Robert was temporarily stunned from being swung against the counter, whispered to, and from seeing . . . her. "Hortense, what in heaven's name are you doing here?" Why aren't you at the convent? He wanted to say.
"Oh, Robby, Robby - it is Robby, isn't it? - that convent was such a dreadful place, I couldn't stay there! Not enough cake. And you know I love cake!"
Robert couldn't help glancing at the wide waist of her pink dress. "I remember."
"Tell me, Robby, what are you doing here? I know you didn't come for the drinks. They're not worth the money." Hortense glanced around, hoping Milah hadn't heard.

Robert cleared his throat. The past had slammed him full in the face, and he had to confront it somehow. "Listen, Hortense, things have changed. We have changed."
He didn't need to say more, they both understood. It had been ten years ago: Robert was given his first job, by a wealthy gentleman who wanted a portrait of his plump, jumpy, sixteen-year-old daughter. "Make her look like a woman," The father instructed. "Maybe seeing what she could be like will convince her to become that person."
So Robert did. As much as he struggled with landscapes, portraits were his forte; and he had made Hortense Snodgrass into a figure a queen would envy. Perhaps because that was how he saw her at the time, overtaken by an enormous boyhood crush . . .

"Oh, Robby, Robby!" Her voice brought him back to the present. Yes, everything had changed. And that crush was left behind . . . FAR behind. "Robby, I LOVE change! It's so exciting and wonderful. Now I'm a woman, and you're a wonderful painter-man . . . Ooo! Isn't it romantic! We can have such fun! Now, what did you want?"
Robert wanted to crawl beneath the floor and hide. But the floor remained strong. "Nothing, Hortense. I'm only looking for a model."
"A MODEL?"

Robert grimaced. But before Hortense could suggest anything, he was distracted by a shriek from outside. "Excuse me, I'll see what's going on . . ."

He slipped away from the bar and outside, glad for an excuse to get away. Oh, but things had changed!

Donnchad stooped under an oak roof beam, then stood to tower above the woman's table. He smiled as he bent to take her offered hand and put it to his lips, allowing it to linger there. "Donnchad, I be named." He sat beside her and looked into her green eyes. "And you?"

My friends call me Gigi."

"May I?"

"May thou what?" She gave him an impish grin.

"Call ye Gigi."

"Only while you're friendly."

"Fine, then, 'tis forever. I've been eyeing ye. Difficult nay ta."

"And I've been eyeing ye eyeing me." She turned a long curly red tress around her finger, watching it as she did. "Ye seemed so swǣr, so dour in thine corner, but from the way ye looked at me, I thought ye to come nigh much sooner."

"I hae much on my mind. Many images that distract... So many." He closed his eyes tight, then shook his head. "But, ye? What is such a bonny lassie as ye doing in a place such as this?"

"I await a lady known as Donna. Tall with long, wavy red hair. She is to be in a dark tunic. Perchance ye have seen her."

"Nay, not the two evenings I be here." He ran his eyes slowly over her. "You be the only tall red lassie ta bless my eyes, and what a fair bonny one ye be."

Gigi looked at him and smiled as she shifted in her seat. "Ye be alone here in London?"

"My page, Samir awaits outside. Strange book he follows. Dun allow him near strang drink. Huge fealty since I saved his life. Says he must always follow me to ward my safety now that I carry his soul."

"How did ye save his life?"

"After the battle we set the harem free. Saladin was so angered he gathered his eunuch guards for beheading. I was able to save only Samir."

"Battle? Harem? Saladin? Eunuch?"

"In Jaffa, the days following our siege of Arsuf."

"Thou speakest of many strange places, strange people, strange words." She looked at him with wonder in her eyes and a growing warmth in her loins. "And where are these?"

"In the Holy Lands. I have been with your King Richard fighting the Saracens. Here now to raise more men for the battles. Sailed into the Thames three weeks ago and have been in Court trying to find interest. Strange place, that. Puffed buffoons. Talk big, act small." He shook his head and his long orange-red hair swept across his shoulders with each turn.

She shivered as she watched. "Have ye had success?" She looked at his shoulders again. "With your fine looks and bold presence, I could not see otherwise."

"I hae gathered a following for the cause. Others are adding more." He looked down at his finger doing circles on the rim of his tankard. "I had word two days past that my father needs me ta home."

"Home?" She tilted her head and licked her lips. "And where is that?"

"In Scotland. I now await the man who will take me north. We are to meet here. Might be ye hae seen him. Tall, braw mien. Lang curly red hair." He picked up one of her tresses and turned it around his finger as he had seen her do.

She tensed, then leaned to whisper, "Out beyond the shutters." They both looked up. A scream pierced the clamour of the room.

"A drink..." Iereth glanced at his merchandise aside the building. He almost wanted to cry, seeing that no one had even bothered to try stealing them. A drink sounded really good.

Turning to look at the man, Iereth asked, "I'll join you then."

Richard nodded and entered the pub, taking great care to walk around the plump woman.

Scooping up his belongings, Iereth followed Richard into the tavern and carefully set them aside a table. As a wench came by with two foam brimmed mugs, Richard eyed the pile of bags and asked, "Why do you have those?"

"Oh I'm an apothecary... or trying to be at least," he morosely said before smiling and saying, "I've got enough medicine here to treat a small army of anything under the sun! The name's Reth."

"Richard," the man replied, reaching out to take his mug.

Iereth's nose crinkled and he hastily grabbed his own drink. Lifting it to his face, he hid a scowl within the foam. It was rare to find someone who didn't smell, but Richard reeked of horses. Desperately inhaling the scent of alcohol, he lowered the mug and asked, "You're a stablehand, aren't you?"

