The Very Thought of You

by Lynn Kurland

  Her heart softened the more. Saints, never in her life had she met such a man.

  Daft and befuddled though he might be.

  "And I would do it again."

  She met his eyes.

  "Again and again," he added. "If it meant I could keep you safe."

  She refrained from pointing out to him that she could keep herself safe. For the first time in ten years she had met someone who didn't have to rely on her for protection. Indeed, she might even be able to turn to him.

  "And I will do it again," he said. "For the rest of my life."

  Margaret blinked. She shook her head as well, certain she had heard him wrong.

  He said no more, only leaned back against the wall and watched her with those pale eyes of his.

  "What mean you by that?" she managed in a strangled voice.

  "What I mean is that I'm not leaving." He said the words very deliberately. "Until you tell me to go."

  If that wasn't a promise, she'd never heard one. "Never?" she asked, wishing the word hadn't come out in such a choked tone of voice.

  "Never."

  Margaret couldn't breathe. There was no deceit in his gaze, no shifting of his eyes, no squirming of his body. He meant what he said. She wasn't sure if she should throw herself into his arms or bolt the other way.

  "Though I'll admit," he said with a half smile, "it's a fairly rusty sword I'm laying at your feet."

  "Indeed," she whispered.

  He smiled. "Indeed." He shrugged and the moment passed. "So, now you know everything about my past," and he paused and shook his head as if to clear it—no doubt to rid himself of those foolish notions he had of a homeland that didn't yet exist, "where should we go from here? I can hire on as a stablehand."

  Margaret held on to the stone of the bench beneath her for support. "Ah, perhaps you should spend a few hours in the lists."

  "Probably."

  "And a few hours in the chapel praying you haven't lost all your skill."

  "I fight well enough," he assured her. "Now, what of us? Where do we go?"

  She was tempted to say ' 'to Brackwald to rid ourselves of its lord," but perhaps Alex should heft a sword for a day or two before they ventured—

  Margaret froze.

  Brackwald's messenger.

  "Oh, by the saints!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet. She glared down at Alex. "This is all your fault!"

  "Huh?"

  "Brackwald's messenger. I tossed him into the dungeon!"

  "And the problem is?"

  "I left him there over a se'nnight ago!"

  Alex stood and swayed. "Then I guess that's where we're going first."

  "You're going nowhere." She steered him over to the bed and sent him toppling into it with one firm shove.

  "Margaret!"

  Margaret felt her head clear the moment she stepped out into the passageway. There was just something about that man that muddled her thinking each time she was around him.

  Well, at least she hadn't been taken in by his fanciful imaginings. She knew he wasn't wed and she knew he'd been a mercenary. The last was the easier of the two to deal with—she'd just have George aid him in regaining his skill.

  As for the former, perhaps she'd confine Alex to the garden and herself to the lists. If she could keep herself away from him, she might have hope of retaining her wits.

  He had taken up his sword again in her defense. And would continue to do so.

  Saints, but it was almost enough to make her forgive him.

  Fourteen

  Alex clawed his way to the edge of the bed. Had he ever in any state of dementia thought that courting a shieldmaiden would be fun? Fiona MacAllister wouldn't have tossed him onto the bed like a rag doll. All right, so Margaret had heaved more than tossed. The point was, she'd muscled him out of her way so she could go do her own rescuing. He wasn't having the chance to show her he would be a good addition to her keep. And he wouldn't have the chance until he'd made it off the bed—and the chances of that looked mighty slim at the moment.

  He crawled to his feet, then waited several minutes until his head cleared enough for him to cross the room. Opening the door was a new challenge, one that took him several more minutes to recover from. While the room spun madly around him, he leaned against the doorway and contemplated the morning's events.

  So she didn't believe him. He supposed he shouldn't have been overly surprised. It was way beyond her scope of experience, and he probably sounded like he'd completely lost his marbles. Well, maybe he'd be able to convince her of it eventually.

  He had a lifetime to try.

