The Very Thought of You

by Lynn Kurland

  Lydia the Chihuahua threw up her hands, gave a little yelp when she saw Margaret, then turned and scurried off to the kitchens, howling her orders as she went.

  "My wife," Odo announced. "She feels we are not prepared for His Royal Self. I, on the other hand, am determined to drink all my best wine before it is no more." He smiled pleasantly. "Perhaps you two will join me?"

  Margaret shook her head. "I've no need of cloudy thinking on the morrow. 'Tis a most important day—"

  "—to watch me best Ralf," Alex finished for her. "Isn't that what you were going to say?"

  Margaret glared at him. Alex tapped the hilt of his sword—her father's sword—meaningfully. After all, she had put her hands there and promised to behave.

  "Damn you," she muttered.

  Odo laughed heartily. "By the saints, I wish William were alive to see this. Margaret, I believe you've met your match in this lad."

  "We'll see," she said with a scowl.

  "Right," Alex agreed. "We'll see you sitting in the stands in a dress, watching me unhorse Ralf."

  Odo only laughed again. Margaret rose and inclined her head to him. ''If my lord will excuse me, I should see to the stowing of our gear and the settling of my household."

  Odo stopped laughing abruptly. "Did you bring that bard of yours?''

  She smiled sweetly. "Oh, aye. And I'm sure he has much to say about the journey here."

  "The saints preserve me," Odo said with a shiver. "Just keep him away from the hangings. Lydia will have me strung up if he ruins her needlework!"

  Margaret threw Alex a last dark look, then left the great hall. Alex smiled at his host.

  "She's an amazing woman."

  "That she is, lad. It looks as if you may just have tamed her."

  Alex almost choked on his wine. "Well, that remains to be seen."

  "A pity you'll never have her. Richard won't settle her with a mere knight."

  Alex sighed as his conscience stuck him sharply in his rapidly recovering buns. "It's worse than that."

  "Worse?"

  "I'm not even a knight."

  "But your sword and mail... surely you won them honorably."

  Alex smiled grimly. "I borrowed them from Margaret's father and brother."

  Odo looked him over carefully. Alex wished his dad could have come along for the ride. He would have gotten along very well with Odo and Sir George and their assessing glances.

  "You use your fists well enough. Are you telling me you cannot wield a sword?"

  ''Oh, I can wield one well enough. I learned how at the hands of a ruthless Scottish laird. And I fought my share of battles for him."

  "Ah," Odo said, "a mercenary, then."

  "Yes." There was some truth in that, at least. All those years of piracy had to count for something.

  "Could you take Ralf?"

  "I'm hoping so." Alex took a deep breath. "If you wouldn't mind if I entered your joust."

  Odo shook his head with a smile. "Not at all, lad. I've never been picky about who comes to play. The Lion-heart's crusade robbed us of many young men, so it isn't as if there are all that many left for sport. If you can wield a lance, you're more than welcome to enter."

  "You don't think the king will mind?"

  Odo shrugged. "I daresay you would find him overlooking much if you were to divide your spoils liberally with his purse."

  "Enough that he'll overlook my lack of spurs in regards to Margaret?"

  "That I could not guarantee."

  "Then how is he on bribery?"

  Odo held up his hands with a laugh. "I'm not the one to ask. I don't want him thinking I have anything left to put in his coffers. He had no trouble selling titles before he left for the Holy Land. 'Twas rumored he would have sold London itself if he had found a buyer. You might find him feeling the same now."

  "Then I'll just have to beat everyone."

  "He won't sell Falconberg cheaply. 'Tis good land."

  "I know," Alex said. "All the more reason not to let Ralf anywhere near it."

  Odo smiled. "You sound like you wish it was yours."

  "I do, but only if Margaret came as the prize."

  Odo leaned forward and refilled Alex's cup. "You're passionate, I'll give you that. I don't know that it'll be enough, though."

  "It will have to be."

  Odo raised his own goblet. "Then here's to good fortune for you, Alexander. I daresay you'll need it."