Richard frowned, and Iereth wondered if he guessed wrong. The man had to deal with horses, but maybe he had a higher profession. A horse trader or tanner maybe? And, he gulped, what if Richard was a knight off duty?!

He opened his mouth to apologize but a shrill scream erupted, setting the room in silence. Hand moving to the pommel of his sword, he whispered, "You heard that, right?"

Richard frowned as he sniffed himself, trying to be discreet about it. Was the smell truly that bad? He felt sorry for his impromptu companion. Reth was an apothecary--a man of letters and education. Richard could no longer smell the horses, but to a man like Reth, the stench would be obvious.

Sighing, Richard reached for his mug. The wench who had delivered their drinks had not been Milah. Richard had yet to see her.

A scream broke the night and silence consumed the pub. Richard dumped half his ale in his lap.

"You heard that, right?" Reth asked, his hand lowering toward the blade at his hip. Yes, Richard heard it. He retrieved the dagger from his boot as both men jumped to their feet. The drunken ruffians were unperturbed, but Reth and Richard were not the only ones to react to the sudden shriek. The pink creature was looking around, and a man middling height with paint splotches on his hands had exited the pub before Reth and Richard.

On the street, Richard looked to Reth. Richard was pleased to see that his companion might have a chivalrous streak as wide as his own. "Which way?!"

Reth glanced at both ends of the street, paling. "My sense of direction isn't--."

"Which way, man?!"

Giselle sighed happily. She had averted a nasty situation, obtained a fairly substantial purse, and fed a hungry waif in the process. The girl was happily ensconced at a slightly less turbulent establishment, eating her way through a meal and with a purchased bed waiting for her to sleep in. Giselle had told the girl where she lived, and urged her to seek her out. She could only hope that girl would take her up on her offer. Most of the street urchins were too wary of adults.

A scream shattered her thoughts.

Eyes wide, she watched as first one, then another burst from the pub she had passed earlier, looking for the source of the sound. Breath caught in her throat, she pointed toward the alley.

Well! Of all the nerve! Hortence had barely said ten words to Robert when some strange woman screamed outside and drew him away. "But Robby, this is London! In 1190 or so! Women scream all the time here!" If he was going to run and help every woman who screamed, Hortence would never get a date. Worse yet, all the other men in the vicinity—well, the good-looking ones, anyway—all ran out to help the screaming woman too. Grrrrrrr.

"Maybe I should scream!" Horty threw her new translation guide on the floor in a huff and stamped her feet. They didn't even get her awesome joke. See, it's 1190 or so. Everyone in London speaks old English! With a lot of thees and thous and verilies and forsooths. But Horty speaks modern English even though it won't be invented for another 460 years yet. So she needs a translation book, see? Bwahahaha!

Well, she thought it was funny. D'oh! Oh, the word d'oh wouldn't be invented for another 790...oh, never mind.

Hortence kicked the translation book across the floor and put her hands on her hips. Yes, those were hips. What should I do?

"I should just check into a five-star inn somewhere, one with good room service. And a lot of cake." She could really use some cake right now. Maybe chocolate. Or some New England cheesecake! 'Cause see, New York hadn't been invented yet. Oh, never mind.

Curiosity got the better of her, though. She decided to follow the commotion, and ran out of the pub in a huff—come to think of it, she did everything in a huff—following all the stupid, boring men who thought some screaming trull was more important than she.

Ooooh, good decision. Once outside, it cheered her a little to see a great big fat Swedish guy in a rusty turban who was even more corpulent than she!

See, the joke is that he's not really Swedish, he's an Arab...oh, never mind. If she has to explain every joke, then it's just not funny anymore.

"Robby! Wait for me!" ＊huff huff＊ "Or maybe you, good-looking apothecary dude!" ＊huff huff some more＊ "Or even the smelly manger guy!"

The good-looking boyish chap desperate for nepenthe would probably want to help that darn screaming wench too, but Horty couldn't mention him because he hadn't posted yet. But curse them all for ignoring her in favor of that pretty girl with the clear-blue eyes! What did she have that Horty didn't?! Except for some height and maybe a better figure and gorgeous blonde hair and a better name and a fancy title and...oh, never mind.

Drogo followed the others out the door, slipping past them. Though well-meaning, they were confused by drink and the darkness of the night. He found her in the alley, the man's hand stifling her screams.

"Release her," Drogo demanded with a growl.

"This is no concern of yours," the black heart hissed, squinting through his drunken fury. It was impossible to tell if he or the lovely hell-cat he man-handled was more enraged.

"I make it mine," Drogo challenged, stepping forward.

Hurling the lady behind him, she slammed into the wall. Stunned, she fell into the trash of the cluttered alley. He drew his sword, eager for blood.

Drogo was ready.

Oh, Death, come take me.

Truly, he hungered for the end but not without a fight. As the scoundrel lunged, Drogo stepped back and pulled a stack of rotting crates down between them. The villain stumbled and, though the tip of his sword missed its mark, the thirsty edge bit Drogo's ribs.

For the moment, the pain added to his contempt. With a fist, he hammered the drunk down into the filthy ground. The hateful blade skittered through the muck.

The fiend lifted himself slightly but collapsed into unconsciousness.

The lady had recovered her feet. Her glaring eyes dripped with anger, and she quivered visibly. There was no gratitude to be seen, but Drogo expected none, especially from such a beautiful noblewoman.

It was enough that she was safe.

With a slight and painful bow, he turned before she could speak. Limping away, he clutched the wound in his side.