  He gingerly eased away from the doorframe. Getting down the hallway wasn't so bad until he got to the top of the stairs. He looked into the gaping darkness that contained Margaret's circular staircase and wondered at the advisability of what he currently contemplated. He didn't want to miss out on getting a firsthand account from the prisoner, but getting there was going to be a problem. He leaned against the wall and waited until his body recovered from being forced to move from the bed. Once he thought he could walk without blacking out, he gingerly inched toward the stairs.

  It was slow going. Luckily the stairwell was small enough that he could prop himself up with a hand on either side. He did it more than once, trying not to torment himself with visions of an antebellum mansion's sweeping staircase and delightful banister. Rocks were good, solid building materials. He liked rock. It was a good thing, because he was going to be living with it for a very long time.

  Alex stumbled out into the great hall and fell to his knees in the rushes. He remained hunched over until the stars whirling around his head faded and he was certain he would retain breakfast where it currently resided. Through the haze that had become his brain, he found the nearest wall. He used it to get to his feet, then leaned back against the tapestry-covered stone and sucked in great gulps of air. He didn't want to think about the magnitude of the infection his body had been fighting off for the past five days. He felt very lucky to be alive.

  "Ahem!"

  Alex rubbed his eyes, then looked down. His vision cleared just in time to see Margaret's minstrel give him a dirty look.

  "Ahem!" Baldric repeated. "Move out of my way, whelp."

  "I don't know if I can—"

  Alex found himself moved bodily. It wasn't that hard, given his condition.

  "Well, if you're that serious about it," he muttered. He watched as Baldric bent down, picked up the end of a thread and very calmly and deliberately began to unravel the tapestry. "Hey," Alex said weakly, "you can't do that."

  Baldric wound the string into a ball. He stared off into space for a moment or two, then shook his head and unraveled some more, muttering under his breath.

  "Baldric, buddy, you're ruining the tapestry."

  Baldric shot him a steely glance from under bushy eyebrows. "It helps me finish my work."

  "By. unwinding someone elses?"

  Baldric smiled suddenly. "Aye, lad. You're the first to see the logic in it." He patted Alex on the arm, then turned back to the wall and unraveled with renewed enthusiasm.

  Alex bent to catch Baldric's eye, then had to grab on to the wall hanging to keep from pitching forward into the muck. "I have an idea. Why don't you let me be your audience. You know, sort of a focus group of one."

  Baldric looked at him, then shook his head and returned to his work of destruction.

  "Sometimes talking things out is all you need," Alex tried. He had to do something soon, otherwise it would be adios to another few inches of art before Margaret could come back up to the hall. Besides it would give him a perfect excuse not to have to move anymore. Getting to the dungeon was completely out of the question. At the moment Alex knew he'd be lucky to make it to a chair.

  Baldric scowled at him. "I can't say my verse properly unless the lady Margaret's here." He hefted his little ball of thread, looked at it critically, then obviously decided it was just too skimpy. He attacked the tapestry again, unwinding i
ndustriously.

  "She's down in the cellar, interrogating a prisoner," Alex said, beginning to wonder if just picking Baldric up and moving him out of harm's way was the thing to do. Too much more of this and Margaret would be looking at bare walls. Alex now understood where all the piles of thread had come from.

  "Prisoner?" Baldric said, his ears perking up. He looked at Alex. "Is she torturing him?"

  Alex shrugged. "Could be."

  Baldric stroked his chin thoughtfully. "This is meet food for a fine verse or two."

  "It certainly is. How 'bout we mosey on over to the fireplace?" Alex gingerly removed the ball of thread from Baldric's bony fingers and managed to surreptitiously put his hand under the bard's elbow. "Which hearth do you prefer?"

  Baldric nodded to the one across from the kitchen entrance, motioning with a kingly gesture to his stool. Alex fetched it and another and managed to get himself and the seats to the fire before he had to sit and put his head between his knees to keep from passing out.

  "Think you she'll use hot irons?" Baldric asked.

