Timely Defense

by Nathalie Gray

  Oh what’s this strange feeling in my stomach? Like a worm twisting around? Is this it, guilt? Was he feeling guilty? Him, The Shark?! It’d sure be a first. His colleagues would want to take a picture of that. Keep it for later.

  Marion turned her face away and the grin died. With a sigh, he followed her gaze forward.

  So that’s Lord Asshole’s porcelain throne, A.J. thought when he spotted the massive fortress—Castle Rat Ass—perched precariously along a steep ravine. As much as he hated to admit it, the place was kind of intimidating. But he’d walk around with a mullet before he let it show.

  “No trumpets or anything?” he commented out loud.

  Hugo rolled his eyes. A.J. noticed the guy did so a lot and wondered if he kept it just for him or if Conan the Barbarian did it to everybody else.

  “Lord Matheus hardly thinks of us as worthy of trumpets, Sir Ayjay,” Marion replied, a sardonic smile playing at the corner of her oh-so-succulent mouth.

  He wanted to kiss that mouth right then and there. But Hugo did have the pointy sword on him and continually looked ready to use it at a second’s notice. Did he sleep with the thing?

  A.J. was so, so glad when they finally reached the stone bridge and were led under the…

  Upside down picket fence thing…?

  Oh yeah! A portcullis!

  His butt throbbed. He had to admit the “dress” was mighty comfortable though, compared to the wool suit he’d been forced to relinquish. It was nice not to have his package all squished up inside sports boxers. And those boots, so supple and light.

  A trio of young men grabbed the reins to each of their horses and waited while the guests dismounted. Try as he might, A.J. only managed not to get his foot stuck in the stirrup by pulling it out a tad too early and sliding off with much less grace than his companions. But he was getting better at this horse thing. At least, the beast had stopped trying to twist around and bite his knees.

  “Lord Matheus sends me to greet you,” said an older man with a snow-white mustache and beard. A skinny version of Santa Claus without the red outfit. Or a giant garden gnome without the hat.

  The trio followed their guide as they proceeded through the colossal fortress where silence reigned supreme. A.J. looked around at the tapestries hanging on the walls, most of them hunting scenes with unfailingly as the main character a stern-faced Asshole the First himself. No wonder Thomas hadn’t been able to resist commenting on the artwork. Even A.J. wanted to write a ballad about it. Something entitled “Ode to His Puckered Lordship”. A snort of laughter escaped him.

  “Is something the matter?” Marion asked under her breath.

  “I was admiring the artwork.”

  Even Hugo smiled.

  When they entered a massive dining hall where a long table had already been set and laden with food, A.J. tried his damnedest to subdue the appreciative whistle. Half the rainforest was there, stained a dark glossy russet with decorative stonework at every angle in the room. And throning high in the center of the far wall was the largest stained-glass window A.J. had ever seen outside a church. A minivan could’ve driven right through without touching the sides. Now that he studied the circular window, he noticed how it too bore the lord’s likeness as he stood over a sickly looking dragon that could’ve been a cross between a twisted gecko and a stumpy iguana. Its expression reflected more perplexity than fear or pain as the man’s sword pierced its belly. A.J. wondered if Thomas had seen that one.

  Complete with three-quarters of every fowl species known to man posed in an elaborate, pouffy assemblage, the table had more dead animals on it than a mural-sized nature morte painting. The only thing missing on the table was the pig with an apple in its mouth. Yuck. And he, the budding vegetarian.

  “Stingy but it’ll have to do I guess,” A.J. muttered through his teeth.

  A wide door opened across the hall and Sire Dickhead himself stepped through, wearing a dress as well—thank God for small favors—and flanked on either side by a pair of accountant-looking weasels, one of whom he recognized as the reader of the scroll. A.J. silently applauded the move. Make your entry after everybody else is there. Smart. Too bad I’ve seen it—and used it—plenty of times before.

  “Sir Ayjay, I have been looking forward to this meeting. I believe you have already met my scribe Otto,” he indicated the balding man to his left. “Please allow me to introduce Sargans’ family notary Sir Emery.”

