by Melanie Rawn
This time he ran headlong. Al didn't follow. He watched Sam vanish up the hill into the trees, then muttered, "Ziggy, get me the hell outta here."
(The woman stretched her arms wide, laughing. "Poor darling boy! Homesick, are we? Resenting our role as cosmic fix-it man? And here I thought you
were the perfect Hero! There may be hope for you yet." Spinning around on one spike heel, she stabbed at the box in her hand. "Don't you fret, lovey. Aunt Zoey and Cousin Alia will make it all better!")
CHAPTER
FIVE
For most of the afternoon, Sam sat on a rock.
He knew he probably ought to be with Cynthia. But solitude was a rare treat—and considering his mood, he wouldn't have been very effective as a lovelorn medievalist, anyway.
So he sat, and thought, and after a while stopped thinking. Clouds slid by above whispering trees, summer wind brought dry scents of sage and pine, sunlight baked soothing warmth into his aching muscles, and for once his mind let him be. Just be, without worrying or striving, without planning or calculating or wondering. It was almost—almost— serenity.
Eventually he returned down the hill to the campground. After the joust, the run, and the dusty hill, by now he didn't need just a shower; he needed a car wash.
Philip Larkin's duffel bag yielded a white terry cloth robe and yellow rubber thongs. Armed with these and the shaving kit of toiletries, Sam joined the line leading to ten green plastic cubicles that
bore a striking resemblance to portable potties.
His dream was doomed: there was no hot water left. This would not have been a problem earlier in the day, but the July heat had faded by the time Sam got his turn in one of the boxes; when he emerged the sun was gone and the breeze still blowing. He shivered his way back to the tent, telling himself cold was good therapy for sore muscles.
The duffel bag also contained Philip's "mundane" clothes (including, inevitably, a pocket protector) for driving back to New York City, plus a madly romantic costume for this evening's banquet. Wincing, Sam dutifully donned the white linen shirt, sleeveless tunic of tapestry cloth in various burgundies and greens, and black leather belt with sheathed dagger. He drew the line at the hose and velvet slippers, both in a shade of bright yellow Al would have called "lemon" and Sam would have called "lurid." The tan trousers and black boots of this afternoon would have to do. He ran a comb one last time through his damp hair, and snuffed the Coleman lantern.
Thus girded for another battle with Roger/Rannulf, he followed the crowd to the picnic area.
A picnic area it might be in the twentieth century, but a benevolent wizard had transformed it into an open-air medieval banquet hall that sat nearly two hundred. Sam paused beneath a tree, a smile breaking slowly over his face, and for the first time he got a feel for what the Medieval Chivalry League found so enchanting.
The "hall" was formed of elderly oaks and chestnuts, arching a leafy canopy above thirty picnic tables arranged in a horseshoe. Strung from
branches and swagged between trees were strings of pinpoint Christmas tree lights. The tables, draped with royal purple cloths, glowed with glass-shielded candles nestled amid braided flowers and vines. Mugs and goblets and tankards shone silvery bright, winking with gems. Never mind, Sam thought with a smile, that the jewels were paste, or that the plates were paper and the knives and spoons plastic. These people—these dreamers—with their low-cut gowns, flashing necklaces, and velvet doublets, with their courtly manners and their belief in honor and hand-crafts and plain old rollicking fun—they were in their way as much time travelers as Sam himself.
They were certainly enjoying it more. And their enthusiasm was catching. Sam—Sir Percival—was directed by a page to a seat just below the High Table, where the king and queen sat with their nobility. He was not quite exalted enough to join them, but neither was he placed below the salt. This they took very literally; people seated at the lower end of the horseshoe regularly sent someone up to beg a few pinches of salt from the privileged.
At irregular intervals the herald called out a name or names, and performers would step into the hollow of the horseshoe. Jugglers, mimes, dancers, troubadours playing anything from lutes to finger cymbals, and one Declaimer of Epic Poesy (who bore an astonishing resemblance to Sam's idea of Falstaff) entertained the diners. Sam gathered from the tokens handed out by various nobles that the performances earned points as well as applause.
As Sam dug into slices of succulent beef and roasted potatoes, he began to relax and enjoy
himself. He chatted with the dignified middle-aged knight on his left and the younger lady on his right— when she wasn't admonishing her adolescent son to eat his vegetables.
