Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (35 page)

“Hmmm.”

Alex kissed Miranda on the cheek and said goodbye then returned to Marks and Spencer. He searched the display tables in the lingerie department. He couldn’t find a bra and panties exactly like the ones Miranda bought. After spending several minutes trying to hunt down a sales girl, one happened by. He hooked her elbow.

“You had a very feminine, bronze colored bra on the sale table this morning?” The clerk stared vacantly at him. “Satin ribbons, loads of lace.” Her gaze didn’t alter. “It was the fanciest one on display. There were matching panties in the same color, also with frilly lace,” he told her with growing impatience.

Her head bobbed up and down then stopped. Silence.

Alex waved his hand in front of her face. “Hello.”

“What?”

“Think you can handle a trip to the stockroom to check on another set?” She nodded but didn’t move. “Now.”

“Oh, right. I’ll look for a nice black set too in case I can’t find the others.”

“No. They have to be the same style, the same color.” Alex said. “Bring out whatever size you find.”

The sales girl disappeared behind the “employee’s only” door. After several minutes, she returned with the matching pair. The wait had almost made him late for an appointment.

Finished with the business meeting, Alex rang Ian. “I’m over here on the west end, not far from your studio. Meet me at the Thistle Club. I’ve a complimentary invite. They want me to join. We’ll have dinner and drinks. I have some intriguing information for you.”

“I can’t believe you’re considering joining a club.” Ian said.

“I’m not. You know me. All these clubs filled with walrusy old men, flaunting their old school ties. Too bloody dreary for my tastes. However, the dinner is free and they are supposed to have a fine chef.”

Ian laughed. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

****

Over the rim of his glass, Alex saw the maitre‘d lead Ian to the tap room. The tuxedoed host snapped his fingers and an ancient waiter appeared. Ian ordered a double Johnnie Walker Blue Label on the rocks.

The waiter returned with the drink and a humidor the size of a laptop computer, only deeper.

Alex rummaged through and selected a long, thin Cuban. He twirled the cigar between his fingers and passed it under his nose. “Do you think these are really rolled on the thighs of Cuban women?”

Ian clipped the end of one he’d already removed and handed the cutter to Alex along with his lighter.

“One can hope.” Ian inhaled deeply and leaned back into the chair. He blew out a cloud of smoke and said, “I’m looking forward to trying the steaks here. I understand they’re better than the Maze Grill.”

“I love the Maze, brilliant filets. You can cut them with a spoon,” Alex added between puffs. He eyed a waiter carrying a tray of hot hors d’oeuvres. “Isn’t it amazing the different and delicious foods available to people now? Meat that isn’t dried, or tainted or maggoty.”

“—or at one time, whinnied or brayed prior to hitting your plate,” Ian chimed in.

A bluish-white cloud hung around their heads. Whenever it began to dissipate, the fog of smoke was replenished by the exhalation of one or the other.

“Those last few weeks in France when our supplies were almost exhausted we foraged along with the horses, I’d have called you a liar if you told me one day we have shops with aisle after aisle of every food imaginable. To use a modern cliché, that morning at Poitiers, I was so hungry, my stomach thought my throat was cut.”

The irony in Ian’s comment brought a small chuckle.

Both men sat silent, smoking, each lost in memory.

Alex swallowed the rest of his drink. “I had an interesting conversation with
your
Miranda.”

“When?”

“Today.”

“Today? Where did you see her?”

“I ran into her at Marks and Sparks.”

“Isn’t it unusual for you to be over this way before late afternoon?”

“I had business in the area. Running into Miranda was a lucky coincidence.”

After a few minutes, Ian said, “What did the two of you talk about that you found so interesting?”

“You, as King Arthur.”

“Oh? Go on.”

“She had a vision of me, a brief one according to Miranda. I think she was remembering a day when Elinor and I were talking about music. I can’t recall where you had gone off to.”

“What do you mean she had a vision of you?”

Alex leaned far back in the chair and blew out a long stream of smoke. “The name of a song I sang while Elinor lay on the sofa and listened. It’s a sad song and the words struck me as reflective of our circumstance. She remembered me singing. She remembered most of what I wore.” He smiled. “I can’t believe she recalled such a small thing.”

Ian didn’t say a word.

“Look, don’t take what I said wrong.” Alex sat up straight. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was flattered, simple as that.”

“A busker the other day played one of Elinor’s favorite songs. Miranda was with me so I had him play it twice. It meant nothing to her.”

“Ian—,”

“Let’s talk about something else. How does Miranda see me as King Arthur?”

“She actually sees you as kind of Clive Owen type—Clive doing King Arthur to be specific.”

Ian blew on the end of his cigar. The burning tip flared red then receded back to a dull orange. “I can see that. Did you tell her I’m taller than Clive?”

“No. I’ve never met the man. I’ve no idea how tall he is.”

“Well, I have. He’s tall.” Ian tapped the ashes of his cigar and added with a smug grin, “But I’m taller.”