  He heard Marion take a sharp breath and wondered what the family notary being there could mean other than some impending legal brawl. He loved brawls! And with recent events and insanity tickling the back of his head, he was looking for a good pissing contest to take his mind off more serious things…such as his growing crush on his hostess and his turning her offer down.

  Matheus must have caught the admiring look in A.J.’s face as he gazed at the giant stained-glass window.

  “Ah, I see you can recognize fine things,” he said with a sly look at Marion. “This particular work comes from Italy. Exquisite, is it not?”

  He’s not referring to Marion as a thing, is he? That couldn’t be left unpunished.

  “What’s that animal?” A.J. asked, crossing his arms and cocking his head theatrically. “The one that looks befuddled at the bit of metal pointing out of its belly? Is it a lizard?”

  “Perhaps there are no such feats of chivalry in your homeland, Sir Ayjay, but it is a dra-gon. A most fearsome creature only the strongest men can tame.” Another wily glance at Marion.

  A.J. swore his blood pressure went up a notch. Whoa, man, keep it business.

  But he vowed to take a few strips off the man just for being rude to the lovely lady.

  He bared his Shark smile. “Lord Matheus, I can’t say the pleasure of this meeting is mutual but I do look forward to a bit of verbal cut and thrust. I swear I’ll try to limit the damages as much as I can.”

  Matheus laughed heartily, shaking his head. “This bodes very well. I love a worthy opponent.” Turning to Marion, he bowed slightly. “Lady Marion, a vision as usual.” Hugo only received a curt nod.

  A.J. felt like poking Hugo in the chest but abstained from showing Marquis Hairy Sack any division in the ranks.

  With a quick curtsy, Marion replied, “Lord Matheus, we are honored by your invitation.”

  Like hell we are! A Machiavellian laugh almost made it past A.J. He caught himself in time and just smirked.

  “My thanks, good lady. Please,” Matheus went on, waving his hand at the small zoo on the table. “Let us sit and enjoy ourselves.”

  He sat at the end of the table, a weasel on either side. The medieval Stooges.

  Marion chose the chair next to Otto’s and Hugo sat on her right, which left A.J. to sit across her, beside What’s His Name Notary. But before he circled the table, he put his hand on Marion’s backrest as she looked about ready to sit.

  “Allow me,” he said, suave and just dripping with unctuous gallantry. “A man shouldn’t sit while a lady still stands. That’s how we do things at home.”

  She seemed surprised in a happy way as A.J. pushed her chair in then sat across from her.

  Matheus watched the exchange with a dark, envious look in his eyes, for which A.J. congratulated himself. There was nothing like pushing people’s buttons.

  A large poultry being occupied A.J.’s attention for a while as he tried to see what it’d been. Spicy smells emanated from all the exquisite food and saliva pooled under his tongue. The jerk knows how to set a table, that’s for sure. Although A.J. thought there were just too many carcasses lying around. Just one dead bird would have sufficed. Was that a swan? Jeez. What next, Bambi? Disgusting.

  “I was just telling Sir Emery how the lovely Lady Marion had finally found herself another husband. He was quite shocked, as I was.”

  A.J. kept his face a composed mask of “You’re a cockroach and I’m about to crush your exoskeleton insectoid ass with my designer shoe”. Or should I say period boot. Whatever.

&nbs
p; He hoped Marion wouldn’t let on and tell them all he’d turned her down, that she was “up for grabs”. He didn’t want to marry her—unless this was some residual denial—but would prefer to choke on the swan than let Lord Crotch Crickets think he’d won.

  He turned to gauge Marion’s reaction. None. Flatline. She only stared at Matheus as if she’d played this game before and wouldn’t be dragged down in the dirt again. Hugo looked as though he wouldn’t mind rolling in the dirt with the guy but A.J. guessed being captain of the guard didn’t allow for much airtime with Matheus. So the bearded giant only seethed in palpable rage.

  Sir Emery cocked his head like an owl would and set his piercing gaze on Marion. “Perhaps Lady Marion is unaware the family’s blessing must be obtained first before she is to make any such decision.”

  Ah, now we have a reaction.

  “As I have told Lord Matheus, a woman’s heart is not dictated by words inside a moldy book but by her own choices.”