This is too much like before... Drogo followed the others out the door, slipping past them. Though well-meaning, they were confused by drink and the darkness of the night. He found her in the alley, the man's hand stifling her screams.

Rachel was trembling and felt ill. Where the man had held his hand tasted bad, a mixture of alcohol, dirt, and who-knew-what-else. Her hand fell to her sword, concealed in her skirts--not much good that had done her, she thought bitterly. When she glanced at her rescuer, her anger at her situation fading, she saw him clutching his side. Blood was seeping through his hand.
Rachel inhaled sharply, the breath catching in her throat. She hadn't seen him get hurt. The ill feeling in the pit of her stomach threatened to make her lose what little she'd had in the pub, but she forced herself to concentrate. He was bleeding because of her foolishness. Never let a debt go unpaid. Ewan had drilled that in her head at a young age. There was always the chance the person she owed the debt to would come back at an awkward time. Sighing, she said, "Wait."
The man didn't stop. Rachel forced her feet to move and grabbed his arm. She felt him wince. "I owe you," she said.

"You owe me nothing."

Rachel shook her head stubbornly. "I'd be dead without you," she insisted. "At least let me pay you for medical attention." Before he could refuse--Rachel was too stubborn to let him do that--she pulled him out of the alley and into the street. She saw a confusion of people, including an extraordinarily large woman calling to multiple men in the crowd. Rachel dragged the man through the crowd, ignoring their confused looks. Milah looked up when Rachel came through the door. "It was you, then?" she said.

"I need an apothecary," Rachel said.

Milah nodded. "Give me a moment." Milah went to the door of the pub and bellowed, "RETH! You sad excuse for an apothecary, where the devil are you?" Rachel was trembling and felt ill. Where the man had held his hand tasted bad, a mixture of alcohol, dirt, and who-knew-what-else. Her hand fell to her sword, concealed in her skirts--not much good that had done her, she thought bitterly. When she glanced at her rescuer, her anger at her situation fading, she saw him clutching his side. Blood was seeping through his hand.

Rachel inhaled sharply, the breath catching in her throat. She hadn't seen him get hurt. The ill feeling in the pit of her stomach threatened to make her lose what little she'd had in the pub, but she forced herself to concentrate. He was bleeding because of her foolishness. Never let a debt go unpaid. Ewan had drilled that in her head at a young age. There was always the chance the person she owed the debt to would come back at an awkward time. Sighing, she said, "Wait."

Hearing Milah's call for a doctor, Robert glanced around. As long as he looked busy, maybe Horty would leave him alone . . . "Iereth? Good heavens, man, where are you? Don't you hear the lady calling?"
An arm elbowed through the crowd, and a man with a bulging bag appeared. "Here I am. Who's hurt?"
"Don't know. Either the sword-wielding stranger or the Lady Andric; I didn't see. Where were you?"
"Along with everyone else - lost in the crowd! Now clear the door, everyone, and let me in . . . blast it, Briggs, would you do something with this pink creature?"
Iereth tugged Hortense out of the doorway. She made a not-so-neat pirouette and fell against Robert, who in turn hit the ground beneath her. "Oh, Robby! I'm glad I found you. Everyone here is so boorish! And I don't even know what that means!"

Robert made a desperate gesture with his arms, like a fish out of water. "What do you want, Rob?"
His hands moved to his throat. Hortense stood up, and he gulped a lungful of air. "Come on, Robby, I don't want to stay here. Too many good-looking men that refuse to notice me, I want to go to Paris instead! So many nice men with heavenly accents and black, curly moustaches . . ."
Robert didn't seem to hear what she was saying. He pulled himself out of the dirt, dusted off, and ducked inside the pub. Something inside him wanted to see the fiery blonde again.

Donnchad and Gigi had arisen as one from the bench at the sound of the scream and took rapid steps toward the door, then stopped. "Too many afore us. Twas but one scream."

Gigi looked up at the huge Scot's visage as the words rolled a melodie from his lips. "Thou speakest as music. Thou hast.." Her head snapped toward the loud clatter beyond the shutters and they both moved toward it.

Dodnchad unlatched the clasp and pushed the heavy oaken slab ajar a crack to peer into the gloom of the alley "Yon damsel hath nae more distress. The lout is ta ground. Many there ta aid."

Gigi put her hands around his thick arm and pulled. "Come, let us take gēan our seats. We must each keep our watch."

He led her to the corner. "Tis a better vantage."

"Twould be my choice, but ye were in it."

As they sat, a wench placed two cups in front of them. "A ha'penny," she said.

Donnchad placed three cut farthings on the table and spoke. "One for ye, Lassie. We be looking for two people. Might we ask your aid?"

"Not busy this moment, now that many have left. Who do ye seek."

"She seeketh a tall lassie with long wavy red tresses and a dark tunic. I seek a tall mon with red curls well down his back. Hae ye seen such?"

The wench smiled at him and shook her head, then looked around the room. "Ye be the only two tall reds I have seen." Her head snapped to the door as people entered. "Perchance among them." She lifted her arm toward the entry. "Looks I be busy again," she said as she took the three bits and hastened away.

Donnchad looked at the the two cups on the table. "And what is this, pray tell. I be drinking ale and the wench brought me a small cup like yours." He picked it up. "Hot."

"Tis called mead, made from honey and rainwater turned by the sun's warmth. Most take it cool, but I prefer it hot."

"Why so little? Mon can nay quench a thirst with such a small cup."

"Tis far stronger than ale. Your tankard full o mead would put a man on his back before half gone. Not much is needed to stay happy and there are fewer rides of the garderobe boards or the chamber pot than with ale."

