watched Jake for as long as she could. He stood
taller than the groups of peasants as he made his way to the front
gates and out. She watched until she couldn't see him anymore.
He did, she noted with something akin to satisfaction, turn himself
about several times to look back at her.
When she could no longer see him, she turned but found her way
blocked by Sir Walter and his men. She knew the steward didn't care for
her roamings along the walls, and she was quite certain she could have
told him to take himself and his men to the devil quite happily, but it
had been a most tiresome morning already, and that, added to the
intrigues and difficulties from the day before, and the trials leading
up to that, had left her with great pains in her head.
She ignored the pain in her heart.
"I will take my ease in my chamber," she said regally.
"As you will, my lady," Sir Walter said, with a little bow.
She walked sedately inside the hall, giving one after the other of
her younger brothers a shove when they tried to waylay her, and
continued on to her chamber.
Then she bolted for the roof.
By the time she reached the west wall, Jake was leaving the village.
She watched him until he was nothing but a speck in the distance. And
then came the point when she wasn't sure if she was actually watching
him or seeing motes in the morning air.
Well, that was that. She was better off. He was beautiful, but
lacking in wit. Her father never would have approved. Far better that
she watch him leave before her heart was involved.
All the same, perhaps she would do well in a few hours to have
herself a ride outside the gates. It wouldn't do to let a guest find
himself assaulted by ruffians. And, as her father would be the first to
say, lawlessness in the north was on the increase.
Aye, she would make certain Jackson Alexander Kilchurn IV hadn't
been waylaid again.
----
Chapter 8
Jake walked along a dusty track, contemplating
the twists and turns of Fate. He also contemplated the twists and turns
of his pointy-toed shoes, but that was but a distraction from the
irritation of tights that chafed. He decided, at one point, that Fate
had a very vile sense of humor. As did Gideon de Piaget, whom Jake
would repay for his current straits as soon as he possibly could.
That was assuming he could find Gideon to repay him. Jake scratched
his head, but that didn't provide him with any decent answers—and
answers were certainly what he needed at present.
He stuck his hands in his pockets only to realize he didn't have
pockets, damn it, he had tights. He scowled. If he managed to get home,
he would definitely have to find something else to wear right away or
no one would ever take him seriously again. Not that anyone would, if
they ever caught wind of where he'd just recently been.
Not that anyone would have believed him anyway. He wasn't sure he
really believed it himself, except that the facts were almost beyond
dispute.
There was the business in the great hall the night before, with
everyone in their medieval costumes. Weird, but that could have been
just a fluke. But waking in a dungeon? Twenty-first century Englishmen
didn't put other men in holes under kitchens and leave them there for
indeterminate lengths of time.
The language was another problem. He hadn't had all that much chance
to familiarize himself with it the night before; the men sitting
outside his cell had been remarkably uncommunicative. Still, what he
had heard from them, and what he'd heard from Amanda had brought him to
the unmistakable conclusion that she and her family spoke French. But
it wasn't modern-day French.
Then there was the English he'd heard spoken amongst the guards and
in the village to consider. He'd lived in England for more than half
his life and he'd grown quite accustomed to, if not proficient at, a
variety of accents. What he'd been listening to for the past
twenty-four hours belonged in some Anglo-Saxon tutorial at Cambridge,
not in the environs of
taller than the groups of peasants as he made his way to the front
gates and out. She watched until she couldn't see him anymore.
He did, she noted with something akin to satisfaction, turn himself
about several times to look back at her.
When she could no longer see him, she turned but found her way
blocked by Sir Walter and his men. She knew the steward didn't care for
her roamings along the walls, and she was quite certain she could have
told him to take himself and his men to the devil quite happily, but it
had been a most tiresome morning already, and that, added to the
intrigues and difficulties from the day before, and the trials leading
up to that, had left her with great pains in her head.
She ignored the pain in her heart.
"I will take my ease in my chamber," she said regally.
"As you will, my lady," Sir Walter said, with a little bow.
She walked sedately inside the hall, giving one after the other of
her younger brothers a shove when they tried to waylay her, and
continued on to her chamber.
Then she bolted for the roof.
By the time she reached the west wall, Jake was leaving the village.
She watched him until he was nothing but a speck in the distance. And
then came the point when she wasn't sure if she was actually watching
him or seeing motes in the morning air.
Well, that was that. She was better off. He was beautiful, but
lacking in wit. Her father never would have approved. Far better that
she watch him leave before her heart was involved.
All the same, perhaps she would do well in a few hours to have
herself a ride outside the gates. It wouldn't do to let a guest find
himself assaulted by ruffians. And, as her father would be the first to
say, lawlessness in the north was on the increase.
Aye, she would make certain Jackson Alexander Kilchurn IV hadn't
been waylaid again.
----
Chapter 8
Jake walked along a dusty track, contemplating
the twists and turns of Fate. He also contemplated the twists and turns
of his pointy-toed shoes, but that was but a distraction from the
irritation of tights that chafed. He decided, at one point, that Fate
had a very vile sense of humor. As did Gideon de Piaget, whom Jake
would repay for his current straits as soon as he possibly could.
That was assuming he could find Gideon to repay him. Jake scratched
his head, but that didn't provide him with any decent answers—and
answers were certainly what he needed at present.
He stuck his hands in his pockets only to realize he didn't have
pockets, damn it, he had tights. He scowled. If he managed to get home,
he would definitely have to find something else to wear right away or
no one would ever take him seriously again. Not that anyone would, if
they ever caught wind of where he'd just recently been.
Not that anyone would have believed him anyway. He wasn't sure he
really believed it himself, except that the facts were almost beyond
dispute.
There was the business in the great hall the night before, with
everyone in their medieval costumes. Weird, but that could have been
just a fluke. But waking in a dungeon? Twenty-first century Englishmen
didn't put other men in holes under kitchens and leave them there for
indeterminate lengths of time.
The language was another problem. He hadn't had all that much chance
to familiarize himself with it the night before; the men sitting
outside his cell had been remarkably uncommunicative. Still, what he
had heard from them, and what he'd heard from Amanda had brought him to
the unmistakable conclusion that she and her family spoke French. But
it wasn't modern-day French.
Then there was the English he'd heard spoken amongst the guards and
in the village to consider. He'd lived in England for more than half
his life and he'd grown quite accustomed to, if not proficient at, a
variety of accents. What he'd been listening to for the past
twenty-four hours belonged in some Anglo-Saxon tutorial at Cambridge,
not in the environs of
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