Overtime (22 page)

His brothers examined the entry. They read it again. Giovanni said something profane under his breath, and grinned.

‘Now that,' he said, ‘is what I call landing on your feet. Marco.'

Marco smiled, preparatory to preening himself. ‘Yes?'

‘Get them in, there's a good lad,' Giovanni said, indicating the empty glasses. ‘And while you're at it, see if anybody's got a street map.'

 

La Beale Isoud tapped her foot.

‘Mr Goodlet,' she said, ‘enough is enough. I can take a joke as well as anyone, but this is getting silly. Either you open that door this minute, or—'

The door opened, and Blondel crawled through. ‘Hello, Sis,' he said. ‘Is supper ready? I'm starving. You've met Guy, haven't you?'

‘Mr
Goodlet!'
said La Beale Isoud. ‘Come back here at once.'

Guy, halfway back down the coal-cellar steps, froze. Like an exhausted stag turning at bay, he knew when he'd had enough. He smiled weakly.

‘We have met, yes,' he said. ‘Blondel...'

But Blondel wasn't listening; either to Guy, who was trying to explain in a loud and urgent whisper, or to La Beale Isoud, who was providing a different version of the same basic facts in a much louder voice. He waved a hand placidly and walked through into his study, leaving Guy and La Beale Isoud together. He probably thought he was being tactful.

‘Mademoiselle, er de Nesle,' Guy said, ‘I think we really ought to ...'

La Beale Isoud swept past him and locked the coal-cellar door with a little silver key, which she then dropped down the front of her dress. It must have been cold, because she winced slightly. ‘Now then, Mr Goodlet,' she said grimly, ‘I think we most certainly ought to get a few things straight, here and now. First, if you think for one moment that I want to marry you, you couldn't be more wrong.'

‘Oh,' Guy said. He felt like a boxer whose opponent has just punched himself forcefully on the nose. ‘Well, I...'

‘If you were the last man in the entire world,' La Beale Isoud went on, ‘and they were giving away free alarm clock radios with every wedding bouquet, I still wouldn't marry you, if it was up to me.'

‘It is, surely.'

La Beale Isoud looked at him. ‘What?' she asked.

‘Up to you,' Guy said. ‘I mean, I'm with you a hundred per cent there. Who you marry - who you don't marry, more to the point - surely that's your business and nobody else's. You stick to your guns.'

‘Mr Goodlet,' said La Beale Isoud dangerously, ‘the fact remains that we are married - or we will be, which is roughly the same thing, I suppose. The question is, what can we do about it?'

‘We could get a divorce,' Guy said. ‘If we book one now, perhaps it could be ready by the time we—'

‘Divorce,' said La Beale Isoud, ‘is out of the question. The scandal would be unthinkable.'

‘Surely not.'

‘Kindly,' said La Beale Isoud, ‘do not interrupt. As far as I'm concerned, divorce is entirely out of the question. If you have any
sensible
suggestions, I should be pleased to hear them.'

Guy thought, but all he could come up with was suicide. He stared at his feet uncomfortably.

‘I take it,' Isoud went on, ‘that you have nothing constructive to suggest. Very well, then. I take it that we'll just have to find some - how can I put it? - some form of civilised compromise.'

Guy nodded. ‘That suits me,' he said. ‘I'm all for civilisation. What had you in mind?'

La Beale Isoud glowered at him. ‘Frankly, Mr Goodlet,' she said, ‘I feel that only one form of compromise is likely to be acceptable; namely that, after we are married, we see as little of each other as possible.'

‘Fair enough,' Guy said. ‘Separate beds, you mean?'

‘I mean,' Isoud replied, ‘separate centuries.'

Guy raised an eyebrow. ‘Don't get me wrong,' he said, ‘I think it's a perfectly splendid idea. But you said a minute ago that you didn't want a divorce because of how it would look. Wouldn't having a husband hundreds of years in the future look almost as bad? Or doesn't it work like that?'

‘If you intend to make difficulties—'

‘No, no,' Guy said quickly, ‘perish the thought. Besides,' he added, ‘if we're hundreds of years apart, then really the whole thing becomes pretty well academic anyway, doesn't it? I mean, you could marry someone else, I could marry someone else, nobody would ever know ...'

