The Art of Stealing Time

“’Twas sent from the front.”

“She wants me to put her armor on the horse,” the armor-bearing kid said. His eyes rolled in a dramatic fashion. “On her horse.”

“Armor’s for you, not the horse,” the older boy told me with gravity that made me want to giggle.

“Yes, that was a little misunderstanding. Perhaps you could help this young man to hook the armor that I shall indeed wear later on onto the saddle for now.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Sure you can.” I pointed at the saddle, the rear of which was admittedly awfully full what with all the bundles that had been tied onto it, including the small picnic basket. “Just shove some of that stuff around and make room for it.”

“We can’t do that,” the older boy repeated.

“No, they can’t,” Clarence said as she left Gregory and marched over to us. “You must wear the armor. It would disturb Bottom to have it clanking around his sides. Strap it on and get going. I don’t have all day to spend outfitting you.”

“I can’t ride in all that armor,” I protested.

“Why not?”

My hands flailed around a little as I tried to think of an explanation that didn’t make me sound like a grade A wuss. “It’s . . . cumbersome. I might poke Bottom with my sword.”

Gregory, who had been practicing his riding skills by walking the placid Mabel back and forth behind us, said as he passed, “If I had a nickel for every time I heard someone say that . . .”

“You are not helping,” I shouted after him. He raised his hand to show he heard me.

“Look,” I told the three people in front of me, quite prepared to stand there all day and argue if that’s what it took. “I’m not going to be able to ride in all that mail and plate. What if I have to pee? How on earth am I supposed to get off the horse, pee, and then get back on? I can hardly walk in the stuff, let alone move around.”

“You should have trained better before you volunteered to be one of Lord Aaron’s warriors,” Clarence said, dumping another cup of grain into the bucket when Bottom started to fret.

“I didn’t train at all!”

“There’s your problem,” said the grave young man. “You ought never to have said you were a warrior if you weren’t trained.”

The younger boy, perspiring freely now, nodded, and staggered back slightly.

“They have a point, you know,” Gregory said as his well-behaved horse strolled past with a snort of equine disgust.

I snatched up the helmet and shook it at him. “You know full well I’ve been telling everyone who will listen that I’m not a warrior!”

“And yet you are the one with the armor and the sword.” He shook his head as he carefully negotiated a turn with Mabel.

I took a step toward him, murder in my eye. “And would you like to meet that sword up close and personal?”

He laughed when he drew abreast, swinging one leg over Mabel and sliding to the ground. “You are exceptionally easy to tease, my dear.”

“And you are extremely irritating. You could be helping me, you know! These people don’t seem to understand that I can’t do anything while wearing that stuff.”

“I’m told that well-fitting armor is not cumbersome at all.”

“That may be, but I can guarantee you that this stuff isn’t well-fitting in the least.”

He looked at the armor, lifting first the chest piece, then the shin protectors, glancing at Clarence. “There hasn’t been time for armor to be made for Gwen. This won’t fit her well, and will, in fact, most likely hinder her as she conducts her appointed duties.”

Clarence grabbed Bottom’s saddle cinch, and gave it a mighty jerk. The horse’s eyes narrowed. A back hoof lifted in warning. “That is not my problem.”

“It will be if we have to report back to Aaron that you willingly sent her off unable to do the job he specifically asked her to do.”

Gregory’s tone was mild, but there was something about him, either a look in his eye or a set to his jaw that carried a lot of weight with it. I couldn’t help but be impressed that he could command so much attention without lifting a finger.

Clarence hesitated, then snapped an order to the two boys. “Take away the plate. She can wear the mail. It, at least, doesn’t have to be so fitted. But it’s on your head if Lord Aaron finds her running around without being properly equipped.”

He murmured something noncommittal, and despite my protestations, assisted the older boy in sliding what amounted to a thick cotton tunic over my clothes, followed by at least twenty pounds of finely made mail. The mail was also in tunic form, and hung down to mid-thigh.

We headed out about ten minutes later, Gregory having been given directions of how to find the encampment and me swearing to myself as sweat formed between my breasts.

“If I’m already this hot and uncomfortable,” I bitched as we rode out of the lower bailey and into a panorama made up of rolling green hills, “I’m going to be outright miserable by the time we get to the camp. What time do you think we’ll roll in there?”

“To the camp?” Gregory squinted up at the sky. “Probably about lunchtime tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Bottom, who appeared to be temporarily sated by his consumption of treats, tossed his head and did a few warning dance steps to the side. I got him under control again, although he saw fit to bare his teeth, attempt to bite my foot, and as a pointed comment on my equestrian abilities, poop in a particularly loud, obnoxious fashion. “What do you mean, tomorrow? Like tomorrow tomorrow? The day after today tomorrow?”

“That’s generally how the word ‘tomorrow’ is defined, yes.” He slid me a curious glance. “Apparently the battleground location is at the opposite end of Anwyn.”

“Great! Just great! Bottom, so help me, if you try to bite my foot again, I won’t let you have any of that special traveling food that Clarence packed for you.”

“Why are you so upset?” Gregory asked as the horses adopted a comfortable distance-eating walk.

“Because he’s got big teeth, and I have no doubt he’d shred my shoe if he actually got hold of it.”

“Not why are you upset that the horse is trying to bite your foot; why are you so upset that it will take us a day to reach the camp? Is it your mothers that you are worried about, or something else?”

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. The man had the most uncanny knack of seeming to know what I was thinking. “Of course I’m worried about my mothers. They’re prisoners, held by a man who evidently doesn’t have a problem stealing someone’s deer, dog, and bird. I wonder if that’s why there are so many dogs at Ethan’s camp? I bet no one spays and neuters their pets here.”

“That was an excellent change of subject. It almost sucked me in,” Gregory commented.

Damn him.

“All right, let’s just get this out into the open, then, shall we?” I took a deep breath, corrected Bottom’s course when he decided that a butterfly flitting past us was a deadly threat and attempted to shoot off at a forty- five-degree angle, and said with as much composure as I could muster, “You wish for me to sleep with you.”

“Not necessarily.”

I looked at him in surprise, embarrassment making my cheeks go bright red.

“I’m willing to sleep with you, instead, if that makes it any better.”

“You . . . no, I said . . . Wait a minute. That’s the same thing!”

He smiled. “If I told you that I love that you are just a little bit gullible, would you consider that an insult?”

“Yes! It’s very insulting.” We rode in silence for two minutes. “I am not gullible. I just believe that people are telling the truth.”

Gregory pursed his lips, but said nothing.