He took a sip. "Strang. Tis a pleasure ta my mouth."

"Like ye might be to mine." She smiled and tilted her head, then they both turned their attention to the mounting noise from the affray at the door.

Sad excuse for an apothecary. The words rang through Iereth's mind as he franticly tried to retrieve the remaining bulk of his medicines. Speaking of bulk, there was a pink one blocking the door. He grimaced and tried moving her aside, and the woman fell, crushing a painter he knew from years ago. Iereth glanced at them and cringed, but he didn't have time to apologize. He was just making his mark as an apothecary and they already called him a sad excuse!

Entering the tavern, he snatched the rest of his bags and turned to see one of his rare clients clutching a bleeding abdomen. Iereth wondered if God had forsaken him; not only was he known as a sad excuse of an apothecary, but now one of his very few clients was dying!

"Drogo!" he yelled, rushing up to him and immediately removing his shirt. Looking for Milah, he yelled, 'Bandages! You have bandages don't you?"

"It's fine," Drogo said, drawing Iereth's attention back to his patient. Without any clothes obstructing his view of the wound, Iereth realized it was only a flesh wound. But still...

"It won't be fine if you get an infection," Iereth argued, grabbing a flask of alcohol from his bag and pouring it on Drogo's wound. He then administered honey over the wound until Milah arrived, handing him the bandages.

"Honey?" she asked with a brow raised.

Iereth bit his lip, finishing dressing Drogo's wound. Didn't she know honey had been used by the Egyptians for these things? Drogo didn't look doubtful of him, but rather in a daze. Well, he always looked like he was half asleep, but now it looked like he was half dreaming of a nightmare.

"You ran out of nepenthe, didn't you?" Iereth asked.

"Ah, I was going to visit you, but the way was blocked," Drogo replied.

Iereth solemnly nodded, remembering the obnoxious lass dancing in front of his meager shop. Sure it was a meager shop, but, Iereth's silver eyes glimmered, he still had a customer! Proving he wasn't an utter failure as an apothecary as he was a squire, Iereth faced Milah, waved a hand at Drogo, and defiantly declared, "Not much of a sad excuse, now am I?"

"All you used was honey," she replied. Sad excuse for an apothecary. The words rang through Iereth's mind as he franticly tried to retrieve the remaining bulk of his medicines. Speaking of bulk, there was a pink one blocking the door. He grimaced and tried moving her aside, and the woman fell, crushing a painter he knew from years ago. Iereth glanced at them and cringed, but he didn't have time to apologize. He was just making his mark as an apothecary and they already called him a sad excuse!

In the end, Richard was unable to help the lady in trouble. When her savior was wounded, Reth was able to step forward and assist the man. Richard could do nothing but step aside.

The stable-hand sat at the vacant bar and watched the crowd gathered about the injured rescuer, the Lady, and the apothecary. He saw Milah hand the silver-eyed doctor bandages, a frown tipping his lips. Richard scooped up an abandoned mug and drank the contents with gusto.

"Some knight I could be," he grumbled. Richard sighed into the cup, and drank again. In the end, Richard was unable to help the lady in trouble. When her savior was wounded, Reth was able to step forward and assist the man. Richard could do nothing but step aside.

"So I was thinking, Robby. What we really need right now is a submarine. You know, whenever someone invents one of...um...Robby? Yoo hoo! Robby?" Was no one paying attention to her at all? Grrrrrrr.

No, of course not. Why should they notice her when there was Lady Andric and all those other thin, pretty women about? Aargh. "Come on, Robby, I don't want to stay here. There are too many good-looking men who refuse to notice me. I want to go to Paris instead!"

Was he even listening? Was anyone? Gaaaaah. Hortence returned to the pub alone and sat down on a quiet bench, if there was one of those handy. If not, she sat on a bar stool. Or maybe in a corner booth behind a large potted plant. Yes, that would do nicely. There she sat with her face in her hands and cried.

This was just like back in school when all the other girls laughed and taunted her. She never got picked for croquet, or quoits, or golf, or lawn darts, or whatever the games were these days. Only the thin, pretty girls ever got to have any fun.

"I could be thin if only I didn't love food so much!" she blubbered. "Food is the only friend I have!"

Then it hit her like a ton of cheesecake. Food! That was the answer. It was all about the food! All the women in London were thin because the food here was ghastly horrible. Aargh. What sane person would eat kidney pudding or blood sausage or jellied eels? Blech. What she needed was to find a place where the food was so wonderful that everyone was fat.

Well, of course! France! The food there was great! Everyone said so. They had all those fancy sauces and wines. Did England have a wine? Horty couldn't think of one. The French sure knew their way around a kitchen, and they'd invent that Escoffier dude in only another 656 years.

Language would be no problem. The nuns had taught French at the convent school. If only she'd paid more attention...but she could say many things in French. Like mercy bouquet, mammyzelle! and ow contrare, man sewer!, not to mention say la vee, sill voo place! Coop de gracy, belle femme skunk du jour. Wee wee, derrière la Pepé Le Pew!

Yeah, she'd have no trouble at all there. Well, that was it, then. It was pointless to wait around in this smelly pub any longer. Wiping her eyes, she tried to pull herself together enough to make an announcement. Since screaming was the only thing that seemed to get anyone's attention around here, she'd try to shriek like the best of them. She'd had plenty of practice through the years screeching at her father to buy her things. She toddled over to the center of the room, wiped her nose on a long, flared sleeve and then cleared her throat.