  "Maybe," Alex wheezed, unable even to see the floor between his feet for the stars.

  "Those wee pinchers that grasp little skins?"

  Alex couldn't help but notice the thinly suppressed enthusiasm in Baldric's voice. "I guess if she has them on hand, she'll probably use them."

  Baldric fell silent, no doubt considering the poetic possibilities of the devices he'd stumbled upon.

  "Anything else down there, think you?" Baldric asked.

  Perhaps the well had run dry already. Alex carefully looked up.

  "Well, she might have leg irons," he offered.

  Baldric turned his nose up.

  "The rack?" Alex suggested.

  "The rack?" Baldric turned that one over in his head for a moment or two. "It sounds most interesting, but I fear I am unfamiliar with it. How does it work?"

  Alex braced himself with his hands on his knees so he wouldn't pitch forward onto Baldric's toes. "Well, you stretch the prisoner out flat and tie his hands and feet to long, thin barrels that you turn with a crank. The more you turn, the more the prisoner gets stretched until, well, you can imagine how it goes from there."

  "Well," Baldric said, looking very impressed, "it sounds a marvelous invention indeed."

  "Does Margaret have one?"

  "I think not," Baldric admitted reluctantly. "But it would make for a fine tale, don't you think?"

  "What the hell—use it anyway."

  Baldric started to pace. Alex propped his elbows on his knees, then his chin on his fists. Satisfied he was properly balanced, he relaxed and closed his eyes. He could hear Baldric muttering under his breath, pausing, then resuming his pacing again. Alex opened one eye to scan his surroundings, hoping to see that Margaret had finished with her business and could rescue him before he passed out. Servants hovered at the edge of the hall, eyeing Baldric warily. Maybe they were ready to jump to the rescue of Margaret's wall hangings. Heaven help the rest of England if Baldric ever decided to become a traveling unraveling minstrel.

  "Finished!" Baldric said triumphantly.

  Alex opened both eyes. "And so quickly, too. I'm impressed."

  " 'Tis a prisoner from Brackwald," Baldric replied. "I've much to say on the matter."

  "I'll bet you do. And I'm sure everyone else will want to hear it. Shall we get them to gather 'round?"

  Baldric gave a regal wave of dismissal. "Gather them if you will. I've no time for seeing to such trivialities."

  Alex managed to lift his chin off his fists. "Hey," he called weakly, "everyone come over here. We've got some great stuff about torture coming up."

  There was a sudden flurry of activity. Watching people run made Alex dizzy, so he turned back to Baldric. The bard was arranging his stool to his liking, then clambering up on top of it.

  "Don't you want to wait for Margaret?" Alex asked.

  Baldric gave a disdainful huff. "She should know I'm ready to delight her with another of my choice verses."

  "Now, Baldric, buddy," Alex said, "you know she's down in the cellar torturing the prisoner. How is she going to know you're ready to perform?"

  Baldric scowled. "She should just know. She was always about to listen to my verses when she was younger."

  Alex tried another tack. "She's providing you with subject matter. Give her a couple of minutes to get up here. She'll probably need a rest after wielding all those implements of pain and suffering."

  Baldric looked down his nose and pursed his lips, but seemed to give in readily enough. With great ceremony, he licked four fingers of one hand and slicked down the ten or so hairs remaining on the top of his head. He straightened his robes of barddom and folded his hands very sedately in front of him in the classic opera singer pose. Alex shook his head and blinked several times, but Baldric's pose didn't change.

  "That's an interesting look for you," Alex offered.

  "A traveling minstrel showed it to me a few years ago," Baldric whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

  "Fascinating." And it was. Who knew what sorts of people were roaming through medieval England? Alex didn't want to speculate.

  "He taught me several new rhyme forms as well. I try to work them in as I may, though the weak-stomached ones here don't appreciate them overmuch." Baldric looked at him solemnly. "Too modern, you know."

  "I'll just bet," Alex said, barely avoiding choking on his reply. "It's a rough crowd here."