“You tell her. I figure I’ve chatted you up enough. If I talk about you too much, she’ll think I’m a poof.”

Ian’s grin broadened.

****

Carla opened the door. “Alex, what a lovely surprise?”

“Hello, sweetling. Are you up for a late night date?” he asked and came inside, the Marks & Spencer box in his hand.

Carla stepped close and kissed him hard and slow. “I’m always available for a late anything with you.”

She slid her fingers into his waistband, low enough for the tips to drag along the heavy line of hair that trailed to his groin. “Make yourself a drink. I’ll just go and change.”

Alex handed her the small box with a bow around the outside. “I’d like you to wear these tonight.”

“Ooh, a present. I love presents,” Carla cooed and unwrapped the gift. “I’ve never had a man buy me lingerie before. Well, not...hmmm...conventional lingerie.”

“Yes, they’re definitely different than your usual style.”

She ran her hand over the lace that bordered the high, French cut legs of the panties. “I like your taste though. Pretty color, bronze.”

The phone hadn’t rung in the last hour. All the little brush fire crises of the morning were extinguished. Miranda and Ian sat talking, enjoying the rare peace. Then Charles, the production assistant, and Evelyn the wardrobe mistress, dashed into Ian's trailer. A flushed and agitated Charles started babbling before Ian could put his coffee down.

"Terry and some of his men are refusing to wear the equipment you designated."

Behind him, Evelyn nodded in agreement.

The Poitou-Charentes regional authorities refused the production company permits to film at the actual location of the battle. What was the English side of the battlefield now had a tract of up-scale homes. “The presence of a film company is an unacceptable disturbance to the residents,” the authorities said.

The production company chose the area near Rutland Water, an English location with similar countryside. They’d rehearsed with props for the last three days. Today, they were supposed to rehearse in full costume with both types of props Ian requested. In two days, they'd shoot the Battle of Poitiers scene. He was very specific about the sequence and involved himself in every aspect of its filming. Tempers flared more than once between him and Terry Gatcombe, the stunt coordinator.

“I’ve had it with Gatcombe.” Ian's patience snapped as he spotted the source of his anger through the small window. “I’m putting an end to his bullshit,” he said, throwing open the trailer door. Ian ignored the little stairs and jumped onto the grass and strode towards his nemesis.

Terry and his assistant, Duncan, a bear of a Scotsman were stretched out playing cards on the grass. Neither man bothered to stop their play at Ian's approach.

"I understand you have an objection to the equipment." Ian snatched the cards from their hands and tossed them aside.

Miranda might've picked them up before they blew away, but she didn't want to miss a word. Besides, she rationalized those two didn't deserve to have their stuff rescued. As far as she was concerned, Terry and Duncan were crude buggers at the best of times and bottom dwellers most of the time.

In one smooth and quick motion, Terry rolled to his feet. A large man, he stood tall as Ian, but about a stone heavier.

"Yeah, I do. There's no reason for my men to suffer wearing the armor you ordered. The lighter weight replica stuff will look like the real thing on camera."

The two men stood face to face each assessing the other.

"First, not all of the men have to wear the custom made, more authentic gear. Just the men in the foreground where the heaviest action is depicted and the camera will concentrate need wear that armor. Secondly, it appears the same on film, but the effect is not the same." Ian's level tone was civil but firm.

Only Miranda knew him well enough to know the extent of his anger. She'd seen him get pretty pissed the last few weeks, never had he raised his voice. On the contrary, the more intense his outrage, the more stoic he became. This wasn't an area he'd tolerate disobedience.

Ian lifted several items of replica armor one by one from the table. He tested the weight, moving each from hand to hand.

"The better pieces here are carbon steel. This new steel is very different than the steel used in the fourteenth century. Some of the rest of this junk is aluminum. The men in the close-ups wearing the light steel bits will look like Robin and his Merry Men. The ones in the beer can material will come off like ballerinas."

Terry had no opportunity to respond.

“Fatigue was always a factor then. A knight accustomed to the weight was neither slow nor ponderous in his movements, but more deliberate. He had to focus his attack. He had to try and wear his opponent down, while conserving his own energy. Prancing around like Sherwood Forest Nancy Boys would’ve gotten a knight killed." Ian tossed the armor down on the table with the same disregard he's shown the cards.

"I'm sure to a his-to-r-i-an like yourself it might seem to make a difference." Terry dragged the word out accentuating each syllable.

Miranda sucked in air through her teeth and remained close to Ian, morbidly fascinated by Terry's stupidity.

"Your set and this set are both steel. At the end of the day, the difference will be negligible on film."

"You think so?" Ian replied with a note of provocation in his tone. "A short, mail hauberk was about twenty pounds. Add another seven or so for the helm, three to three-and-a-half for the arming sword, add in the individual plate sections, and it's roughly fifty pounds." He stacked the pieces of the replica armor Terry swore by and lifted the pile. "I'm guessing yours to be twenty to twenty-five pounds, maybe."