‘Mr
Goodlet
!'

‘Oh come on, now,' Guy said, ‘be reasonable.

Anyway, doesn't it say somewhere in the book of rules that if your wife hasn't been heard of for seven years she's assumed to be dead? Think it's seven years, though I'd have to ask my lawyer. I mean, that way we'd have all the advantages of a divorce without the ...'

Something about La Beale Isoud's expression - perhaps it was the ferocious look in her limpid blue eyes - gave Guy to understand that he wasn't really doing himself much good. He decided to change the subject.

‘Anyway,' he said, ‘we can sort something out, between us, you know, later. Plenty of time for that. Um.'

That seemed to be that. La Beale Isoud, perhaps not able to trust herself to speak further, stomped out of the hall, and shortly afterwards Guy heard the sound of large copper pans being banged about.

Then Blondel came back into the hall. He had changed out of his usual outfit into another, exactly the same but cleaner, and had combed his hair. Guy had the feeling that La Beale Isoud was rather strict about such things. He shuddered; and Blondel, observing him, grinned weakly.

‘Isoud told me the good news,' he said, ‘I ought to congratulate you, but I'm a realist. Never mind, it may never happen.'

‘Thanks,' Guy replied, ‘but it already has. Or it already will have. How do you cope with all these future tenses, by the way?'

‘I don't,' Blondel replied. ‘When you whizz about in time like I do, you tend to get the sense of what people say rather better if you don't actually listen to the words. Just stick with the general sort of tune and you won't go far wrong. Fancy a drink?'

Guy nodded. A drink, he felt, would be almost as good an idea as something to eat. It was a very long time since he'd had anything to eat, and he didn't want to get out of practice. He mentioned this; and the words were no sooner past the gate of his teeth when there came from the far room the sound of somebody hitting a piece of quick-fry steak with a wooden mallet, very hard.

‘It sounds to me,' Blondel said, ‘as if Isoud's fixing something for us right now. You're welcome to stay.'

‘Thank you,' Guy replied. ‘But I'd hate to impose, I mean...'

Blondel nodded. ‘So would I,' he replied, ‘but I'm stuck with her. Look, Guy, my dear fellow, are you
sure
you wouldn't like to marry her? Permanently, I mean. Sort of, take her a long way away? I'm sure she'd make you a wonderful wife, and then I could just get a hamburger or a couple of pancakes on my way home in the evenings, instead of having to gnaw my way through scale models of the Krak Des Chevaliers in mashed potato.'

‘Mashed potato?'

‘Exactly,' Blondel replied, shaking his head. ‘My sister has this problem with mashed potato. She gets it confused with food. Mind you, all the women in my family believe in substantial meals. You take,' he added, with a slight grimace, ‘my sister Ysabel. Give her five loaves and two fishes, and you could invite both Houses of Parliament.'

‘Er...'

‘Thought not,' Blondel said. ‘Don't blame you. I'm told it's worse once you've actually married them, but mercifully I'm not in a position to speak authoritatively on that point.'

‘I ...'

‘Pretending to have toothache doesn't help, either,' Blondel continued, with the air of a man settling down to a cherished topic, ‘because then they've got an excuse to make soup. Do you have any idea of the number of saucepans an active, able-bodied woman can use making soup? They aren't allowed to wash up, by the way, because of their fingernails. Cracks them, or something similarly absurd. On that basis, I should be walking around with half a pound of shrapnel on the ends of my arms. It's a conspiracy, that's what it is. They learn it from their mothers.'

Guy nodded. ‘In the meantime,' he asked, ‘have you got any biscuits, or anything like that? Sorry to be a nuisance, but ...'

‘My dear fellow, I was forgetting.' Blondel looked round at the door behind which La Beale Isoud was, to judge by the sound effects, lacerating carrots, checked that it was firmly shut, and then jumped for one of the lamp-brackets. He caught it, swung himself up into one of the window mullions, picked something out of a crack in the stonework, and threw it down to Guy. It was a leather satchel containing three and a half rolls of chocolate digestives.