He was halfway through the meal when a pair of ladies sat down opposite him, plates laden and goblets full. The tall, brown-eyed, bespectacled lass was formidably gowned in scarlet and gold, with a pointed headdress trailing five feet of chiffon. Her companion, less flamboyantly clad but all the more exotic for being a Korean damsel in medieval French dress, settled her pearl-gray skirts and turned a stubborn frown on her friend.
"Mel Gibson, and that's final!"
"Yeah, right—they can call it Mad Max and the Merry Men. They'll go with a real Brit, maybe Gabriel Byrne—"
"Sally"—with infinite patience—"he's Irish."
"Whatever, he's gorgeous." Sally pulled her dagger from its belt sheath and started slicing potatoes. "All I know is that a friend of mine who got a job with Industrial Light and Magic is going out with a woman whose cousin works for the studio that's developing a script. It won't even start filming until '90 or so. Don't worry, Jen, there's plenty of time to argue about who'll get the lead."
"Mel Gibson," Jen insisted.
"Gabriel Byrne. Or maybe Michael Praed, or—"
"Mel Gibson!"
"Umm . . . Kevin Costner, actually," Sam said.
"What?" exclaimed both ladies.
"The Robin Hood movie. I've just got this feeling that—"
"Kevin Costner?" Jen asked, wide-eyed. "Kevin 'Perfect Tush' Costner?"
"What have you heard?" Sally demanded. "Do you know somebody? Who's going to play Maid Marian? And what about the Sheriff?"
"It's just a guess," he offered apologetically.
"Kevin Costner," mused Jen. "I like it."
"But he's from California!" Sally wailed.
"So's my mother. So what?"
"But—it'd be like casting Michael J. Fox to play the Vampire Lestat!"
After due consideration, Sam thought it the better part of wisdom not to mention who would play Lestat.
A blond serving wench—aproned, barefoot, and lugging two huge pitchers of wine—paused on her way past. "Hey, Phil—I mean, Sir Percy—I found an article on that quantum physics guy from M.I.T. You know, the one with the crazy theory about time travel? I'll drop it by your tent before I leave tomorrow."
Mouth full of heady mead, Sam managed to nod. In July of 1987 he'd been not quite thirty-four years old—a bit early for an article in a national magazine. Probably one of those boy-genius, whiz-kid, All-American-farmgrown-Einstein stories that had been popular before the Nobel. And after the Nobel. The media would have devoured him for lunch with hollandaise sauce and a cask of White Zinfandel if he hadn't fled to New Mexico.
There might be a certain morbid fascination in reading the article. But even if he learned things he didn't remember about himself circa 1987, what
good would it do him? He'd only forget it all in the next Leap.
Just as he was refusing to get depressed again, a mandolin-toting minstrel approached the High Table. An extravagant bow and the doffing of his cap produced a groan from Sally.
"Oh, God! Not 'Greensleeves' again!"
"He wouldn't dare," glowered the middle-aged knight on Sam's left. "Not even Larry would dare."
"Break out the earplugs," Sally said resignedly.
"Relax," Jen replied. "Our gracious Queen Elinor will tell him to sing 'Su
mer Is Icumen In,' at which point King Steffan the Tone-deaf will holler 'cuckold' instead of 'cuckoo,' and Larry will be in disgrace. Again."
Sally giggled all over her round, bespectacled face. "Is he still sleeping with Charlene?"
"He thinks he can make Cynthia jealous. As if she even looks at anybody except—"
"Shh!"
Sam, remembering at the same time as the two ladies that he was supposed to be the object of Cynthia's interest, kept his eyes on his plate.
Speaking of Cynthia, where was she? In this Grand Tetons of tall pointed headdresses it was impossible to identify her. More to the point—no pun intended—a quick look around convinced him Roger was absent. Extracting himself from the picnic table, he muttered an excuse no one paid attention to and left the banquet.
Roger, gorgeously arrayed in orange velvet and a large Celtic cross pendant, flicked a finger against a
stained-glass chime. A moment later Cynthia opened the tent flap and smiled.
"Good even, my lord! Isn't it lovely out tonight?"
