quiet as she could be, but if it came to a fight, she wanted to be protected.
Her plan of attack was simple: walk through the great hall as if she belonged there, on up the steps and down the hall to Edward's chamber. One of the stableboys had found her coin to his liking and had divulged everything from the layout of the chambers to the locations of the food stains on Ralf's favorite surcoat. She wondered if he might have given her such tidings even without payment. No one she had spoken with had seemed overly fond of their lord.
She slipped inside the great hall and paused, astonished. She had never seen a place in a more wretched condition. Margaret pitied the poor souls who had to endure living there. It would be a very cold day in hell before Ralf of Brackwald set foot inside her hall. She would never allow her people to live in this kind of filth.
Ralf certainly seemed to be free with his drink, judging by the number of drunken knights sprawled out on the floor and on benches. Margaret picked her way over them, working her way slowly toward the steps. Not a soul challenged her.
She made her way up the stone steps as quickly as she dared, then started down the corridor. She counted three doorways, then stopped before the fourth. Her palms were damp and she wiped them on her legs in annoyance. This deed was simple enough for a child. She was no child; this was too far beneath her to cause her any worry.
The room was unbolted. Margaret sent a prayer flying heavenward. A bolted room was not impossible to enter, just difficult. The less noise she made, the better.
She slipped into the chamber and shut the door softly behind her. The ceiling boards gaped so badly that candlelight from above spilled down into the room as if it had been sunlight. She had no problems making out the long, obviously masculine form stretched out carelessly on the pallet.
She drew her sword and approached the bed.
Alex woke to the feel of cold steel across his throat.
"Move and they'll be scrubbing your blood from these sheets for weeks," a husky voice hissed.
Alex didn't even attempt a nod.
The blade was pressed more firmly against his skin. "Do as I say or you'll be naught but food for the hounds. Understood?"
Alex inclined his head only enough to communicate his compliance. The blade was removed and, like lightning, he had a hold of the wrist holding the sword. He jumped from the bed and jerked his would-be murderer under a shaft of dim light.
"You!" Alex exclaimed. He immediately recognized the brown-eyed lad who had tried to kill him his first day in the Middle Ages.
The tip of a knife produced from heaven only knew where pressed against his bare belly. "I'm very skilled with this. Do as you're told and you'll come to no harm."
"After you promised to kill me before?" Alex asked, almost amused. The lad was maybe an inch shy of six feet but slender. No match for a man of six-foot-four and athletic-club prowess. He may have been determined never to pick up another sword, but that didn't preclude him from disarming someone else. Gently, of course.
The lad growled in frustration. "I am not in the habit of lying. If I say you will come to no harm, that is precisely what you will not come to!"
"All right already," Alex said. "You tell me what you're up to, and I'll think about going along for the ride."
The lad gasped. "As if you had a choice!"
"I do, my young friend. I assume you're here without Ralf knowing of it. All I have to do is set up a howl and you'll be spending your free evenings in the dungeon."
The knife drew blood. Alex winced at the sting of it.
"Your brother would be powerfully grieved to find you dead. If you force me to kill you, I'll certainly do it before you even let fly a squeak."
Alex's eyes widened in surprise. "I'm not Edward."
The lad snorted. "You are as poor a liar as your brother. Now, dress and do it silently. You waste my time and time is precious."
Alex released the lad's wrist and folded his arms over his chest. "Look, kid, I'm not Edward of Brackwald, and I'm not moving an inch until you tell me what you're up to."
"I'm going to hold you for a bloody ransom!" the lad exclaimed. "Does that ease your mind any?"
"I don't know," Alex said with a grin. "How well do you treat your captives?"
"Well enough; Find your clothes and don them. I'll not repeat myself again."
Alex hesitated only a moment before he complied. At the very least he would be dressed. There was far too much of him exposed for comfort. No sense in giving the boy any handy targets to cut off.
He had hardly pulled on his boots and leather jacket before he felt the point of a sword in his back. So much for escape. A false move and that sword would go right through his very expensive leather coat, between his ribs and into his heart. It'd been a while since he'd dealt with a hotheaded, blade-wielding brat.
"Downstairs. Carefully. Remember that I wouldn't think twice about killing you."
"You keep saying that," Alex said conversationally, "but I'm inclined to think you haven't the balls for it." He eased out the door calmly, sure he would regain control of the situation once he was out in the courtyard. So what if all th
ose men in the hall had passed out from too much ale; the gate guards would still be at their posts. Wouldn't they?
He was ushered out of the great hall and toward the stables. Alex went willingly until they reached the stable entrance, then he turned.
"This is far enough. I think you're in way over your head here. Kidnapping is a punishable offense."
The lad ignored him. "George!" he whispered urgently. "Make haste!"
A voice behind him answered. "Margaret, you were to ply him with wine first!"
Alex's mouth hung open. "Margaret?"
"Silence, fool!" his captor exclaimed. "I'm fully prepared to turn you into a woman if need be."
He didn't doubt that. But the indignity of it all! Good grief, he was being kidnapped by a woman!
The sharp pain of a sword hilt against his temple caused him to stop thinking abruptly.
"Damn you," he gasped, feeling the world begin to fade rapidly. "At least make sure ... you bring ... my horse. The chestnut... gelding." Beast wouldn't appreciate being left in Ralf's stables. Alex groaned and threw his arms around Margaret of Falconberg to break his fall.
And with his last coherent thought, he realized that it really was hard to tell a woman's shape when she was wearing chain mail.
Four
Margaret stood at the foot of the bed and looked down at the man who lay in her father's chamber. He was as still as death. She chewed on her lower lip anxiously, then forced herself to stop. This was not the time nor the place to turn into a giddy maid.
She rounded the bed confidently, then put her finger to the man's neck. His pulse was steady and strong, like the rest of him. Her back still ached from trying to put him on his horse. She was sure it was his horse she had taken; the beast was just as arrogant and cheeky as his master. Even with George's help, getting the man back to Falcon-berg had been sheer misery.
The faint light of dawn forced its way through the cracks in her shutters, but it was too poor a light to aid her at present. She lifted the candle from the small table near the bed and moved it closer to her captive. Just the sight of his face made her stomach tighten painfully. She had the sinking feeling she had just made the greatest mistake of her life. Perhaps another woman would have been delirious over the beauty of the man's face, for 'twas indeed beautiful. Ruggedly so. And he certainly took pains with his appearance. His face was clean-shaven. To her horror, she found herself itching to run her fingers along that jaw and feel its strength.