Chapter 27 #2
Harriet didn’t think she would match Jackson’s nonchalance, but she could certainly pretend, especially if that’s what medieval wives did when their men were off taking care of business.
She was also going to ask for some self-defense training from both Oliver and Jackson before too much more time passed, but that was something to think about later.
She caught the look Sam sent her, nodded firmly, then stepped behind Jackson a bit more. She had to admit she was very grateful she wasn’t the recipient of the look he then turned on the guy who’d grabbed her because she would have wet her pants otherwise.
“Samuel.”
Harriet would have used Jackson to lean on, but she didn’t know him well enough.
She settled for forcing herself not to simply collapse as Sam caught the sword Oliver chucked him, a sword she very much suspected was thoroughly unsuitable for the stage.
Perhaps Jackson would have an opinion later on where it had come from.
“I’ve no quarrel with you,” Sam said, not looking in the slightest bit winded, though thoroughly annoyed.
“Are you mad, sir?” the dark-haired man facing him spat. “Your unholy truck with witches and sprites and this strange world here announce clearly that you are a demon who must meet his approved end!”
Harriet listened to them trade barbs that sounded as if they’d come from some play that Shakespeare had only been toying with and never managed to get to the stage. That was a little unsettling, though she was in the midst of a clutch of actors so maybe quite a few things were—
“Wait,” she said, leaning up to whisper to Jackson. “Did he say something about Penitence Chase?”
Jackson looked at her in surprise. “Who?”
“I saw her name on the bulletin board,” Harriet said with a shiver. “But that was in sixteen-something. I can’t remember the exact date.”
Jackson lifted his eyebrows briefly, then folded his arms over his chest as he studied the battle raging in front of them.
Harriet would have said more, but she was too busy watching Sam and that Elizabethan-sounding thug go at each other as if they had every intention of killing each other.
She watched Sam drive his enemy off the stage and onto the lawn where she was quite certain chairs were meant to go at the right time.
At least it wasn’t raining, though the clouds looked as though they might be warming up for it.
Harriet walked with Jackson to the edge of the stage—well, she slunk along behind Jackson who was keeping her behind him with the skill of an expert sheepdog, but she supposed no one was paying enough attention to her to notice what she was or was not doing.
She left Sam to his business briefly to look around for other menaces and was somehow not at all surprised to find the guy who’d been following Sam in London standing ten feet away from her.
At the moment, he was holding onto a video camera, taping the scene in front of them.
She exchanged a glance with Oliver, had a quick smile in return, then watched as Oliver simply walked over and knocked the camera out of the man’s hands.
He kicked it across the boards toward none other than Rufus the indefatigable chauffeur who picked it up and put it into his pocket as if he did that kind of thing all day long.
Oliver slung his arm around Sam’s stalker’s shoulders and had a quiet word with him that was apparently enough to stave off any histrionics about having lost his gear. For all she knew, Oliver had promised him another pint at the nearest pub.
She looked up at Jackson. “Handy.”
“He is,” Jackson agreed, then he stepped in front of her again.
Harriet would have argued with that, but she found herself suddenly too busy wondering if she shouldn’t give Jackson a shove out of her way and leap off the stage to help the man she loved who was currently engaged in a truly ferocious swordfight.
“You aren’t going to help him?” she whispered incredulously.
He considered, then looked over his shoulder at her. “And what would be left of his honor if I did?”
Harriet started to say, he’d be alive to complain about it, but she took another quick look at the battle in front of her and opted for leaving that unsaid. She’d seen what Sam could do and the present moment was definitely not requiring anything close to that level of skill.
“I have the feeling I’m going to be starting a medieval wives club with Olivia and Samantha,” she muttered. “There may be whisky and self-defense lessons involved.”
“Don’t forget Maryanne.”
“I thought we’d have it at her house,” Harriet said grimly. “And we probably should invite Oliver’s wife as well.”
“Mairead?” Jackson shifted a bit to stand next to her. “You’ll like her, I imagine. She’s Oliver, only not quite as blatantly terrifying.” He paused. “That might not be as true as I’d like it to be, but you’ll have to be the judge.”
“And just what are we supposed to do while you boys go out and do your knightly things?” Harriet asked lightly.
She realized suddenly that the question was a bit more serious than she’d intended it to be.
