by Lynn Kurland
swoon directly... .
Oh, this was going to be something else. A juicy free-form introduction on Baldric's favorite subject. The audience was listening raptly as the bard grew more enthusiastic, and more rambling. Alex shook his head and felt a fondness for the old man who lived to comment on Ralf and his surrounding environs. There was just never a dull moment in this place.
Alex searched the crowd until he found Margaret. She was sitting on a stool with Amery in her lap. Amery was leaning back against her shoulder, watching Baldric with wide eyes, giving his thumb a thorough workout. His other hand clutched Margaret's braid as if it were a life preserver. Margaret had her arms around him and her jaw resting against the top of his head. Frances stood next to Margaret, leaning against her slightly.
Protectiveness surged through Alex so strongly, it almost brought him to his knees. That small group of souls was what he'd been looking for the whole of his life. To think he might have turned his back on them—to think he had tried to turn his back on them and go home.
No, this was home, with its unraveled wall hangings and wacky entertainment and its well-pressed rushes under his feet. And his family. There across from him.
He almost turned around and walked back out into the lists to practice some more swordplay. This was worth fighting to protect.
It was worth fighting to keep.
And keep it he would, if he had to promise Richard the Lionheart the moon to get it. There had to be a way to save Margaret from Ralf and win her for himself. Money talked, even in the twelfth century, and Alex would find a way to use it to his advantage.
Margaret shifted, then caught sight of him. The smallest hint of a smile touched her lips.
Had he ever thought he could leave her? He'd been insane.
He smiled back at her and wondered if what he felt was obvious. He'd told her before that he wouldn't leave. That was a promise he fully intended to keep.
The stench wafted high to the heavens.
So the ogre wrinkled up his pug nose,
and pulled forth from his pocket a cloth
that smelled ever so strongly of rose.
Then the faeries and ogres did plan
to rid the fair isle of the stink.
‘'Send Ralf off to war with no armor,
For he is a no good rat fink!''
There was a sudden murmur of agreement after that last verse, and Alex had to turn away before he lost it. Someday he was going to have to sit down with Baldric and find out just what he'd learned from that traveling minstrel who'd taught him the new rhyme forms. The man had obviously taught him a few new words while he was at it.
He walked back out to the lists, Joel bouncing along at his heels like a happy puppy. Sending Ralf off to war wasn't such a bad idea. It would certainly solve a few of his own problems.
He nodded to himself. It was a good solution and he'd have to thank Baldric for the idea. Richard could certainly use a few new men for his French campaign, couldn't he? Ralf was a perfect choice.
Alex just hoped he could avoid being another good choice. He wouldn't have considered dodging the draft in 1998, but "army enlistment" took on a whole new meaning in 1194.
He looked at his squire standing a few paces away, poised and ready to serve. "Find me a partner, would you, Joel? I've got work to do."
Three weeks was not a very long time. He sincerely hoped he'd manage it.
He didn't want to think about what might happen if he couldn't.
Seventeen
Margaret stood in the alcove of her bedchamber and stared down at the lists below her. To be sure she had dozens of other things she could have been doing, but somehow here was where she found herself. She'd stopped trying to deny that she stood there because it gave her the chance to watch Alex. She could have done it just as easily while standing in the lists. But here he didn't know she watched him.
He currently ran the perimeter of the lists as intently as a woman chasing an escaped fowl might have. Jogging he called it, and he claimed it was very good for the stamina. Margaret had tried it one morn while Alex had been partaking of a meal and found it not at all to her liking. She felt as if her back had been permanently thrust up into her head.
Alex obviously found the practice beneficial, for he did it a handful of times each day, running until he was fair dropping with exhaustion. Margaret wasn't about to bid him cease. Watching him move with his lanky, smooth stride was a pleasure she wouldn't soon deny herself.
Of course, of late it had become more difficult to watch him for the crowd. He'd begun jogging alone, but had since acquired a following of impressive proportions. There was Joel, of course, trailing at his master's heels like an obedient puppy. Sir Henry had been one of the first to join Alex on his exercise. Margaret half suspected he and Alex pushed each other far past when they should have quit out of stubbornness not to be the first to cry peace. She could understand that and was secretly pleased to note Alex was never the first to give in.
The rest of her men joined him at least once a day and seemed none the worse for the new form of training. Perhaps it was how warriors trained in Scotland. After all, 'twas rumored to be a fairly desolate expanse with long distances to travel between settlements. Perhaps they ran to harden themselves to the labor.
Or perhaps he'd learned it in 1998, that unfathomable place he'd claimed to come from.
"Impossible," she said with a snort. "Fanciful imaginings."
The body of the group stopped, leaving only Alex and Sir Henry still at it. Margaret watched them circle the lists half a dozen more times before Henry stumbled, then ceased and hunched over with his hands on his thighs. Margaret fancied she could hear him panting from where she stood. Alex ran lightly over to where Joel had collapsed against the wall, collected his squire and headed for the well.
