by Lynn Kurland
"Why does everyone keep hitting me?" he gasped. "I live with brutal women."
"Ah-ha," Margaret said triumphantly. "Alex, come you here and look at this. We've found the original grant."
Alex pushed away his headache and limped over to ingest more details.
It promised to be an even longer evening than he'd feared.
But as he lay in bed with his wife a very long time later, he could only smile over the day's events. Who would have suspected that he'd find himself styled a medieval earl with his own people coming to him for justice? Maybe all that time spent either immersed in the law or hobnobbing with crooks had honed his sense of right and wrong. He turned over in his mind the stickier cases of the day, examining them again just to assure himself he had done the right thing.
"Alex," Margaret groaned, rolling away from him, "stop thinking and go to sleep."
"The wheels turning too loudly?"
"Saints, I can hardly sleep for the noise."
Alex laughed softly and rolled toward her to gather her back against him. "Sorry. I'll give it a rest."
"Aye, and give me one while you're at the task."
He kissed her hair and tried to relax. He felt her intertwine her fingers with his.
"Alex?"
"Hmmm?"
She was silent for so long, he thought she might have fallen asleep.
"You judged fairly today," she said finally.
He tightened his arms around her. "Thank you."
"Indeed," she continued slowly, "not even my grand-sire could have walked so fine a line, and I always thought him the wisest man I'd ever known."
Well, he suspected there wasn't a much higher compliment in her book than that. He searched for several minutes for the right way to let her know he understood. In the end, all he could do was squeeze her hands.
"I love you," she whispered.
"Oh, Margaret," he said softly. He was afraid if he held her as tightly as he wanted to, he'd break her. "I love you, too."
She patted his hands. "Well, that's settled. Off to sleep with you, my lord. You've a full day tomorrow as well."
He smiled against her hair. Another tomorrow with Margaret of Falconberg. And countless other tomorrows after that.
It was almost too good to be true.
Twenty - seven
Margaret bounded enthusiastically up the stairs to look for her husband. What a fine morn it had been already. She'd had several successful goes at the quintain, Amery and young Ian had managed to break their fast without covering themselves and each other with foodstuffs, and Baldric had found his last rhyme without any aid. What would make the morning complete would be a few minutes of privacy with the man she loved, the light of her eyes and the joy of her heart—
"I can see how happy you are here, brother, but there is a part of me that cannot help but wonder how your choice will affect the future."
The sound of those words brought Margaret up short at the doorway to the solar. She pulled back into the shadows and frowned. That was Jamie speaking, but what could he possibly intend by such words?
"Jamie," Alex said with a deep sigh, "we've been over this before—"
"Aye, but have you—"
''I have. I have considered all the ramifications of my staying. I've considered them over and over again until I'm sick of considering. I've made my choice."
Ramifications. Margaret repeated the word to herself several times. It wasn't familiar, but surely had ominous overtones.
"Somehow," Alex continued, "I just have the feeling I won't be the first person to wake up in a different century and decide he was better off that way. Where do you think Baldric got all his limerick ideas? I doubt it was from a traveling minstrel of French origin."
"But the changing of history—"
Alex laughed. "Oh, and you're one to talk!"
Margaret wondered what the expression was that Jamie wore to accompany his offended snort.
"A wee bit of wrong righting now and then hardly mars the fabric of history."
''Beth told me just yesterday that your newly acquired taste for Barbados rum has necessitated more than one trip there for just pleasure."
Jamie seemingly had no answer for that. The silence gave Margaret ample opportunity to consider Alex's words. And she had to admit that after spending a month with Elizabeth and Jamie, she was ready to concede that the rest of the family was certainly not daft. A group of more pleasant, rational people she had never before encountered. And if they weren't daft and could speak of these gates in the grass without smirking, it could mean only one thing: Alex had been telling her the truth from the start.