"Um...I say there! Yoo hoo! Everyone! Could I please have everyone's attention? Odds bodkins! Down here! Um...yes. Now does anyone know where I can find a submarine? I absolutely MUST get to Paris at once! It's an emergency!" 

Hassan got up from his dark corner. He was taking a risk, but it was a calculated one. He needed more information. He walked over to the wounded man, whose bandage had soaked through with the sticky honey. The man looked up as Hassan approached.

"Who the bloody good are you?"

Hassan pulled out a small box. "I'm someone who can keep that from festering and killing you."

"Ah," the wounded man acquiesced.

He opened the box, quickly passing by the vials that contained liquids and heading for the powders. He pulled out the one that was the color of metal, and quickly unstoppered it.

"You there, what are you doing?" one of the other men asked.

Without pausing to respond, he pulled away the bandage, used it to wipe away the honey, and grabbed a nearby glass of liquor. He poured it quickly over the wound. The man hissed, but said nothing. When the liquid had rinsed away most of the muck, he dusted the wound with the powder.

"That feels... better," the man said, surprised.

Hassan finally looked up at him. "You should be fine now."

As if things weren't bad enough, Drogo found himself at the center of attention. It was all he could do to keep from fleeing. He had to get away.
"Many thanks for your help," he grunted, slowly rising, "but I must rest."
He felt each movement with a flare of protesting pain.
"Sadly, men are often too eager for blood," he noted.
"Lady Rachel," he offered, with eyes averted from her face, "you are too kind. If I can ever be of service, I hope you'll ask."

"Off to the common house?" a slow, serpentine voice asked.
Drogo's blood ran cold.
"No, of course not," said the man in the doorway, "You prefer to sleep under the stars."
"Elric," breathed Drogo, his face tinged with distress.
"I heard there was trouble near the tavern. I came to see if I could be of assistance and here I find you. It's so good to see you again my... friend."
Drogo's hand trembled and clenched as he muttered, "I am leaving."
"Do go rest," Elric hissed, "but take this as a small favor. I know you must be in... sore need."
He pressed something into Drogo's hand. Drogo blinked and stepped backwards toward the door.
"We," Elric nearly laughed, "have much to discuss..."
Gesturing to the full room, he continued, "...but this is not the place. I know how... private you are."
At Elric's smile, Drogo seemed ready to faint. Turning, he disappeared swiftly into the night, pain or no.

Elric chuckled softly and stepped to the bar, "Since I'm here, I think a nightcap is in order. Some wine, thank you."
His voice was like honey... honey full of poison.
As he scanned the room, his eyes widened and he nearly gasped.
She was perfect!
His eyes narrowed and he licked his lips as he stared...
at Hortence!

Milah instantly decided she didn't like the man. She made him wait, instead turning to Hortense Snodgrass. "Sorry, dear," she said. "There's no easy way to Paris from here."

However, Milah did run a business, and she forced herself to turn back to Elric. "No wine here," she said. "Too expensive for a common pub. You want something else, you let me know." She turned her back on him, returning to Reth and the new man. Reth looked a little put-out by the Saracen man interrupting. "You think he'll be alright, Reth?" she asked.

"Drogo? He'll be fine," Reth answered. He glared sourly at the Saracen. "Would've been alright even without his interrupting."

Milah intervened before another argument could start up; she'd had quite enough of that for tonight. "Reth, can you do me a favor?" she asked. She handed him a mug. "Bring that over to Richard the stable-hand--I really can't stand his adoration tonight." Reth silently took the mug, glaring at the Saracen all the way.

Milah had nothing against Saracens; running her business, she couldn't hold grudges against any particular people. "Sorry about him," she said, jerking her head at Reth. "He's a little touchy about his business, especially since somebody decided to use his storefront for some sort of entertainment area." Curious, she crossed her arms. "Saracens don't come to my pub often. So tell me; who are you, and why have you come? Is it information you want?"

Nearby, Rachel was trying to come up with a way to escape the painter who seemed fascinated with her. She was as averse to the public as Drogo. "I'm...quite alright, yes," she answered. She kept her eyes on her hands. It seemed God had punished her for being rude to the painter. She wouldn't do it a second time. "Is there...something you'd like from me?"

Come on, Robert! Rob told himself, when he found Lady Andric looking directly at him. Had she asked a question? He couldn't remember. He found himself staring at her crimson hood. "Beg pardon?"
Rachel flushed. Apparently she didn't like repeating herself. "I said I'm quite fine, thank you. Was there something you wanted?"

Dare he ask? His heart hadn't pounded so hard in years. But the last time he followed his impulse, he ended up with . . . Horty Snodgrass. But this was different, he was older, and it was strictly business. So he forced himself to speak, "Actually, yes. I'm a painter, as you know, and came here looking for . . . for a model. For a portrait, you understand. And when I saw you outside, I noticed your beautiful . . ."
"Stop it."
"Stop what? I was going to say cloak. It is beautiful, don't you think?"
"Of course." Rachel adjusted the collar absentmindedly. "So you want me to be one of your subjects, is that it?"
"In a word, yes. Will you?"

Rachel looked around the room, thinking. Horty was in the corner screaming, a fiendish man eying her, a sad-eyed doctor was staring at the door his patient had just walked through, and Milah was yelling at a young patron to pay what he owed her. She sighed.
"Alright, Mr...?"
"Briggs. Robert Briggs." He extended his hand professionally. "I will meet you here tomorrow, then?"

Gigi tried to focus her eyes. "Mayhap I drink too fast, but what, pray tell is that pink thing across the room?"

"Tis perchance a baby el'fant that has lost its proboskis, tho I did never see one afore as bright, nor as close."