  And that was the unsettling start to the rest of a miserable day. The most of Margaret Alex saw was at dinner, and Ralf was behaving so badly he spent more time holding her down than talking to her.

  His final view of her was a glimpse as she made her way to the women's solar. She looked like she was headed for the gallows, and he had to sympathize with her. Judging by what he'd seen of Odo's household ladies, it wouldn't be a pleasant night.

  His bed consisted of a spot on a floor that would have

  been condemned by any rational health department. Maybe he was fortunate he'd never spent the night at Tickhill during the normal course of life when things were less tidy than they were presently. He prayed he wouldn't die from the filth before he could do Ralf in on the field.

  The king was set to arrive the next day, then the tournament would begin the following. Alex closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. He needed sleep. His entire future depended on the outcome of that tournament—his future and Margaret's.

  He wouldn't fail.

  He couldn't.

  Nineteen

  Margaret made her way down the stairs, cursing her skirts as they threatened to wind about her legs and send her tumbling down to the great hall. What fool had decided men could wear hose while women were consigned to skirts? It had to have been a man. No woman would have decreed such a ridiculous thing.

  She'd prepared as best she could the evening before. It hadn't been hard to accomplish given the distraction the king had been to the household. He and his lady mother and their entourage had arrived late in the afternoon, sending the household into complete confusion. During the substantial diversion provided by the ceremonial welcoming of the king, Margaret had found it a fairly easy thing to sneak her gear out to the stables and bury it under a pile of hay in Beast's stall. She hadn't dared put it in with her own mount. Alex might have looked, and that she couldn't have had. No matter what sort of promise he'd extracted from her—which had been under duress, after all—she fully intended to see Ralf bested by her own lance.

  There were few souls remaining at the table. Obviously the king and Lord Odo had already repaired to the lists, accompanied by the scores of Richard's devoted nobles who had arrived to celebrate the king's liberation. Margaret sat down at the board, amazed not only by the quantity of food still left upon it, but also by the quantity of disarray left behind. She couldn't help but be grateful the king would likely never think Falconberg worth visiting. Saints, but it would take her a solid fortnight to return order to her household after but one of his meals!

  But the clutter was not hers to worry about, so she concentrated on providing herself with sustenance. There was ample left behind, and she broke her fast heartily. She wouldn't find herself weak when the moment of truth came.

  She was just leaving the hall when she caught sight of Baldric leaning indifferently against one' of Lady Lydia's tapestries. She approached him straightway.

  "Good morrow to you, gentle sir," she said, standing in front of him and crossing her arms over her chest. "I would think you would be in the lists, gathering stories for your verses."

  His arms were behind him. Margaret had no doubts he was thoroughly fingering Lady Lydia's needlework.

  "Um," Baldric said, looking anywhere but at her, " 'tis a bit chilly out yet for these old bones."

  Old bones indeed, she thought with a snort. What he was doing was deciding if the tapestries were worth his time. She recognized the look.

  "I feel certain it has wanned up considerably by now," Margaret said, taking him by the arm
and tugging. "There will be brash deeds wrought today, Baldric. You wouldn't want to miss out on the start of them."

  "But—"

  This was something else she'd prepared for. "I've something you can use to warm your hands." She looked about her. There was no one of importance to see what she'd filched from Lydia's solar. "Look," she said, drawing forth a piece of linen with a half-finished stitchery upon it. She held it up so he couldn't help but see how intricate the work was. Never mind that it had been tossed aside carelessly as something not fit for the hall. Baldric would no doubt find it as valuable as a chest of gold.

  His eyes focused immediately upon it and his fingers twitched as he reached out to grasp it.

  Margaret held it away. "I would exact a promise first."

  He regarded her narrowly. "Aye?"

  "You must sit at the back of the stands and see that my headcovering stays atop a pole I will place there."

  "And where will you be?" he demanded.

  "Where do you think?" she asked, exasperated. "Must you know the details?"

  Baldric eyed the cloth longingly. "Perhaps not."

  "'Tis enough that you watch the pole and see it stays upright." She held the cloth closer. "Agreed?"