And this could only mean one thing: There truly was a place for him to return to, a place that was likely more-interesting than her England and her keep. His keep. Their home together with its unraveled tapestries and leaking roof.
"But the fabric of time," Jamie said finally. "What of that?"
"What of it?"
"You're adding a thread where it doesn't belong, Alex. Your time is the twentieth century, not the twelfth. The reason I was able to go forward was because I escaped certain death. There was no more place for me in 1311. You still have a place in 1998."
"For all you know I was destined to die in a car crash in another week."
Margaret listened to them spout their strange words, and for the first time wished she'd questioned Alex more thoroughly with perhaps a more open mind. What meant Jamie by the escaping of certain death? Did Alex indeed still have a place in another time?
She shook her head, stunned at the thought of such a thing being true and even more surprised that she was beginning to actually consider the possibility of it.
"That's another thing," Alex said. "I think your fabric-of-time idea has some serious holes in it."
"Where?" Jamie demanded. " 'Tis a most logical theory."
"Then explain this: You were supposed to die in 1311. You didn't, so you had to leave or you would have added a strand of life where one didn't belong. So how do you justify adding yourself into the twentieth century where you most certainly were not born?"
Jamie grunted, but it was a grunt of surprised dismay if she'd ever heard one.
"Well," he said, "to be sure I'll be giving that more thought."
She heard him rise and begin to pace. The footsteps stopped suddenly.
"How do we know I wasn't supposed to travel to the future?" Jamie demanded suddenly.
"The same way we don't know that I wasn't supposed to travel to 1194," Alex countered.
"Harumph," Jamie said. A chair creaked again under his weight. "There's something amiss with that, but damn me if I cannot divine it at present."
"Well, you get back to me when you have it figured out."
Margaret leaned against the wall and sighed. That was seemingly a crisis well avoided. There was no reason Alex couldn't stay in the past.
"By the saints," she muttered, "I've gone as daft as he has!"
"Aren't there things you'll miss?" Jamie asked, startling her. "Twentieth-century things?"
Margaret edged closer. That was a promising question if she'd ever heard one. Now she would hear Alex's list and determine for herself what it was he had given up for her sake.
"Miss?" Alex asked in a tone far too contemplative for her taste. "Sure I'll miss some things. I'll miss the Range Rover. I'll miss driving from one place to the next and arriving dry and able to walk without a hitch. I'll miss Twinkies."
Margaret had sampled a Twinkie and found it to be rather disgusting on the whole. She cared not for the coating it had left on the roof of her mouth. If that was the extent of Alex's desires, he was likely better off with her. Aye, she could hold her own against such foul pastries.
"What about ESPN?" Jamie asked. "The Lear? High-yield treasury notes?"
"That Forbes list has gone to your head, Jamie," Alex laughed. "I can't believe I'm listening to you talk about investments as if you'd been living with them your entire life."
&n
bsp; "I'm a very fast learner," Jamie said, "and as such, it makes me wonder if you've considered that you'll be a great deal poorer here than you were in 1998."
Margaret considered that. To be sure these treasury notes, which sounded as if they were worth a great deal, were something to be concerned over. She chewed on her lip. This could mean trouble for her. Her coffers were never all that full. Full enough for her needs, but certainly not to overflowing. Though Ralf's contribution was substantial, was it enough to balance against treasury notes? Then again, Alex was with her now. He would likely be able to collect rents some of her vassals hadn't been willing to pay her. That would certainly provide them with a luxury every now and again.
"Jamie, money isn't everything, as you well know. Sure I'll miss my comfortable, cushy lifestyle, but I guarantee you all that money means nothing if I have to give up Margaret to get it."
"Hmmm," was all Jamie answered.