  While Sir Emery only shrugged noncommittally, Matheus shook his head as though he were scolding a child. “I fear your work is cut out for you, Sir Ayjay. May I suggest a firm hand?”

  “The kind of firm hand you put to the lady’s cheek two days ago, you mean?” A.J. replied with much more force than he intended. Matheus’ expression reflected the slip. The smug look on his face just about killed A.J. But Sir Emery did look horrified at the implications and stared at their host.

  Keep it cool, A.J. chanted in his head. That’s exactly what the jerk wants, a reaction.

  A.J. forced a perfectly aligned, post-braces smile and narrowed his eyes. “Different country, different mores, Lord Matheus. Where I come from, men don’t treat women badly unless they want to spend a lot of time masturbating, if you know what I mean.”

  “I am afraid I do not.”

  “Give a few tugs…?”

  Matheus arched an eyebrow but shook his head.

  “Oh come on, you guys do it too around here. Polish the rocket. The five-knuckle shuffle.”

  A.J. swore he heard crickets in the background.

  “Spank the monkey, choke the bishop, play puppet master. No?” Giving up decorum, A.J. pumped the air in pretend masturbation.

  While Matheus roared in laughter, Marion flushed purple while the two weasels coughed politely behind their hands. Only Hugo managed to keep his cool and stare down at his trencher, his chin trembling with repressed laughter. A.J. could tell he’d defused the situation quite well.

  The Shark was back in control.

  “Sir Ayjay, Good Lord,” Marion snapped. The glare on her would’ve melted a chunk off Antarctica.

  He grinned wider, tried to send the message everything would be good if they played it cool. She must not take her own messages for she frowned at him before sitting up straighter in her chair.

  As long as she plays the game, he kept chanting to himself. He wouldn’t be able to digest the smug brute’s triumph…nor the thought of his hands on Marion, for that matter.

  After their host carved himself a chunk of whatever dead animal lay in front of him—goose, judging by the length of its neck—everyone else dug in the food. Servants must have been waiting for a cue he didn’t see for a pair of them passed around the table serving a deep red wine A.J. had no intention of drinking. It resembled blood too much. Didn’t they have any of the mead thing?

  The tense, stifled meal reminded him of his first real interview, back when he still fought for the good side and chose his clients according to the merit of their cause instead of their pocketbook. He’d dined with the stuffy, practically senile senior partner in the hopes of getting a job that would actually pay the bills. His mom’s illness had carved a substantial groove in his bank account. It was the excuse he’d given for himself to change tactics and go only for rich clients. Pay Mom’s doctor bills. Ha. Bullshit. He’d kept on doing it even after her death.

  Matheus indicated the meal was over when he wiped his knife on a serviette, sheathed it and crossed his fingers in a steeple. Ah, A.J. thought, the “let’s get down to business” pose. He sheathed his untouched knife as well—couldn’t believe he’d been convinced to wear it in the first place—and waited.

  “Tell me, Sir Ayjay, what title do you hold exactly?”

  “Valedictorian. Why?”

  The weasels seemed duly impressed. Matheus only arched an eyebrow. “I have never heard of such a title. What is the size and tenure of your holding?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not following your chain of thought.” Here, chew on that.

  “Your tenure, your assets. Are they sufficient?”

  “What are your parameters?” That always got people thinking hard and fast. It meant nothing. It seemed to work with Son of a Bitch Rat Ass. Poor, dumb bugger.

  Matheus huffed a quick breath. His cheeks darkened nicely when he leaned forward in his chair. “Have you fortune and title, sir?”

  A.J. snorted in disgust. “Oh. You want to know how many camels I own? Please, this is so pedestrian. But out of the goodness of my heart and to demonstrate my good manners, I’ll tell you.” Adopting an air of utter ennui, he went on. “Let’s see, because the dollar was up by a few bits, I’ve recently invested about a hundred grand in commodities, you know gold and the likes, but that was after I upped my take on bonds—they’re up to four point nine now, and my financial advisors have been harassing me nonstop—and since I’ve always believed in having a diversified portfolio, I bought an obscene amount of tech stocks and a couple more properties by the lake. If you factor in life insurance and the several carriages I own, I’d say I’m worth quite a lot of your—”

  “My thanks, Sir Ayjay,” Matheus cut in. It was A.J.’s turn to apparently ratchet up the other’s blood pressure. Revenge was indeed sweet.