  He could not have looked more intensely covetous. "Agreed," he said with a nod, then stretched out his greedy hands. "Ooh," he said, running his fingers over the stitchery. "Very nice."

  "The pole," she reminded him. "The wimple and other foolish head coverings."

  "Oh, aye," he said, but his mind was no longer on her.

  Margaret towed him out to the lists and saw him settled in the stands. She placed him in the back where he was sure to be behind the majority of the company.

  She looked for Alex. He was deep in discussion with Lord Odo, no doubt working out his strategy for entering himself in the lists. Margaret stood out in the open and waited until he had seen her. He did, eventually, and she could see by his stance that he relaxed when he noted that she was dressed in womanly garb. He waved.

  "Men are fools," she said as she smiled brightly and waved back.

  He turned back to Lord Odo, and Margaret bolted from the stands. Already she could hear women begin to come from the hall. She rounded the corner of the hall and almost plowed into none other but the Dowager Queen Eleanor.

  "Eek!" screeched Lady Lydia. " 'Tis that creature, come to ruin my morning already!"

  Margaret threw herself to her knees before the queen. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace."

  Thin, though surprisingly strong fingers grasped her by the chin and forced her face up. She looked at Eleanor and prayed she wouldn't be tossed in the dungeon for her mistake. The saints only knew that would throw a kink in her day.

  "Your name, child," the queen demanded.

  "Margaret of Falconberg," Margaret managed.

  "Your Grace," Lydia yipped, "be not troubled. She is nothing—"

  Eleanor held up her hand. Margaret caught an eyeful of the look of pure loathing Lydia sent her and gulped. She met Eleanor's eyes. The queen merely studied her in silence for a moment or two during which time Margaret died several deaths of unease. Please don't stop me, she pleaded silently. She had to be in the lists that day.

  "A very beautiful girl," Eleanor announced suddenly.

  And with that, she released Margaret's chin, stepped around her, and continued on her way. Margaret bowed her head and fought the urge not to break down and sob in relief. So strong was the impulse that she hardly noted the unpleasant things Lydia's ladies said about her in the queen's wake.

  Once she'd regained her breath, she jumped to her feet and ran for the stables. There were no souls left save one lone stableboy who stood near the doors, obviously keeping watch. Margaret tossed him a coin.

  "Alert me if anyone comes," she commanded.

  "But, m'lady—" the lad protested.

  She sighed and handed him another coin. "And remain silent, do you understand? I've begged for enough trouble as it is."

  The lad shrugged and clutched the coins in his fist. Margaret ran for Beast's stall and hurriedly stripped out of her dress and donned her mail. It would have been easier with a squire, but she'd done it so long without one that she managed it in little time. She retrieved her shield, a pair of lances and her pole, then left the stall. Her head coverings she held tucked against her side. She saddled her own mount, then led him from the stables.

  The stableboy's eyes bulged when he saw her, but she held a finger to her lips.

  "Remember," she said. "You don't want to become acquainted with my sword, do you?"

  He shook his head vigorously. Margaret suppressed her smile and continued on her way to the lists.

  Frances and Amery had joined Baldric in the stands. Margaret handed the bard her pole and her headpieces.

  "But, my lady!" Frances said, aghast.

  "Sshh," Margaret hissed. "You'll ruin the ruse. Tend to Amery and help Baldric keep the pole upright. 'Tis most important."

  "As you will," Frances said doubtfully.

  Margaret retrieved her mount and her gear and made her way to the far end of the field, keeping her hood close around her face. No sense in being recognized right off.

  She folded her arms over her chest and resigned herself to waiting. The moment to challenge Ralf would come soon enough, and then she would be done with him once and for all.

  And then, of course, she would have to deal with Alex's inevitable fury, but that would come later. She could ill afford to think of it now. It would only distract her from her purpose.

  Alex rested his forehead against Beast's neck and sucked in great gulps of air. Oh, man, somebody should have warned him what he was getting in to. A month of training was not enough to prepare a guy for a full morning in the lists.

  "My lord," Joel said, tugging frantically on his sleeve. "You've yet another challenger."