He stared. She looked exquisite in blue embroidered with white roses. Instead of a wimple, she wore her blond hair loose to her shoulders, with a silver mesh cap that dripped crystal beads down her forehead and cheeks.
"So this is the Great Medieval Novel."
Startled out of fantasy (and thinking disloyally that she was perfect until she opened her mouth), he looked down at the fat manila envelope under his arm. "Uh—yeah, I guess."
"Well, let's have it."
Helpless, he handed it over. She hefted it experimentally.
"Good God, it must weigh fifteen pounds!"
"Is that bad?" he asked, apprehensive. "Will you have to cut it much?"
She made a face at him. "Can't bear to see a single word of your deathless prose amputated? You first-time authors are all alike."
He had the grace to blush. "Are you sure you want to look at this? It's pretty rough, even for a rough draft."
"That, my good Lord Rannulf, is why God made hardworking underpaid brilliant editors." She unsealed the envelope. "Where's Philip? He disappeared right after the joust."
Roger shrugged. "Probably sulking in his tent. I got past his guard this morning and he hates that." When she looked skeptical, he added impatiently, "He'll get over it. I've known him for years. He's
always like this when he loses a joust." "If you say so."
But she still doubted, and he had to clench his teeth to keep from yelling, Forget Philip! What about the book? Exercising a stern self-command his book's hero might have envied, he asked, "Can you tell right away if it's publishable?"
"I can tell if it's something I can hammer into something publishable." She grinned. "The pen isn't just mightier than the sword, Roger—in the hands of an editor, it's infinitely more ruthless."
A nervous laugh escaped him. "Is that a threat or a warning?"
Cynthia winked and started back into the tent. "You're going to read it now? I mean, the banquet's started, and I thought we'd sit together and everything. , . ."
"I just want a fast look. The light's better inside. Then we'll have something to talk about over the suet pudding."
"Oh God," he moaned. "Tim and Hannah are Wardens of the Royal Cupboard again, aren't they? Who ever told that woman she could cook?"
"Tim, of course. He doesn't have a choice—he's married to her! Well? Aren't you going to come in?" At any other time he would have accepted instantly. "I think I'll wait out here."
Cynthia shook her head mockingly. Light from the lantern struck soft rainbows from crystal beads. "Scourge of the tourney field, and can't bear to watch a lady read a book! Why don't you go find Philip? I don't like it when you two squabble." She disappeared into the blue tent.
Philip again, Roger thought with a sigh—but she was going to read part of the book. Roger's fate was now in her hands, quite literally—or literarily, to be precise. What would his hero, the Comte de St. Junien, do while he waited on Lady Alix's decision? Not that he'd ever let her decide much of anything, for he was a powerful nobleman and she only the beautiful but impoverished daughter of a minor chevalier. . . .
Roger called St. Junien to mind, writing the scene in his head, and imitated the picture. He lounged against a tree, trying for insouciant grace. Privately he suspected he achieved only ludicrous lurking. But nobody was around to judge one way or the other.
Sam made his way to Cynthia's tent—muttering, gesturing, shaking his head. The few people he encountered showed no sign that this was unusual behavior for Philip Larkin. Not that Sam would have noticed.
"Cynthia, I'm sure you don't know, but—"
He grimaced. "No, she's not dumb. Besides, the way she looked at him this morning—" With a sigh, he tried again.
"Cynthia, I haven't said anything because—Okay, because why? Don't get into the reasons. Be Sir Percival. Gallant, chivalrous, brave, dashing—" One hand over his heart as if about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance, he declared, "Cynthia, my sweet! I love you!"
"Needs some work, Sam," Al said behind him. "You could always use the line about her orbs."
Sam gave a violent start. Sometimes Al gave him fair audio warning by opening the Imaging Chamber door nearby. Other times he took unfair technological advantage and popped in elsewhere, then had Ziggy center him on wherever Sam was.
"How many times have I told you—"
"Don't do that," Al finished for him. "Nice threads. But you should be wearing tights with that outfit, Sam."
"No way." Habit made him glance around for potential eavesdroppers. Seeing none, he went on. "I read more of the book, Al—what I could stomach, anyway. Alix de Courteney is obviously supposed to be Cynthia. Blue eyes, blond hair—she even makes wind chimes out of glass left over from building the local cathedral while her lover's away at the Crusades."