  “You’re being defensive,” A.J. put in sweetly. He rested his elbow on the table and waved his hand around. “All this talk of assets is so linear. Don’t you think?”

  Matheus looked directly at Marion as though A.J. hadn’t spoken. “You seem to have found yourself a foreign lord as voluble as he is wealthy. I would offer my congratulations…but I am afraid I cannot.”

  “What do you mean?” Marion replied, half coming out of her chair.

  “Your dead husband’s holdings, including Sargans and its chattel, belong to me, and as such, I decide which ones stay and which ones can be sold or bequeathed or in this case, given away in marriage.”

  Before A.J. could take a breath for the extra acid remark—oh and there was one with Turdface’s name on it—Marion had stood to her full height, which might not have been much physically, but hot damn, she could’ve been a six-foot Valkyrie barreling down the hill with a sword above her head screaming, “MEN ARE PIIIIIGS!” Even A.J. was stunned into silent awe.

  “I am not chattel, Lord Matheus, but your cousin Johannes’ widow.”

  “Do not use such tone with me, woman!” Matheus snapped, threw a quick glance at the family notary before pinching the bridge of his nose. He forced a glacial smile on. “As much as I regret interfering in Sargans’ affairs, it is clear you cannot choose a proper husband for yourself. No disrespect meant, Sir Ayjay, but I cannot allow Lady Marion to marry outside the canton.”

  “How dare you decide for me,” Marion snapped, both fists on her hips, eyes committing every known felony in the book. “What sort of—”

  Matheus shot to his feet. The chair went clattering back several feet. “Enough!”

  Silence settled in the room.

  Breathe, A.J. chanted to himself. Breeeeathe. It was getting difficult when all he wanted was to choke the bastard.

  “I think, Lord Matheus,” said Sir Emery, “allowing Lady Marion to choose a husband who is both acceptable to her and her station does in no way interfere with Sargans’ affairs…”

  King Shit Chute narrowed his blue eyes at the old man. “Are you implying I would not know what is or not acceptable for Sargans? My own cousin’s home and widow, which the family has entrusted to
me?”

  “What do you propose?” Emery replied, looking slightly cowed.

  “I shall marry Lady Marion. Both Sargans and she already belong to me. I am a Sargans myself and so our children’s blood would be pure. Although I doubt our union would produce any since Johannes never seemed to be able to plow that field.”

  Fuck breathing.

  Both Hugo and A.J. jumped to their feet. While the bearded man glowed with rage and yelled things in their native tongue, A.J. used his courtroom voice to be heard. Moving by Marion’s side, he clasped her shoulder.

  “Perhaps the reason for the childless union is something completely out of anyone’s control and while we’re talking procreation and descendants, I don’t see any children running around here either. What, Matheus, couldn’t seem to ‘plow’ your own field so you have to steal another man’s? Need to sharpen that blade, do you? Getting dull with age and need to start beating women around to get it up again?”

  A look of fury deformed Matheus’ face. He leveled an accusing finger at A.J. “I shall not stand here—”

  “I’m not done yet, dipstick. Lady Marion has already made her decision and I won’t stand by while you straight-arm her to the altar. And you,” he went on, rounding on Emery. “Why don’t you grow a pair and put that asshole back in his place!”

  “Lady Marion,” Emery began tentatively, coming closer to her and taking her hand. “Johannes was a dear young man and I would hate to know he looks down on me with less than kindness. Do you really want to marry this foreigner over Lord Matheus?”

  It occurred to A.J. only then this whole thing was getting very real, very fast. She’d have to give an answer right then and there. For a few seconds, she looked up into his eyes and stared. Time must have stopped. The urge to check his watch and make sure was strong.

  He couldn’t let her go to such a piece of medieval shit. He just couldn’t. The mere thought of his hands on her probably unwilling body just about killed him. A migraine of cosmic proportions chose that very moment to grab his brain and give a few squeezes. Christ.