Margaret felt her heart begin to lighten. It certainly sounded as if she was faring well against the lures of 1998. After all, how much more luxurious could it be than 1194? She had flues for her hearths. She had bedchambers with doors and feather pillows. Even the king would have been impressed with such largesse—which was the one reason she'd prayed he would never decide to come to Falcon-berg. The saints only knew what he might have decided would be a fine parting gift. She could well imagine him loading up his baggage wains with her mattresses and pillows. At least he wouldn't have been tempted by the wall hangings.
"I wonder," Jamie mused, "how you would feel if you returned home for a brief visit."
Alex laughed shortly. "Jamie, are you trying to talk me out of staying? I figured that you, of anyone, would be on my side on this."
"It isn't that I'm not. Indeed, I understand well the choice you have made."
"Then you have regrets?"
Jamie was so silent, Margaret was hard pressed not to peer inside the chamber and see what his expression was.
"Regrets? Nay, I have none. I would not trade my life with Elizabeth for anything. But 'tis not of me we speak."
"And you think I'm any less able than you to handle living in a different century?"
Indeed, Margaret added silently. Alex certainly seemed to adapt with alacrity to whatever Fate handed him. He obviously thought so, too, given the highly offended tone he'd taken.
"What I mean to say," Jamie said, "is that I came from a time very much like this one—"
"I know what you meant—" Alex interrupted.
"—and 'tis far easier to go from hardship to luxury than from the ease and comfort of your former life to—"
"What kind of pansy do you think I am?" Alex exploded. "I can live without a satellite dish!"
"Can you?"
Margaret heard furniture begin to take tumbles. Well, no matter whose dignity was being protected, she had no intention of having her solar destroyed by two such large men. If they wanted to kill each other, they could do it outside. She strode into the chamber and bellowed her command for them to cease. They ignored her.
Alex was obviously bent on assuring Jamie that he was no pansy—whatever that meant, but she suspected it wasn't all that complimentary—and Jamie seemed just as determined to convince Alex that he was. Margaret clapped her hands, waved her arms, shouted at the top of her lungs for them to stop their foolishness. The only result was Jamie and Alex smashing through a chair and Alex demolishing what Jamie hadn't when Jamie heaved Alex off him.
"Here, this might help."
Margaret turned to find Elizabeth standing behind her holding a pitcher of water.
"Fresh water?" Margaret asked doubtfully. "Seems a shame to waste it thusly."
"It's probably better that way in the long run," Elizabeth said with a smile. "Drenched is one thing. Drenched with cesspool water is another."
Margaret had to agree, though she did so reluctantly. She took the pitcher and watched the two overgrown oafs who currently rolled about in the rushes at the foot of her favorite chair. She didn't dare let them go on any longer. She positioned herself so that she wouldn't splash the wood overmuch, avoided the thrashing of two sets of well-fashioned legs, and waited until both heads were well within drenching distance. Then she very deliberately upended the pitcher of water over them. "What the hell—" "By all the bloody saints—"
Margaret looked calmly down at the outraged males staring at her.
"You were nigh onto ruining what poor seats I have. If you must engage in such childish antics, do so outside."
Alex rolled to his feet, then shook himself like a dog, splattering her person and her good chair with water. Margaret wiped the water off with the sleeve of her tunic, then glared at her husband.
"Finished?"
"No," he said shortly. "Come on, Jamie. I'll deal with you outside."
"There are other things we should discuss," Jamie said, gingerly touching his cut lip. ''Ramifications you may not have yet considered." He heaved himself to his feet, gave Elizabeth a pat, and followed Alex out the door.
Margaret looked at her newly made sister-in-law and grimaced. "I like not that word he continues to use. Ramifications. Surely no good can come of such a word."
"Nothing that either of us wants to dwell on, I'm sure," Elizabeth agreed. "I promised Amery and Ian I'd tell them a story, and Amery wanted you to come. Will you?"
"Gladly," Margaret said. It would take her mind off Jamie's unsettling words.
"What was that all about, anyway?" "Jamie called Alex a pansy."
Elizabeth whistled softly. "Alex couldn't have been happy about that."
