Warrior and the Wanderer by Holcombe Elizabeth

Author:Holcombe, Elizabeth [Holcombe, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Elizabeth Holcombe
Published: 2014-12-23T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten: The Fan Club

The bare wood skeleton of the backstage, put together with nails and pegs, reminded Ian of the shape of the metal scaffolding that had been used to erect the enormous, elaborate stages in the arenas he used to play. When he had a band, and was part of something greater than the sum of his own ego.

The trio of musicians walked past him, casting wary glances in his direction.

“Good work, lads,” Ian said with a nod. “Cheers.”

They nodded and shuffled quickly away from him, snaking a small trail around the open servants door.

They had done bloody well with the music he had given them, transcribed while when he was in prison, with of all things a quill and powdered soot he had mixed with the white of an egg. The guards had done nothing short of making him feel ignorant when they had showed him how to make the ink.

At this moment he felt relief.

Relief that his head and neck was still joined together. The teenage king had enjoyed the Elvis tune as much teenagers from Ian’s mother’s generation had…or would in about four hundred and fifty years. Ian had played for young royalty once before. English princes named William and Harry. They had offered him the same reserved royal enthusiasm, as did this young King James.

The queen regent, well she had enjoyed that old Righteous Brothers tune “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin”. Of course she did. He didn’t know a woman yet who didn’t get that far away look in her eyes when he sang it with the right emotion. But Bess had just stared at him though. And he and seen fright in her eyes.

He promised Bess that you would help her. The queen and her son, the king, were out there. He would go tell them that he rescued Bess from Lachlan MacLean’s death-on-a-rock. She wanted him to do that for her. It would be his encore.

A servant strolled past him bearing a tray with several decanter-looking glasses with a dark burgundy liquid in each one. Steam rose from the wide lips of the decanters. The vapor tapped Ian’s nostrils. Wine, meade to be exact. He knew what that was…

“…Dutch courage,” he whispered.

As the servant passed he reached up and snatched one of the decanters from the pewter tray. The servant didn’t notice.

Standing there holding the decanter by its thick neck, he looked all around the backstage. In another time of his life he would have had catering fit for royalty, only it would have been for himself: Russian caviar (which he would never have eaten, it just looked impressive), green M&M’s (some lackey must have gone troppo picking out the other colors), a never ending supply of Dom Perignon, and lots of enthusiastic and eager groupies.

So, here he stood after a royal command performance, about to drink alone and all he could think of was having Bess join him.

She had been frightened when he sang at her. Was her fright because she

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