Margaret walked away from the window. Now would begin another rigorous session of swordplay. After that would come a meal, a small rest, then the afternoon at the quintain. Margaret couldn't fault Alex's drive to succeed. In less than a month he had gone from barely able to walk down the stairs without a rest to a warrior whose determination and endurance rivaled her own. His skill had come as well. He had a gift for it. Some men didn't, and it took them years to perfect their art. Alex wielded her father's sword as if it had been made for his hand alone. He was fearless at the joust and merciless with the blade. She had to admit, grudgingly, that he was almost her equal.
Though she'd never say as much to him. By the time she'd broken her fast, convinced Amery the lists were not the place for him, and then listened to a short verse from her bard, the men were already again at their play. Margaret crossed the field to where Alex and George went at each other with all the seriousness of sworn enemies. Margaret folded her arms over her chest and observed them critically.
It was almost too beautiful to watch. Alex moved with lethal grace, his sword flashing in the pale spring sunlight. Margaret watched his eyes inside his helm, saw the calculation in them, knew that he watched for the first sign of weakness. When it came, he moved in without mercy, parrying and thrusting, driving George backward. Then came the moment of glory when George's sword went flying end over end up into the air, and Alex threw his head back and shouted with laughter.
Margaret thought she might swoon on the spot.
It was all she could do not to stride over to him and kiss him full on the mouth. She remembered very well just how it felt, and the urge to do so was almost overwhelming. She'd almost made up her mind to indulge herself when Sir George ripped off his helm.
"They do not," he gasped.
"Oh, but they do," Alex said, taking off his own helm.
"But such staggering sums!"
"Obscene, isn't it?"
"By the saints," George said, shaking his head. "This I can hardly believe."
Margaret cleared her throat. The pair of them turned to look at her, shifting as guiltily as two lads caught with their hands in Cook's stew pot.
"M
argaret," Alex said, squirming.
"Who are they and what do they do?" she demanded.
"Ah ... well..." Alex stalled.
"We were discussing the customs of the people where he, ah—" Sir George looked at Alex with a pathetically helpless expression.
"Where I was born," Alex finished. "They have very odd customs there."
"In Seattle," she said, the very word feeling strange on her tongue.
"Right," Alex said. "Seattle."
Margaret scowled. Amazing how she could feel such lust for the man one moment, then want to wallop him strongly on the head the next. She could only grunt in response.
"The lads," Sir George ventured, "make vast sums playing games, if you can fathom that."
"Games?" she echoed.
"Aye, games peculiar to the region of Seattle and its surroundings," George said, warming to the topic. "With balls of different colors and shapes. Most interesting."
Well, they'd both lost all sense. There was no other explanation for it. Alex had pulled George into the realm of his folly, and the both of them were wallowing in it.
Margaret rolled her eyes and walked away. Men. Games. Somehow, the two seemed to go hand in hand.
She left them babbling with renewed vigor, with Alex expounding on some ridiculous ceremony entitled the NBA playoffs. The saints only knew what sorts of sacrifices the ritual entailed. No doubt many small animals lost their lives in the process.
Margaret looked over her lists to identify a partner on whom she could vent the sudden frustration that coursed through her. What cared she if Alex chose to delude George with his witless fantasies? She had no desire to learn more of Seattle, or to listen to his mindless chatter about games that men supposedly played. What she wished he would be talking about was how Ralf could be bested. And what of his claim that Richard would come north? The month of March was drawing to a close. If Richard were to visit Nottingham, he would be doing it soon. Yet, she had heard nothing but rumors.
There was a part of her that sincerely hoped Alex was telling the truth. Pleading her case before the king himself would surely solve her troubles.
Well, there was no sense in worrying about it at the moment. She needed to train in the event that she found herself with a lance in her hand and Ralf at the other end of the field.
"Sir Henry," she called, motioning the knight over to her. "Indulge me."
Henry waved off his current partner and walked toward her. Immediately several other men abandoned their play and came over to watch. Margaret ignored them. She was accustomed to this kind of attention. Perhaps men wouldn't look at her because she was a woman; they certainly would look at her to see her swordplay.
And so she gave them something to watch. Henry was not her equal, something she had no qualms about proving to those who observed her. She toyed with him at first, letting him wear himself out with his swinging. When she saw that his cuts were slipping just the slightest bit, his strikes just beginning to miss their mark, she began to do more than just deflect his blows.
She consciously strove to put aside what she knew of Henry's habits. She made herself forget what hand he favored and what side he feinted to when pressed. She took each of his moves and looked at them afresh, searching them out for signs of weakness.
Margaret pressed him on the left, just to see what he would do. There was no sign of hesitancy, so she eased off her attack, then suddenly lunged for his right. He stumbled away, landing heavily on one leg. The crowd murmured, but she paid them no heed. She wouldn't accept any praise until she'd bested Henry thoroughly.
She worked his right side strongly, then held off, toying with him on the left until he caught back his wind. Then she concentrated on his left, deciding that victory might be sweeter this time if she just wore him down until he could take no more.
It took a very long time. Henry was a very fine knight and had been well trained by Sir George and her own father and eldest brother. But he was, when all was said and done, simply not her equal.