Margaret gestured toward the ruined chair. "That tells the tale well enough."
Elizabeth laughed. "Well, they'll work it out I'm sure. Let's go take our minds off it for a while. There'll be bruises to tend later."
Margaret followed Elizabeth from the solar. Perhaps listening to Elizabeth spin a tale or two would take her mind off more than Alex's bruises. She feared she might not be able to forget Jamie's words. Then she shook her head and decided not to let them unsettle her. Even if all the foolishness were true and Alex had come from a different time than hers, hers was surely far more attractive. There were luxuries aplenty in her castle. Why, her cook was the most highly skilled for leagues. Even Baldric, daft though he might be, could spin a tale worthy of any king's pleasure. Aye, she had enough to offer him. Ramifications be damned.
Twenty - eight
Alex stood atop the battlements and looked out over Falconberg soil. In his wildest dreams he'd never imagined he would wind up in twelfth-century England wearing the title of earl of Falconberg. Somehow it sounded just a little more impressive than a doctor of jurisprudence. The rest of his family would certainly have been impressed.
His family. Alex dragged his hand through his hair and sighed. Not seeing them was something he had outright avoided thinking about before. After all, what had been the point? He'd resigned himself to never seeing them again and that had been that. But that had been before his conversation with Jamie late last night.
They'd been sitting in front of the fire innocently enough, nursing their post-wrestling injuries. All the talk of the twentieth century had made Alex wish that there was a way to go back and see his parents one last time and introduce them to Margaret. Alex might have continued to keep that in the wishful-thinking category if Jamie hadn't said there was likely a way he could manage it.
Damn him anyway.
"It has to do with the land," Jamie had said. "It seems that I can come and go as I please through these gates."
"And bringing me Ding-Dongs wouldn't qualify for a task in the past?'' Alex had asked with a smile.
But Jamie hadn't smiled back. It might have been because of his split lip, but Alex suspected it was because the topic was too serious for joking.
They had talked far into the night. Alex hadn't liked what he'd heard, but he could see the logic in it all. Jamie's ancestors had lived for centuries in Scotland. That he should be tied to it in
some elemental way was perfectly believable.
Not being able to bend the direction of the gates to one's will was another story, however. Not that he had any proof of it, either. Good grief, he hadn't even been shooting for England.
At least Jamie hadn't tried to reach for his plaid again. Alex suspected he'd cured his brother-in-law of his Fabric of Time lecture once and for all. All he knew was that if he'd had to listen to Jamie's "each thread has a purpose, and if a body pulls one here, the pattern of the fabric will be marred'' spiel one more time, he would have screamed. Jamie still hadn't come up with a decent answer as to what had happened when he'd added himself to the twentieth century, but Alex suspected he was working frantically on it.
In any case, Jamie had said Alex and Margaret could travel with Jamie and Elizabeth forward to the twentieth century, then return home to the twelfth on their own, but that would be it. No frequent-flier miles. No popping back and forth for holidays. Jamie could get them to Scotland; they could get themselves home. Jamie had no answer for just exactly how Alex should determine which century he should be in. Alex could only think it through logically for himself. Margaret was here. What other reason did he need than that to remain?
Besides, he liked medieval England. He liked packing a sword. Truth be told, he liked being called "my lord" and knowing that people were depending on him to defend them. It came with its headaches, but the pluses were definitely attractive and he certainly had good training legally for the job. Besides, England would be a fascinating place historically for the next few decades, at least for the time he'd be alive. No nasty plagues or major wars. If he played his cards right, he could be in the thick of the whole Magna Carta business. He could make a difference.
And that didn't even cover the most important attraction in 1194: Margaret.
Though it would be nice to see his parents one last time to say goodbye. They should have the chance to meet Margaret. She should have the chance to see them.
"Alex?"
Alex jumped when he realized Margaret had come to stand next to him. "Sorry," he said with half a laugh. "I was thinking."