Jackson started to speak, then smiled briefly. “You five will do what you please, as usual, and leave us the pleasure of seeing to your care and feeding.”
“But none of them—those other girls—” She took a deep breath. “They don’t use the gates like a turnstile, do they?”
“Of the four only Mairead can’t seem to help herself,” Jackson said carefully, “but her grandfather—the appropriate number of generations removed, of course—can’t seem to help himself, either. I think ‘tis in her blood.”
Harriet watched Sam trading insults with that sketchy-looking Elizabethan thug, then looked at Jackson again.
“I’m pretty organized.”
“And Sam isn’t.”
“I’m also very fast if I’m panicked.”
“So you said before,” Jackson said with a smile. “You two are very well-matched.”
“I am,” she announced, “unafraid.” She paused. “Well, I’m fairly alarmed right now, but in general I’m unafraid. Especially if I have a plan.”
Jackson smiled again. “Harriet, I daresay you two will find a path that suits you both, wherever that path might lead. Now, take this pleasant moment we have here and watch how your canny lad fights. I taught him a fair bit of what he knows, you realize, after he and his brother had annoyed everyone else with any skill.”
Harriet took his advice, advisedly. The crowd of actors was making things a bit difficult, she supposed, though the murmurs of appreciation for each crossing of what Harriet suspected were very sharp blades could have been enjoyable under other circumstances.
It was, actually, until the unthinkable happened.
Sam tripped.
She was halfway off the stage before she realized Jackson had caught her and was holding her in place. She watched in horror as Sam did nothing but watch his foe’s sword come screaming down toward his head.
Or … perhaps not.
It happened so quickly that she desperately wished for that video camera Rufus was holding and a working rewind button for later use, but perhaps her chaperons could be consulted later on the particulars.
What she did know was that Sam rolled at the very last possible minute while at the same time sweeping the other man’s feet out from under him so he overbalanced and took a header right into that patch of dirt near one of the stage’s footings.
That square of dirt looked as if it had been languishing under some sort of stone that had been recently moved, most likely for maintenance to be done under itself.
Most likely.
What she knew for certain was that Sam’s foe had disappeared and Sam had popped up to his feet. He took a huge breath, then tossed his sword to Oliver. He opened his mouth, no doubt to prevaricate badly, but he didn’t have a chance before the entire cast and crew burst into thunderous applause.
“More magic!” shouted someone from the back of the pack.
“Someone else take a sword and do the same thing!”
Harriet looked at Jackson who only shrugged.
“We’ll see how well he escapes this one.”
Harriet imagined Sam had plenty of practice at doing just that, though she suspected at the moment he was probably fairly relieved to have just survived the day—
Or, perhaps not.
She watched in surprise as the guy who’d been taking video pushed away from Oliver and leaped off the stage.
“You unholy demon!”
Harriet leaned close to Jackson. “Didn’t we already hear this line from someone else?”
“Not a very original lot, are they?” Jackson murmured. He looked over her head. “Who’s this new fool?”
“Old director who recently became their impresario,” Oliver said quietly. “He was the lad in London.”
“Sam said something about that change,” Harriet offered. “That guy was also the one with that picket sign about Sam being out of time, wasn’t he?”
He nodded. “He was also here a couple of days ago when Samuel and Jackson made their brief scouting visit. I frisked him for steel after removing his camera just now, so Samuel’s safe from that at least.” He nodded to the far side of the stage. “Callum’s the other one to watch.”
“The stage manager?”
“There’s something about him that’s odd,” Oliver said thoughtfully, “but I can’t lay my finger on what.”
“You don’t know?” she asked in surprise.
“Well,” he said modestly, “I might, but where’s the sport in giving anything away?”
She rolled her eyes, ignored the slight noise of amusement coming from Jackson and looked at the man who was facing off with Sam and sounding increasingly unhinged.
“Elwood is his name,” Oliver whispered. “In case you were wondering.”
“Beats calling him what I was calling him in my head,” Harriet said, sending him a quick smile.
He smiled in return, then turned back to watch the madness in front of them. Harriet did the same and wondered just what in the world Sam was going to do to solve the current problem and if he had spared any thought for where that Elizabethan guy had gone.
Time would tell, no doubt.
“I didn’t want to run the troupe!”