"El'fant? Proboskis? What may these be? Sounds like more of your strange words. Do they too come from the Holy Lands?"

"El'fant be a powerful beast from the east, from the lands far across the sands. Five legs, sometimes six. A Proboskis is what the Greeks name the leg on the front of the face."

"And the sixth leg? Where might that be?"

"In mosaics and paintings I have seen el'fants with six legs. Three in front and three in back." Donnchad nodded to the front corner. "There, now look. The fringe top mon in brown robes. He must be its trainer, he rubs it and makes it sing."

"Methinks that be a scream."

It grew lowder Gigi tried to focus her eyes. "Mayhap I drink too fast, but what, pray tell is that pink thing across the room?"

"Tis perchance a baby el'fant that has lost its proboskis, tho I did never see one afore as bright, nor as close."

"El'fant? Proboskis? What may these be? Sounds like more of your strange words. Do they too come from the Holy Lands?"

"El'fant be a powerful beast from the east, from the lands far across the sands."

The mug slammed on the table in front of Richard, sloshing its contents neatly within its rim. "That's yours," Iereth said to Richard before lifting his flask and taking a swig. Shuddering, he slammed his head on the table and glared at the darkness.

All that effort proving himself, and he had been shot down by a Saracen. The man even wiped away all the honey as if it were poison! "Egypt," Iereth grumbled.

"What?" Richard asked, his tone no better than Iereth's mood. That's right. Drogo had stolen his chance to save the beautiful damsel in distress. Just as that Saracen had stolen Iereth's chance to prove he wasn't an excuse of an apothecary. But wasn't he? Was using something so simple a thing only an apprentice would do?

"I learned honey is good to treat wounds in Egypt. The land of milk and honey. They both treat burns... a land protected from fire," Iereth grumbled.

"You were in Egypt?" Richard asked, drawing his gaze away from his mug.

Iereth groaned and said, "For only a few days. You'd think the summers here are hot. Just imagine carrying armor in the desert." He then took another swig from the flask and grumbled, "All that work for nothing... Richard sat with his drink in hand, listening to Reth sigh. "All that work for nothing...."

"Nothing?" Richard asked, confused.

"Nothing. The Saracen did what I could not." Reth took another swig from his flask.

Richard frowned. He realized Reth was a bit like him, lacking in confidence. "I think that's rubbish," Richard replied, taking another drink. "You were brilliant."

"Brilliant?" Reth laughed, short and humorless.

"Yes. The Saracen didn't run out of the pub with me into uncertain danger. You've got courage and smarts, man." Richard raised his mug. "If I'm ever gutted, you'll be the apothecary I turn to."

Reth was quiet for a moment, eyes downcast. He finally lifted his flask, tapping it with Richard's cup. "Thank you."

They sat quietly for a time, content with their own thoughts. A couple in the darker corner were whispering of "el'fants." Richard wasn't sure what an el'fant was. The Lady Andric was speaking with the anxious painter. The injured man, Drogo, had disappeared into the night.

Reth must have seen Richard's eyes on the Lady. "You wanted to save her?"

Embarrassed, Richard nodded as he traced his thumb along the cup's rim. "Yeah. I wanted to prove something. Impress someone."

"The Lady?"

Richard scoffed. "No. No, not her..." He drank again, sighing. "It doesn't matter. I guess it was just not our time to shine."

Reth opened his mouth to say something else, when the pink creature began to shriek

Hassan studied the woman carefully.
"It wasn't my intention to interfere," he said, "I just happened to have something with me that would do the man good." He paused, deciding to take another leap. After all, what good was he if he couldn't take the opportunities that came to him? "But yes, I am looking for information. I have heard that one of the patrons here is more than meets the eye, and I am hoping I can speak to that person. Might you know of whom I speak?"
He felt himself holding his breath, waiting to see what the woman would say. He wished he could peek at her palm to see what the lines foretold of her"Sorry, dear. There's no easy way to Paris from here."

Hmph! This shouldn't have surprised her, really. The thin, pretty aristocrat screams outside in the alley and everyone in the pub rushes to her aid. The homely, fat, dwarfish commoner screams her head off right here in the middle of the room and gets dismissed. Of all the cheek!

And speaking of cheek, just what was this freaky friar doing? Ooooh, that reminded her of chicken! She loved wings and fryers. "And drumsticks!" Perhaps she should stop thinking about food, but she was upset and lonely, and always thought of food when upset about something.

"Maybe I shouldn't have left the convent after all." Sad to think that things might be better there, of all places. No, it was too early to admit defeat. She'd simply have to get herself to Paris somehow. No more depending on others to help her in this cruel, heartless world. Maybe she'd become the world's first feminist! No, wait...Sappho had probably already done that. "Darn."

Oh, wellingham. Back to the Paris idea. "I'll start first thing in the morning!" she promised herself. Right now she needed to find somewhere to cry herself to sleep over a nice suet pudding. There was probably an inn nearby, or at least a rig outside that could take her to one. Maybe there was a famous jouster in town who owned a bed & breakfast! Celebrities liked to invest in that kind of thing.

Hortence adjusted her wimple with veil until it was more properly centered on her head. There was surely a good reason these things looked like dunce caps. One would have to be a dunce to be such a slave to fashion, but it was her one vanity. Harrumphing once more, she turned to the monk.