He stumbled backward suddenly and went down hard into the muck. Margaret followed him, unwilling to show him the slightest mercy. It would ruin her reputation, of course.
"Peace," Henry gasped, lying motionless in the mud. "I yield."
Margaret pulled off her helmet and shoved back the mail coif. "Well done, Sir Henry. Indeed, you have almost winded me. 'Tis a feat to be proud of."
She held out her hand to help him to his feet. Ruthless though she might have been, she wasn't above the occasional bout of chivalry.
She received praise from the men around her, and she accepted it with a regal nod. No sense in letting it show that even now such words were pleasing to her ear. Praise from herself was, of course, enough to satisfy her, but 'twas nevertheless sweet indeed to be recognized as a formidable warrior by men who judged each other by exactly such a measure.
The substantial group broke up, and there was much ribbing of Sir Henry by his fellows. Margaret didn't follow them from the field, and she certainly didn't participate in their jesting. This was something she had always remained above and would continue to remain above. The crowd dispersed and soon she was alone on the field.
Except for Alex.
He was staring at her with a slight smile playing around his mouth. It set her to bristling immediately.
"What?" she demanded.
He shook his head with a smile. "Nothing. I'm just impressed."
"As you should be."
He laughed. "Margaret, I have never in my life met a woman quite like you."
"Harumph," she said, unsure of his meaning. "Then I pity you," she added.
"You should," he said with a deep smile. "My life has been incredibly dull up to this point."
Margaret watched him watch her and felt more uneasy than she had in days. "Why do you stare at me thusly?" she demanded. She waved her sword at him. "Cease with it, for I like it not."
"Then how would you like to go take a walk on the roof? The clouds seem to be breaking up. It might be a nice view."
She felt her eyes narrow. "A walk on the roof? I know what that entails with you, Alexander of Seattle." And the mere thought of it was enough to make her blush. Aye, she knew well enough indeed what liberties he would take if he managed to get her up off the ground and into his arms.
And damn her traitorous self if it didn't find the idea almost irresistible.
"My lady, my lady! My lady Margaret!"
Margaret tore her eyes away from Alex to see Timothy sprinting across the field, waving a slip of parchment over his head. He stumbled to a halt before her and shoved the parchment at her.
" 'Twas a messenger come from Lord Odo of Tickhill. He will hold a tourney within the se'nnight!"
Margaret looked at Alex quickly. ''These are promising tidings."
"And 'tis rumored the king himself will attend!" Timothy added.
Alex only smiled. "Told you so."
Margaret scowled. ' 'Tickhill is a fair piece north of Nottingham. Why would Richard, assuming he has returned to England, travel there if his goal is Nottingham?"
Alex shrugged. "Maybe he needs to enjoy himself for a couple of days, visit his subjects, break a few lances. Let's get busy with that note for Ralf. We'll see who gets to Tickhill first."
Margaret handed the parchment to Alex to read. "Well done, Timothy. I'll have another missive to be sent within the hour."
Timothy raced off and Margaret turned to Alex.
"You seem to have predicted this well enough."
Alex shoved the note back at her. "I'd better go practice at the quintain for a few hours, then work on some live opponents. If Ralf wants to settle this in front of the king, we'll do it on the field."
"You?" Margaret gasped.
"Of course, me," he said, looking at her as if he dared her to disagree.
And so she did, for she was certainly in the right. ''I'll be the one to fight him."
"No, you won't."
"Aye, but I will."
/> "This is man's business, Margaret. I'll take care of it."
"You're not even a knight!"
"And you are?"
She gritted her teeth, but had no rejoinder for that. "My father was a knight," she said finally.
"I know, but that doesn't really mean anything for you, does it? Besides, there's more to being a good warrior than a set of spurs, which you also know very well."
She couldn't deny either. She chewed on her lip and searched for another way to prove to him that he was completely unprepared to face Ralf over lances, especially when it was her life and land at stake.
"You aren't ready," she stated firmly.
"I'm ready enough."
"It's my land!"
"And Ralf and I both want it," he said, "but Ralf isn't going to get it."
Margaret started to reply, then realized what he'd said. And she felt a coldness come over her, as if wind had come from the north suddenly and blown through her bailey. She could hardly believe her ears.
"You want my land?" she asked, stunned.
He shook his head. "Not in the way you think."
"Then you want..."
"You," he said, sounding rather exasperated. "All right? I want you, and if that means I have to have your land to have you, then that's what I'll have. And I'll be damned if Ralf is going to take you away from me when there's a chance I can stop him."
"You want me," she repeated, as close to speechless as she'd ever felt herself.
"I only care about your land because it's yours. And it's going to stay yours if Ralf has to be finished for it to happen."
He wanted her. He only cared for her land in that it was hers. She could hardly take it in. The feeling that rushed through her was intensely pleasurable. She didn't want to enjoy it, but somehow she just couldn't stop herself. He'd vowed he would stay with her, but this was more than simply remaining. For better or worse, he wanted her, and the very thought of it made her giddy. She looked at him and felt a fondness well up in her, a fondness she was sure nothing could dissipate.
"Go get me a lance, Margaret. I've got a lot of work to do this afternoon."