  Baldric bestowed a sunny smile on him. A not-quite-as-toothful-as-it-might-have-been-twenty-years-ago smile, but a sunny one nonetheless.

  "You've quite a head for thinking, lad." He turned and looked over the hall. "Ah, here comes the lady Margaret now. I will begin."

  And without further ado, he did just that.

  'Twas a marvelous morn for a racking!

  And the prisoner had to agree

  that not an iron or pincher was lacking

  from the choices our maid eyed with glee.

  She posed a short question or two,

  her keen eye missing nary a flinch.

  He answered her not a thing true,

  so said she, "Let's try a pinch!"

  Alex laughed. Baldric frowned down at him, and Alex quickly wiped off his smile.

  "Sorry to ruin the mood."

  "Harumph," Baldric said. He reassumed even more firmly his operatic pose and cleared his throat purposefully.

  Alex couldn't see anything but the front row of spectators. He watched them shift as Baldric continued on. The small lake of legs parted and Margaret came to stand at the forefront. Alex looked up at her and smiled. She frowned at him, then looked at her bard.

  The irons were hot in the fire,

  the prisoner was trembling with fear.

  So sure was she he was a liar,

  she gave him a pinch on the ear!

  He yelped and he pleaded for mercy,

  but she only reached for a tong.

  He begged her to cease for sure was he,

  that he wouldn't last all that long.

  "By the saints!" a man choked.

  Alex looked up to see a filthy, disheveled man standing next to Margaret. He was currently inhaling a bowl of something steaming. He was looking at Baldric with what seemed to Alex to be a distinct lack of patience. After having shared a tender moment with Baldric at the tapestry, Alex felt intensely indignant that someone so obviously uncultured would dare pass an opinion on Baldric's best effort of the day. Alex also sincerely hoped he hadn't looked that appalled when he'd first heard the bard's poetry.

  Alex's next thought was that he really should get up and tell the guy not to stand so close to Margaret. If he'd thought he could get to his feet and stay there with any success, he would have. The porridge piled high on that spoon was added incentive.

  Baldric was rubbing his chin. Alex looked from the bard to Margaret, who was biting her lip. Maybe the rhyme was beginning to unravel.

  "I'm liking the torture," A
lex said. "Nice and gruesome, Baldric."

  Baldric stopped rubbing and recaptured his bardly look.

  The hot irons were liberally applied,

  the lout's screams were throaty and full.

  And our lady never she shied

  from using that poker so dull.

  Baldric paused and looked faintly perplexed, as if he just wasn't sure that last rhyme had worked. Then he shrugged and forged ahead.

  Broken and battered and frail,

  the prisoner relented and 'fessed,

  Meg tossed her fell irons in a pail,

  and came up for cider well pressed.

  Alex looked at the man next to Margaret. He was shaking his head, yet still managing to spoon in porridge at an alarming rate. Alex scowled at the man, partly because he wasn't showing very good concert etiquette and partly because it seemed very unfair that he himself should still be hungry while someone so rude was eating well. Alex put his hand over his belly and prayed Baldric would wind things up quickly before serious rumbling ensued.

  The prisoner was left in the dungeon,

  to rot and soon go on off to hell,

  as befits all foul folk from that noisesome

  keep at Brackwald—and indeed you can smell the reek from here...

  Baldric paused and stared off into the distance, no doubt trying to get a better look at those cue cards his muse was holding up.

  "Dungeon?" Alex asked, hoping to head off another round of tapestry unraveling. "Is that really what you want?"

  Baldric shook his head, then took to scratching his bearded chin. "Perhaps 'pit.' But that rhymes with sh—"

  "Aye, well to be sure it does," Margaret interrupted. "Perhaps 'hole' would work, aye?"

  Baldric paused and seemed to consider that. Then he nodded and began again.

  The prisoner was left in the hole,

  to rot and soon go on off to hell,

  as befitted his dark, noisesome soul,