"Well?" she said sharply, after waving her attendants out of earshot;
"Nothing about Mathilda," he said. "I didn't expect there'd been any conspiracy there, anyway. It looks like serendipity; she and Molalla's son just happened to be where the Mackenzies were raiding-they'd decided to come home that day on the spur of the moment, no way to anticipate it. And the Mackenzies won't hurt her, you know that."
"They won't hurt her body. I want her back, Norman!"
He made a soothing gesture. "So do I, my love. So do I; very badly indeed. But we'll have to be extremely careful. A botched attempt could result in her being hurt. At the least, we'll have to wait for them to drop their guard and relax a bit."
She bit her lip, eyes troubled, then nodded sharply; less in agreement than recognition there was nothing immediate they could do. That knowledge made him swallow a bubble of acid-tasting anger, but there wasn't. Not yet.
But when the time comes: he thought, and saw her perfect agreement.
"What about the VX?" she said, forcing herself to attend to business.
Arminger smiled sourly: "We'll still have to confirm the location he gave us, but I finally managed to persuade him."
She raised an eyebrow and he went on: "You might say I made him an offer he couldn't survive."
Chapter Eighteen
Larsdalen, Willamette Valley, Oregon
May 16th, 2007 AD-Change Year Nine
"You haven't built much in the way of forts over in Britain?" Mike Havel said politely, as they rode under the Larsdalen gate.
"More a matter of refurbishing old ones," Nigel Loring said, running a shrewd eye over the stonework. "Mass concrete, really, isn't it?"
"Built like Hoover Dam, but around a framework of I-beams," Havel agreed. "I don't suppose you did need to start from scratch, much, over there."
"If there is one thing England isn't short of, it's castles-or Ireland or the Continent either," Loring agreed. "Most of them in nice strategic locations, as well."
Havel shook his head. "Strange to think Britain did so well."
Loring's mouth quirked and he ran his forefinger over his mustache. "More a matter of Britain doing very badly and everyone else in the vicinity doing even worse, actually. Once we restored order, there wasn't much actual fighting. Not in mainland Britain, because there wasn't anyone left to fight. We've had to do a bit of sword work on the Continent, and against the Moors. And in Ireland -a bad business, that, and I can't see any end to it."
Havel surprised him by laughing aloud. "Christ Jesus, you Brits are getting back to your roots," he said. "What's next, fighting the Spanish Armada?"
"Welclass="underline" in point of fact, old boy, we're colonizing Spain ourselves. From Gibraltar, you see. It was empty, and it was that or let the Moors have it: "
Havel 's laugh grew. "Another empire 'acquired in a fit of absence of mind'?" he asked, surprising the Englishman.
"To be absolutely honest, that phrase always struck me as a bit silly-clever, if you know what I mean. Presence of mind, rather; profit and preaching, philanthropy and plunder, pinching a bit of land for those not welcome at home, and incidentally keeping the bloody Frogs out. Doubtless it'll be the same this time, although now the French aren't a problem, eh? Now, they had bad luck: I'm a bit surprised you came up with the quotation."
"Got it from my father-in-law; I think you'll like him. Anyway, it hasn't been so straightforward here. Things are less: compact. Not as easy for someone to come out on top quickly."
Havel answered the salute of the gate detachment, and then waved to the crowd beyond; it was several hundred strong, and in everything from farmhand's overalls to A-lister armor. Loring cocked an eye at the reaction; not as loud as the cheers Arminger had received, but he judged it to be a good deal more authentic. Havel rose in the stirrups to address the crowd.
"Well, Crusher Bailey isn't going to be troubling the northern marches anymore," he said. "Last time I saw him, he was dancing on air with some crows waiting for lunch after the performance." That raised another cheer, louder and with a savage edge to it. "We had a brush with the Protector's men too, and they came away sorry and sore."
The cheer turned into a snarl; evidently the Protector was unpopular here. The snarl turned into a chant, with fists and swords brandished above it:
"Lord Bear! Lord Bear! Lord Bear! Hakkaa paalle!"
"All right, cut it out! No biggie! Everyone get back to what you were doing, for Christ's sake!"
And he doesn't need to wallow in it, the way Arminger did, either, Loring thought.
With the Pride of St. Helens thoroughly lost, it seemed Oregon was where he would stay-and his son, and John
Hordle-unless they felt like an overland trek. Once the adrenaline rush of escape was over, that had been depress-ingly certain. Finding that some of the Lord Protector's enemies were better company was reassuring. And, of course: His mouth quirked.
"Que?" Havel asked.
"Oh." Didn't think my musing was that obvious. "I was just thinking that if I had to land in the middle of a war at my advanced age, at least it's one I could feel enthusiastic about."
Havel smiled, a crooked expression. "I'm glad you ended up in it too, Sir Nigel. There aren't many people whose judgment on a man I'll take at more or less face value, but Sam Aylward is one of them, and he says you're very capable and: 'fly' is the way he puts it."
The newcomers dismounted, and grooms led the horses away; Bearkillers and Mackenzies mingled, talking with friends and relations, or being led away to the bunkhouses for visitors. Two girls came running, their blond braids bouncing as they leapt at Mike Havel; he staggered slightly under their combined nine-year-old weights and then turned with one under each arm, the skirts of his hauberk flying. Nigel blinked for a moment; they were identical, and if one hadn't had a scratch on the cheek he couldn't have told which was which from one second to the next as the Bearkiller lord whirled about.
"Mom! Dad!" they squealed; Signe Havel stood with her hands on her hips and laughed.
"Mary, Ritva, if you can leave off trying to murder your old man, there are guests to meet," Mike said.
Loring hid a smile as he gravely shook hands with both; so did Alleyne, and had the effect he usually did on females.
I can't quite understand it, the elder Loring thought, watching them blink and beam at his son. Granted, he's taller than I was at his age, and a good deal more handsome: perhaps it's the smile? He must have gotten it from Maude.
Then he watched their eyes go wide as they looked up and up and up at John Hordle. The big young man laughed like boulders rumbling as his huge paw engulfed their small hands, then knelt.
"Want a ride, young misses?" he grinned; they hopped on his shoulders, sitting easily with their arms around his sallet helm, and he and Alleyne followed the rest of the party up to the great brick house.
Mike Havel started to follow, when a voice checked him:
"Lord Bear!"
The crowd had dispersed, except for a few. One was a determined-looking young woman of about twenty with a man only a little older standing off to one side, obviously trying to look as if he wasn't with her. The occasional angry glares they exchanged argued for a close relationship.
"Lord Bear, I've got a petition."
Havel paused. "It can't wait until tomorrow? Dinner's ready: oh, all right. You're Yvonne Hawkins, aren't you?" he said to the girl. "Work in the dairy?"
She had an open-air prettiness, work-worn hands, dark hair in braids down past her shoulders, and she wore a sweater and denim skirt and broguelike shoes.
"Yes, Lord Bear," she said, ducking her head. "Milking, and on the separator. My folks farm on Lord and Lady Hutton's land. I've got a complaint."
The Bearkiller chieftain suppressed an impatient snort-Loring thought it unlikely the girl would notice-and set himself, with the air of a man who does something necessary but unpleasant.