"I say, good friar. Have you any chicken on your person?" No, wait...that wasn't what she wanted to know right now. "I mean, do you know of an inn nearby with great food and quality service? I must sleepeth for the morrow, when I shall proceedeth forth to France." It occurred to her then that a monk might be well travelled. Didn't they have to make house calls when people had the plague and such? Last rites usually wouldn't wait! "I say there. Pray tell, do you knoweth of a shortcut to Paris? I must getteth myself yonder to the City of Light, for I hear they will have an impressive metal tower there in only another 699 years "A short cut to Paris? No."

Oh, you marvelous creature! Look at you, just look at you! Ooh hoo hoo

"But chicken?! Why, certainly, my lovely lady. There are many fine establishments I could recommend. Though, if I may say so, none are quite as tasty as my own secret recipe. I dare say, you may lick your fingers."

Wheeee!

"I call it Bird Benedictine! Perhaps you'd care to try it some time. It would be my great pleasure to feed you... "

Ahem!

"er, cook for you! I have a lovely cottage not far and a yard full of birds. You have an open invitation, any time."

I could almost pray!

"My wagon waits just outside. It is not quite the carriage a princess like you deserves, but it will gets us anywhere you'd care to try. Perhaps the Forest Pheasant? Please, let it be my treat."

+Indeed, such a treat! +

"This way..."

+ Oh, my Worty-Horty-Poo

Milah watched the Saracen carefully, but she detected no immediate threat from him. If anything, he was charismatic and interesting. She considered his question. "I suppose many people would fit that description," she said slowly. "But that woman there, Lady Andric...is not quite what she seems."

The Saracen raised an eyebrow at her. Milah went on, "She and her brother--" Milah stopped and paled. She'd made a promise, several years ago, one that she had just been on the verge of breaking. "Forgive me," she stammered, losing her composure. "She's different." Before the man could ask any more questions, Milah had moved away from him. She hoped no one saw the tears welling in her eyes at the unwelcome reminder of what should have been.

Rachel absently took Robert's hand, distracted by the strange mood that had suddenly come over Milah. She stopped cold when she saw the man Milah had been speaking to. A Saracen! Robert must have seen her face pale, because he asked, "Is everything alright?"

"I must be going," Rachel managed, and quickly departed from the pub. Robert stared after her. Milah watched the Saracen carefully, but she detected no immediate threat from him. If anything, he was charismatic and interesting. She considered his question. "I suppose many people would fit that description," she said slowly. "But that woman there, Lady Andric...is not quite what she seems."

The Saracen raised an eyebrow at her. Milah went on, "She and her brother--" Milah stopped and paled. She'd made a promise, several years ago, one that she had just been on the verge of breaking. "Forgive me," she stammered, losing her composure. "She's different." Before the man could ask any more questions, Milah had moved away from him. She hoped no one saw the tears welling in her eyes at the unwelcome reminder of what should have been.

Rachel absently took Robert's hand, distracted by the strange mood that had suddenly come over Milah. She stopped cold when she saw the man Milah had been speaking to. A Saracen! Robert must have seen her face pale, because he asked, "Is everything alright?"

"I must be going," Rachel managed, and quickly departed from the pub. Robert stared after her.

Robert stuffed his hands in his pocket and hunched his shoulders as he exited the pub. Lady Andric's answer had been a little vague . . . he wasn't sure whether he could depend on her or not. But he could wait until tomorrow morning and see. After all, so much had happened in one night.

As he strolled along the dirt road, his ear caught the sound of steel striking rock. He paused, and a moment later a horse and rider appeared. The horse was a speckled brown Arab, with white foam coating its mouth and chest. As if Horty had been riding it. Robert thought. Then the rider caught his attention - a dark-haired man, with a dark riding cape and dark, mud-spattered boots. A scarf was tied around his face. "Do you know the Lady Andric?" He demanded. "Answer me! Yea or nay?"
"Yea." Robert answered, taking a step back. He wasn't sure if the man wanted an exact response or not.
"Good. Give this to her." The rider shuffled in his saddlebag and produced a tiny package. He dropped it on the ground, then turned his horse's head back towards the road. "Hast thou heard me, serf? The package is for the Lady Rachel Andric. A curse be on thy head if thou should fail!"

The poor, straining horse gave a cry of agony when the man struck its flanks with his spurs. Both soon disappeared into the night.

Robert slowly reached down and retrieved the package. On the top was written in bold words:
Ewan

Donnchad tilted his head toward Gigi's and whispered, "Much action with the lady in the hood. First attacked, then rescued, now attended by many."

"She seems of import, at least to those." Gigi leaned her head to touch his and sighed.

"I do nae like the look of the swarthy mon. Appears he be a saracen. Shifty eyes. Watch how he moves. Up to no good, methinks." He shifted closer to Gigi. Remembering what Milah had said about Richard adoring her, Iereth wondered if she was the one who Richard wanted to impress. Iereth started to ask Richard about his relationship with the barmaid, when the large woman in pink screamed. Iereth nearly laughed instead. It seemed all he needed to do was open his mouth for someone else to scream.

Iereth turned in his seat, studying the tavern. The red-headed couple were even closer than ever. The large pink woman, a surprisingly brave lass, was daring talking to the friar with serpentine eyes, and the Lady was rushing out of the tavern, leaving behind the saracen and Milah. Iereth's eyes squinted as he studied Milah.

Her bright green eyes were tinted pink and tears rimmed at their edges. Her brows knit as if in pain. Turning back around, he patted Richard's shoulder and said, "Maybe it is your time to shine."

As for Iereth, he shouldered his many bags and moved to the door. It would be best for him to try heading home, or try finding his home, before it got too dark to spot any landmarks. A bead of sweat rolled down Iereth's head as he wondered how he'd get home. He watched as Robert walked out of the pub, and his pace quickened. He could ask him if he knew the way to market street. Or maybe, if Robert could just guide him to the street...