‘It's my secret supply,' he called down in a loud whisper. ‘Got to keep them hidden, or she'll pound them up for cheesecake base. She makes a cheesecake that'd stop crossbow bolts. Help yourself.'

Guy tipped some biscuits into his pockets and threw the bag back quickly. Blondel, having restored his treasure, lowered himself back down again, his jaws moving furtively.

‘It's not as if she doesn't make biscuits too,' he said, through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘But they're those brick-hard ones with almonds and no chocolate. I mean, brilliant for lining a fireplace, but not much use for constructive eating. Now then, we were thinking about having a drink.'

But before they could get to the decanters, there was a hammering at the coal-cellar door. Blondel raised both eyebrows in astonishment.

‘Expecting anybody?' he asked.

Guy shook his head.

‘Well,' Blondel said, ‘I'm not, and unless it's double glazing then someone would appear to have followed us. And we don't get many offers of double glazing in the eleventh century. Be different if this was Chartres or Saint Denis. I think I'd better see who it is.'

With a swift movement of his hand, he drew a sword down from the wall and hid it behind his back. With the other hand he undid the bolts on the door and pulled it open. Through the door came Giovanni, Iachimo and Marco.

‘I wasn't far wrong,' he said, ‘at that. What on earth do you gentlemen want?' He produced the sword and smiled. ‘You'd better come in,' he said. ‘And take your hats off quick.'

The Galeazzo brothers uncovered their heads immediately. Blondel grinned and put up his sword.

‘Drink, anybody?' he said. ‘I hope you all like mashed potato. Now, how did you get here, and what do you want?' He poured out five glasses of mead with a flourish and handed them round.

‘We were telexed,' Marco said, and would undoubtedly have explained further had not Giovanni trodden on his foot. He had to get up and walk across the hall to do it; but Marco was trained to obey certain signals, and if one didn't use them it only confused him.

‘We were just passing,' Giovanni said, ‘on our way back from the Archives; stopped off for a drink, happened to notice your name in the phone book, thought we'd drop in on the off chance you were in.' He looked about him. ‘Nice place you have here,' he said. ‘I wonder if you've ever considered whether you've got it adequately insured. We can offer you ...'

Blondel shook his head. ‘No point,' he said. ‘In five days' time it gets burnt down. Not a stone left standing.'

‘Ah.'

‘Mind you,' Blondel went on, ‘every four days I move it back in time. That means I get to pay reduced rates, too. Handy.'

Giovanni looked at his brothers and shrugged. ‘Anyway,' he said, ‘this isn't entirely a social call.'

Blondel grinned. ‘You amaze me,' he said.

‘In fact,' Giovanni went on, ‘we have some very serious business to discuss. You realise that you are in breach of your contract?'

‘Oh yes?'

Giovanni nodded gravely. ‘Clauses 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 and 20.'

‘Really?' Blondel said. ‘What's Clause 19 about, then?'

‘There isn't one,' Giovanni replied. ‘Originally it was your right to receive a duly audited account every financial year, but it got deleted.'

‘Did it?'

‘Yes.'

‘I see.' Blondel poured himself another glass of mead, picked some beeswax out of it with his fingernail, and smiled. ‘But I'm in breach of the rest of it, am I?'

‘I'm afraid so,' Giovanni said. ‘However — '

‘That's very serious, isn't it?'

‘It could be,' Giovanni replied, ‘potentially. That's why—'

‘If I was you,' Blondel purred, ‘I'd sue.'

Giovanni blinked. ‘You would?'

Blondel nodded vigorously. ‘Too right,' he replied. ‘Can't have people going about the place playing fast and loose with binding agreements, can we? No, bash on, that's what I'd do, and stand up for your rights.'

‘Um...'

‘In fact,' Blondel said, ‘there's no time like the present, is there? Now it so happens,' he said, standing up and taking down a sword and a shield from the wall, ‘that this castle is within the jurisdiction' - he swung the sword in his hand to check the balance; it passed - ‘of the Supreme Court of the Barony of Nesle, of which I' - he tested the point, swore, and licked his finger - ‘am hereditary Chief Justiciar. Normally, there's quite a backlog of cases, but just at present I think we could fit you in. Trial by combat, naturally.'