Prologue #2
“I daresay I shouldn’t need to, given who I am,” he said haughtily. “I have a well-established claim to the Mayflower company.”
“Never heard of it,” Fulbert said blandly, looking at Wrestling over the rim of his mug.
Ambrose had to admit the huffing and puffing that ensued was impressive.
Wrestling’s hat suffered quite extensively from the insults to its plume-laden self, coming very close to being blown off the table entirely, but a rescue was immediately mounted and the headwear saved.
What he was less than confident about was the state of their necessary preparations in the New World. He looked at the Drummond.
“I assume you put everything in place across the Pond.”
“Of course I did,” the Drummond said briskly. “Whilst these two were off panning for gold and vexing feisty librarians, I was making certain all the final pieces were settling properly.”
“You were not,” Hugh exclaimed. “Until we found this man here, you were simply looking for a fourth to flesh out our singing quartet given the troubles, ah … er …”
Silence fell. Ambrose couldn’t bring himself, even after all the years of a persistent desire to slay his sister’s husband, to make mention of Fulbert de Piaget’s complete inability to carry a tune.
Any hope of enjoying a quartet of fulsome harmonies on a long winter’s evening had been but a fond wish.
‘Twas terribly tempting to ask the illustrious Master Brewster to give vent to a few bars of something familiar so they could test his wares, but he forbore.
He cleared his throat purposefully. “Back to our current business, men. Keep in mind that whilst our vict—er, our chosen beneficiaries are very busy aiding the course of true love, ‘tis to the detriment of their own happiness. Our purpose here tonight is to make certain we’ve taken all possible steps to rectify that.”
“I shall,” Wrestling announced, rising gracefully to his feet, “fetch myself something to drink. I can see I’m going to need it.”
Ambrose ignored the renewed squawking from the patrons standing at the bar and leaned in to sweep his compatriots with a look. “Was he necessary?”
Hugh scrunched his face and looked at the Drummond who only held up his hands and sat back.
“That Puritan pest was lurking in the library next to the microfiche,” the Drummond said grimly, “singing tavern ditties and frightening patrons. He up and burrowed into our concerns like a tick before we could outrun him.”
Ambrose looked at Hugh who nodded uneasily.
“He is, unfortunately, also related to the parties,” John Drummond continued.
“With these two lads we’re seeing to, never mind who is next on the list after them, we’ll need all the foot soldiers we can find.
” He shoved aside the rest of Hugh’s papers and laid his pipe with enthusiasm on the table.
“What I want to know is what you two have been doing whilst I took my afterlife in my hands to yet again endure this pencil-pusher in the vast middle of yon fruited plains.”
“Apart from putting these lads at the top of our list and making certain the perfect lassies cross their paths at the right time,” Ambrose began carefully, “we’ve made every effort to maintain the element of surprise.”
“Surprise?” John Drummond interrupted. “Can you possibly believe these lads will be surprised by anything with as many times as they’ve traipsed through the centuries—”
“Nay, young Zachary Smith vies for the top spot in that,” Hugh said, tapping his pencil against his cheek thoughtfully. He looked up from his notes. “Regarding experience with all things paranormal, that is.”
“He does know too much,” Ambrose conceded.
“And these lads don’t?” Fulbert asked with a snort. “They’ve a bleedin’ pinboard full of matches to be made and events to influence across half a dozen centuries!”
Ambrose had to concede that was also true, though the sight of all those little pieces of parchment torn from other larger sheaves of parchment and attached to that spongy bit of cork by used stickers from veg or little straight pins from theater costumes was, to put it mildly, a bit alarming.
The lads in question seemed to do a fairly decent job of keeping everything straight in their heads which spoke well of their intelligence, but perhaps less well about their organizational skills.
“Very well,” John Drummond said, setting aside his ale and leaning forward with his elbows on the worn table, “we’ve a general idea of where to shove these lads, but let’s decide which one goes first. Do we flip a coin or do I slay that damned McKinnon there and we see which side of his body his entrails spill from and allow that to indicate which one to choose? ”
Hugh tucked his pencil behind his ear and placed his clipboard strategically over his gut, then glared at the Drummond. “I write things down to keep them straight.”
“If you only used that damned stick of wood for writing instead of poking me every time I walk past you, I wouldn’t complain!”
“’Tis always an accident,” Hugh said primly. “I become overly enthusiastic about the topic at hand, nothing more.”
Ambrose caught the look Hugh sent him and suppressed a smile. Time had truly done its goodly work there. He hardly had to remind himself more than half a dozen times a day that he’d already slain Hugh once and didn’t need to do it again. All’s well that ended well there, to be sure.
“I still say the enterprise is rife with peril,” the Drummond said gloomily. “Plotting and scheming for the benefit of two of the most seasoned plotters and schemers ever?” He shook his head. “Doomed from the start, I’d say.”
“But they’re disorganized,” Ambrose said, “which gives us room to maneuver whilst they’re otherwise occupied.”
“And they’re late,” Hugh said, tapping his clipboard. He looked up and smiled apologetically. “Not all the time.”
“Not all the time,” Ambrose agreed, “but often enough that we might use it to our advantage. Theophilus will be more difficult, true—”
“Are ye daft, man?” John Drummond said in surprise. “That young Samuel is trouble of the worst kind!”