Pushing open the door, he spotted Robert already Standing just down the road talking to a horseman. Iereth quickened his pace, hoping he'd catch the painter before he got too lost in the maze of London's dark streets.

Reth was already up and moving toward the door before Richard could ask for his advice. Milah appeared distressed as she tried to disengage the Saracen. Like Reth, many of the others had gathered their possessions and departed.

Richard took another swallow from his mug for courage--though the ale sat heavily in his stomach and made him feel as though he was going to be sick. I'm such a dolt, Richard thought as he squeezed his eyes shut and mentally prepared himself. Action decided, Richard banged his mug on the bar, adopted a heavy slur, and called out, "Milah! Oi, Milah! O'er here, wench!"

That got her attention. She all but slapped the Saracen in the face as she stomped behind the bar and approached Richard. Richard prayed he wasn't about to be gutted by her quick dagger.

"I am in no mood for you tonight, Richard!" she quietly snapped, rubbing her lovely, teary eyes.

Richard squirmed, heat rising in his face. "Ay. I know."

"Then what--?!"

"I just thought you could use an excuse to shed your company," Richard said, shrugging.

Milah's lips pressed together as her gaze flicked toward the Saracen. It took a moment, but she finally muttered "Thank you."

Richard grinned. It was a simple thing, but he was glad he could help Milah. "You're welcome

Holy Saint Benedict of Hollandaise!

This had never happened before in her whole life. Certainly not lately. It would likely never happen again...or least not until she met a blind guy. Hortence gaped in wonderment.

A man seemed genuinely interested in everything she said and did! What a magnificent human being! What a spectacular specimen of masculinity! I'll go anywhere with him. Especially if he's got food!

She'd be perfectly safe with a man of the cloth. No worries! He'd been sent by God. That's what it was.

Whoa.

Just...whoa. To think she—Hortence Æthelbertha Snodgrass—had attracted the notice of the Creator of time, space and dimension. The head honcho. The big cheese. The top banana. The numero uno! And all those other French terms.

This changed her whole opinion of God. The nuns at the convent school had taught her that God sent people to Hell for eternity just for eating too much cake, while murderers and rapists were forgiven. Hmph! Now seriously, why would gluttony and laziness be mortal sins while murder, rape and pillaging were not?!

Never mind, all that was past. This was a whole new ballgame! Hortence followed the friar out to his wagon, or maybe she led the way. She couldn't remember now; she was walking on clouds. Oh look, a Saracen! How wonderful! Everyone in the world should hold hands and sing Kumbaya when that was invented in 736 years.

Not that he was perfect, mind you. The monk, not the Saracen. Okay, so he was a little overweight, but so was she. She could forgive that. He was tall, dark and handsome, and had amazing personal magnetism. Not to mention, he could cook! What a guy! Her mother would love him. If he had money, her father would love him too!

"Oh, what a beautiful night!" she remarked, waiting for the saintly deacon to help her into the wagon. Okay, it wasn't made of gold or anything, but maybe he was hoarding his gold in a Swiss bank account. The Church was filthy stinking rich; why shouldn't its employees be? Wait, were they allowed to marry? Hortence couldn't remember, but she'd work all that out later. Right now she had to start thinking about wedding gowns! Maybe that nice Robert would paint a beautiful wedding picture of them.

"I say, how far is this Forest Pheasant?" Ooooh, pheasant! That would taste so good right now, but she daren't mention food again lest he believe she thought of nothing else. She'd have to go on a diet at once if she wanted to look decent in that wedding dress!

But she sure was hungry.

"Oooh, I say there, just how do you make this Bird Benedictine you mentioned? It sounds simply delicious!" And probably nutritious and character-building, too. "Oooh, I say there, just how do you make this Bird Benedictine you mentioned? It sounds simply delicious!" And probably nutritious and character-building, too.

What a woman!

He provided her with dinner and obtained a comfortable bed for her at the Forest Pheasant. He hung on her every word and savored her appreciation of the tasty (and plentiful) meal.

With a fond and heavy heart, he bid her goodnight.

He sat for a time at the table after she retired, scheming and sipping wine. It was late by the time he made his way back outside.

The wagon drifted slowly though the streets. The silver moonlight softened the shadowy maze.

Elric scanned the alleys and corners as the wagon crept along. His eyes easily pierced the gloom. He recalled those benighted catacombs. Even a midnight storm was not as dark.

Once your eyes have seen there, the night is much brighter. There! The toe of a boot.

"Come, my boy," he grunted, lifting him to his feet, "This is not a proper place to rest. What?"

Drogo muttered as he rolled into the back of the wagon.

"Indeed," grumbled Elric, wrinkling his face, "You stink of dead blood. Your shirt is ruined. If you're going to fight, at least wear a sword! Let me guess, another pretty face to bleed for. What was that? Who?"

He mumbled again.

"Her," mused the minister, climbing into the seat, "Certainly, she is a beautiful lady, but really, they are all beautiful aren't they?"

He chuckled for a moment, then continued, "And what good is seeing beauty when one's affection is unrequited? Alas, I fear, not all of them are worth dying for. Further, sometimes we must let nature run its course."

Drogo hissed as the wagon lurched.

"No, you may not care to think of what would have happened in that alley, but, as things are," he paused, glancing back at the slumbering man, "it may have been easier."

They rolled on through the narrow streets.

"Things may be set back, perhaps," Elric whispered over his shoulder. A smile snaked its way across his features.

"But you're here now."