"So? Cynthia does look pretty cute in a wimple. She's a natural to model a character after."
"Guess who the lover is."
Al considered. "You mean—nah, not Philip! The Comte de St. Junien is a great big guy, all brawn and bluster—" He broke off. "Oh. Wish fulfillment." Sam nodded. "You know what I wish? That just once I could Leap in after the guy has confessed his undying devotion. Why can't anybody say it? Three simple words, one syllable each. How tough can it be?"
Al walked along beside him, waxing philosophical. "It's not saying 'I love you' that's hard, it's meaning it. If I'd understood that years ago, I'd be saving myself three—no, four—sets of alimony checks."
After a moment's hesitation, Sam ventured, "Can
I ask you something about that?"
"Anything except the dollar amount. It's bad for my blood pressure to remember it more than once a month."
"Not about the alimony. About the wives. Why did you marry them all?" He cast a sidelong glance at his partner. "It's not as if you had to."
"Because I'm the last of the great romantics. Go ahead, laugh," he invited with a resigned wave of his cigar. "But it's true. I love weddings. The music, the flowers, the lacy gown, the champagne—"
"The wedding night?" Sam suggested, grinning.
"That, too." Dark eyes danced with mischief and memories.
"You love weddings, but you're not so hot on marriage, is that it?"
"Basically."
Sam thought about pointing out that he could indulge his penchant for nuptials any Saturday of the year by crashing the local churches. Then he thought better of it. Al, the last of the hopeful romantics, would believe every single time his next ex-wife walked down the aisle that this time the romance would last.
It seemed to Sam that a disproportionate number of Leaps—what he could remember of them, anyway—involved romance, the present one included. Why did people have so much trouble with love? Philip, for instance, could only approach Cynthia through a badly written substitute. Which reminded him of something.
"Al?"
"Yep?"
"The book really is awfu
l. How could anybody publish something that bad?"
Al shrugged. "I guess Cynthia's a much better editor than Philip is a writer. Hell, half the novels I read, I wonder why the publisher paid good money for 'em."
For a few steps they were quiet. After a few more steps, Sam developed a rueful expression. "What I said earlier . . . about home . . ."
Al made it easy on him. "Nobody could blame you for feeling that way, kid. Just don't go overboard the other way and get all guilty. It happened. It's over. Forget it. Want to try out your Cynthia-my-sweet number again? Oops, too late. There's Roger."
Sam spied Philip's rival propping up a tree with one massive shoulder. Setting his jaw, prepared to win Philip's lady fair, Sam started forward. Just then Cynthia emerged from the tent, and Roger straightened up as if he'd swallowed a sword. Sam slid into a shadow.
"Stunned," Cynthia announced. "I'm stunned." "Oh God." Roger panicked. "I knew it. It's bad-it's worse than bad. It's terrible. You hate it."
Cynthia eyed him judiciously. "Well, it is rough. It needs a lot of work. I'm not entirely happy with the opening of Chapter Three, and the motivation is weak when St. Junien tells the king to go take a hike."
"Al!" Sam hissed. "He showed her the book!"
"No foolin', Sherlock."
"But how did he get a copy?"
"How do I know? Shut up and listen."
"On the whole," Cynthia continued, "in my pro-
fessional opinion . . ." All at once she grinned up at him, then laughed. "Rog, it's potential dynamite!"
"You mean—" The mighty Lord Rannulf went wobbly at the knees. "You're k-kidding."
"I never kid about finding a good story," she responded severely. "I slogged the slush pile for two solid years before I found a single halfway readable manuscript. Do you know how much manure I still have to shovel to find one mangy old pony? This is a Thoroughbred in the making—and we've got a chance at the Triple Crown!"
"You—you'll publish my book?"
"After I edit the junk out of it, you'd better believe we'll publish it. But it needs another title. Knights of Honor won't sell five copies, even with the hottest cover we can get." She paused. "Remind me to find out if this Fabio guy is available to model for the Comte. He's hot and getting hotter. Anyway, we need a better title. Because if you're taking this relationship between the Comte and Lady Alix where I think you're taking it—"