“Samuel is a bit craftier,” Ambrose conceded. “Perhaps we should choose the elder of the pair first.”
“But which one is that?” Hugh asked, frowning thoughtfully at his notes. He looked up and shrugged. “There is a bit of mystery surrounding the order of their births, or so I understand.”
A hush fell, as it generally did over the contemplation of the miracle of birth coupled with the feeling of alarm that had no doubt traveled all over England at the arrival of two such troublemakers.
“I suspect me nevvy Nicholas mixed them up at some point early on,” Fulbert mused.
Ambrose imagined there was no point in correcting Fulbert about his relationship to Nicholas de Piaget, never mind to those wee terrors Nicholas had sired. Best that the lads consider Fulbert a respected uncle lest they become less tractable than they needed to be.
“Be that as it might be,” Ambrose said, drawing the conversation back to the daunting task at hand, “we’ve already chosen the fortunate lad, and he is too clever by half.”
Fulbert nodded firmly. “He might blink and stammer to throw ye off the scent, but don’t think he hasn’t got all possibilities worked out in his head already.
And he’s a damned sight too protective of his small computing machine.
I’ve stooped to using it only whilst he’s on stage tending to his flourishing acting career. ”
“Is there not a secret combination of letters and numbers you must use to enter its innards?” John Drummond asked, frowning.
“Well, of course there is,” Fulbert said archly. “Do ye think me too much the fool to discover it?”
Ambrose glanced at Hugh to find him sitting on the edge of his seat, pencil at the ready, and was half tempted to suggest that Hugh bean Fulbert over the head with his clipboard before more of the evening passed, but he refrained.
There was much yet to be done and no time to indulge in such pleasant activities.
The Drummond shook his head. “No matter which of these wee blighters we’ve chosen, the true difficulty is that so many people want them dead.”
“Or alive to be tortured,” Fulbert noted.
Ambrose had to agree that was indeed the case, but he was distracted from voicing the same thanks to the sight of their new addition making his way back to their table, utterly ignoring the carnage he’d left in his wake.
He had the feeling that a willing foot soldier was the last thing Wrestling Brewster was going to settle for being.
He didn’t care for loose cannons—he’d seen what stable ones could do to a solid castle wall—but there was perhaps no hope for reining that one in.
With any luck their venture would benefit from a new perspective.
He waited until Wrestling had taken a restorative gulp of ale before he spoke.
“Young Samuel is the lad who next deserves our guidance in all things matrimonial,” he said. “The pieces are in place and all we must needs do is wait for the possible moment of nudging to arrive.”
The Drummond sighed, then glared at Hugh apparently out of habit. Hugh was making furtive notes about the saints only knew what, Wrestling was looking suspiciously at his mug, and Fulbert was imply watching the goings on with his usual assessing gaze.
And all was right with the world.
But the world would be a better place with more happily ever afters successfully seen to, so Ambrose cleared his throat and swept his companions with a purposeful look.
“This is,” he stated firmly, “our most challenging case yet, but we are Scots, men!”
Fulbert choked. Ambrose shifted and allowed his brother-in-law’s mug to go sailing past him before he spoke again.
“Mostly,” he amended. “And Artane is close enough to the border for concessions to be made. The material point is that this will take all the canniness we’ve learned on both sides of Hadrian’s wall.”
“And what of our new Colonial friend?” Fulbert asked politely.
“I am from the West country,” Wrestling said stiffly. He paused. “A bit farther west now than before, but let’s not quibble.”
“The more the merrier,” Hugh offered, looking at Wrestling hopefully.
Ambrose nodded firmly. “Let us raise a mug to our shared purpose: To love.”
“To love!”
John Drummond shook his head. “’Tis verra silly stuff indeed, but … if we must.” He raised his mug slightly and sighed.
Ambrose knew that was the best they were going to have from that quarter, but at least Master Wrestling was joining in the toast whilst keeping an eye on the exits.
Hugh and Fulbert were their usual selves—no doubt contemplating ways to do each other in when time permitted—but that was also not unexpected.
Love might be the last thing they agreed on for a bit, but he was willing to settle for it.
He also had to acknowledge that they had done all they could to arrange things for a decent start to the venture.
Time and events would proceed as they did and they would take action as it was required.
All that was left was to perhaps make a prudent exit off stage whilst the night was still young and his companions not shouting at each other. He stood and reached for his sword.
“I’m off to see about a few things,” he said firmly.
Fulbert looked up at him mildly. “Up north in a particular inn or by the fireplace on your way out the door here?”
Ambrose decided silence was a better response than a sword through the gut, so he simply smiled. “As you say.”
Fulbert rolled his eyes and returned to his ale, but he was wearing a hint of a smile.
Ambrose left them to their talk of adventures engaged in and decent inns frequented along the way and made his way to the door.
And if he glanced casually around the pub to see what there was to be seen and noted the same very handsome woman he’d seen before sitting by the fire, well, so be it.
She raised her glass to him, he inclined his head in return, then he forced himself to make the effort to push the door open and exit the establishment as he might have in a different year.
To love.
Was there anything else?
He smiled to himself and walked on into the night.