  ''Another one?'' Alex wheezed. ' 'Where are these guys coming from?"

  "From the land round about, I think," Joel answered, still tugging. "My lord, he calls for you now."

  "It's a brutal time we live in, Joel," Alex said, wiping his face with his surcoat. "Just brutal."

  "As you say, my lord," Joel said, holding the stirrup. "You'll ride now?"

  "Do I have a choice?" He mounted, then stared at his opponent. Well, the guy was small and looked nervous. Maybe this was his first day jousting. Considering it was also Alex's first day, he could well understand the boy's apprehension.

  Then again, he was sitting on a hefty stack of ransom IOUs, and the kid knew it.

  "Okay, let's get this over with," he said, urging Beast forward.

  It took one pass. He caught the boy full in the chest and sent him flying back off his horse. He didn't get up. Alex wheeled around and rode back down the opposite side of the jousting rail.

  "Are you breathing?" he called down.

  The boy waved a gloved hand weakly in answer, and Alex sighed in relief. Victory was one thing; mortal injury was another.

  Unless it came to Brackwald. He, of course, was still sitting on the sidelines, waiting it seemed for Alex to decimate the rest of the field. Alex had sat out a few rounds, but it hadn't taken long for the rest of the entrants to decide he was the man to beat. The first time his name had been called without a "Sir" attached, he'd watched the king sit up as if to protest. Alex had kept his fingers crossed and ridden anyway, before His Majesty could give it too much more thought. He'd had his first winnings deposited immediately with the king's treasurer. As Lord Odo had predicted, it had appeased the royal sensibilities.

  Out of the corner of his eye Alex saw Ralf come onto the field.

  "I challenge him," Alex called, then frowned. He was just sure he'd heard an echo.

  He looked down the field to see another knight sitting there astride his horse, his lance in his hand. Alex whipped his head around to the stands. He could see Baldric on his feet, no doubt making copious mental notes of the scene for future reference. The top of Margaret's hat was
barely visible, but still there. All right, who was this jerk and why did he pick now to mess things up?

  "Alexander of Seattle was the first to make the challenge," a man declared from the king's pavilion. Alex wasn't sure what to call the guy. Color commentator just didn't seem to fit. He smiled in spite of himself, imagining how a twentieth-century sportscaster would have been detailing the day's events.

  "Let's have a little background on the unpopular Lord of Brackwald," Alex said to himself. "Abusive, devious, and pungent. I don't think he stands a chance in hell of coming away with the prize, do you, Bob?"

  "Nay, 'twas I who called first!" the other knight said frantically. " 'Twas I!"

  "Give it a rest, kid," Alex said, taking his place at one end of the jousting rail. "Let's go, Brackwald. This is what you wanted!"

  Ralf wasted no time. Alex found his wooden shield soon skewered with a very long, very sharp lance.

  "Hey, these are supposed to be blunted!" Alex yelled at him as they passed each other on their way back to their squires.

  Ralf only bared his teeth.

  "Well, hell," Alex said, taking another lance from Joel and pulling Beast up at the end of the rail. "Looks like the man means business."

  Ralf's next thrust went completely through Alex's shield. He found himself staring at a very sharp point only inches from his face. Alex wrenched the lance from the wood only to have the shield crack all the way down the middle.

  Alex rode back to Joel, then held up the shield so the herald could see.

  Richard held up his hand. "Another shield for the man."

  Great. What Alex would rather have heard was that Ralf was going to be fined for using the wrong kind of lance.

  Well, it looked like it was all up to him. No help from the royal corner.

  "You're going to be coughing up some serious concessions for this one, Richard, my friend," Alex muttered under his breath as Joel struggled to lift up another shield to him.

  Alex's last pass was successful. He knew he'd struck Ralf dead on the chest and heard the man's curses as he went flying off the back of his horse. It was only then that Alex realized how close the tip of Ralf's lance had come to impaling his wrist through the shield. He worked the lance free, rode back to the king's pavilion, and threw it at the herald. Then he turned back to see what was left of Margaret's enemy. No, his own enemy, the man who stood in the way of him getting what he wanted.