In the Time of Kings (22 page)

I had hoped details would jog my memory, but it’s all a blank. “Tell me more.”

“The next day you left to join James Douglas, who was tasked to carry our king’s heart to the Holy Land. You fought at Teba, some say bravely ... others claim you were a coward. Within the year, you returned to Scotland, but ... even when I came south to Blacklaw to join you, you would not visit my bed. Again and again you quarreled with your father. Then you were captured and taken to England. Do you remember that?”

“No, I don’t.” Half a minute passes before I remember why I asked her here to begin with, “Tell me, what ... what does the Abbot of Melrose say about me?”

“He questions your faith. Many do. There were rumors that while in Spain you had converted, become one of the Cathars.” She lays her hand over mine then. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“A Cathar — and if not a Perfect, then a Credente.”

Again with the Cathars. I’d never questioned Duncan much about them, but he, too, had mentioned them. “I’d answer you if I knew what they were.”

“Cathars believe our souls are reborn seven times before they finally ascend. As you know, that goes against the teachings of the Church.” I don’t know, but I’m not about to admit my ignorance of Church matters. “When the abbot was here, you refused the meat. In the time I have known you, I have not seen any pass your lips.” Her gaze drops to her lap. “Cathars do not eat meat.”

That explains the stares and whispers. Apparently, in the Middle Ages being a vegetarian amounts to heresy. “The night the abbot was here, I wasn’t hungry, really.”

“Then you live on bread and water. Cathars renounce the world.”

I feel like I’m being unjustly judged, convicted on rumor alone. “You seem to know a lot about these Cathars. How is that?”

“I know what I need to. I also know that in order to obtain purification, Cathars believe they must abstain from pleasures of the flesh.” Her voice takes on a plaintive tone. “Why have you never shared my bed?”

What am I supposed to tell her — that I already have a wife and I come from almost seven hundred years in the future?

As to why Roslin Sinclair had kept from her ... Maybe what she’s saying is true? I draw my hand from her leg, rest on my haunches. “There’s so much I don’t remember. I wish I did.”

“Yet you’re here with me now and still you will barely look at me, as if you do not want to be tempted. I was young when we married, yes, but I’m more than old enough for childbearing now.” She looks at me a long time before speaking again, her gaze cutting to my soul. “Are you one of them?”

Clasping my head in my hands, I sigh. “No, I’m not
one of them
.” Then I fold forward, my forehead touching the worn planks of the floor. I just want to get back to Claire, see that she’s well, and take her home. I want this to end.

Yet I want to be here. Completely. Where I am now, it’s like being trapped between heaven and hell and I hate it.

Mariota slides to the floor to sit beside me, her slender fingers stroking my hair. “Who
are
you?”

It’s all too much to deal with. I don’t know what I should tell her, if anything at all. Hell, I’m beginning to doubt myself. I roll over to look up at her. Her concern is genuine. Stretching out, I lay my head in her lap. This is weird and yet ... comforting. I need someone to tell my secret to. Someone who will believe me. If I don’t confide in someone soon, my skull is going to implode.

“If I share the truth with you, Mariota, you must swear on your life not to tell anyone.”

“That is a grave oath to make without knowing what that truth is.”

“Then maybe you aren’t ready to hear it yet? I can’t tell you if you can’t promise me.”

“Is there danger in knowing?”

Given what they do to non-believers here, yes.

I sit up and frame her face in my hands. “No, I won’t tell you. Not yet. In the end, it may not matter anyway. We need to get to know each other first.” Closing my eyes, I lean forward, touch my forehead to hers. “Whether or not you trust me will make all the difference. Until then ...”

With a sigh, she puts her head on my shoulder. Her breath, warm and moist, caresses my throat. All resistance, all anger is gone from her body. I slide an arm around her back and pull her closer. Her hand moves across my thigh, fingers curving lightly around the inside. I lean back against the bed, watching her, thinking I should tell her to stop and yet wanting her to go one step further, past that irretrievable point. If this is a dream, why not let it play out, take its natural course? What red-blooded man hasn’t had one of ‘those’ dreams?

“If they believe you are a Cathar,” she says softly, a tremor of fear in her voice, “they will kill you — and it will not be a quick death. First they will torture you, make you name others. Then once you confess, they will burn you alive.”

Lovely. That’s one way to douse my rising desire. “They have no proof.”

“They don’t need proof to claim you are one.” She slides a leg over mine. “But you could give them proof that you are not. Irrefutable proof.”

“How?”

“Prove you have not forsaken desires of the flesh.” Turning to face me, she straddles my hips and sits back. Her fingers skitter over the laces on her chemise. With agonizing slowness, she tugs them free, revealing a deep cleavage. She inhales, then rolls her shoulders back, shrugging her garment off. Even though the light is dim, the candles wavering on the table behind her, I can make out the pale curving outline of her breasts.

I draw back as much as I can, but that’s hard to do with her weight, however slight, pinning me to the floor. “And just how would we ‘prove’ that? I don’t think they’re going to take our word for it.”

She bites her lip, then bends forward to offer a kiss. Her lips brush mine, teasing. “If we make a child, they will know.”

Oh, God. If she shifts forward a few inches, she’ll know had badly I want to do that.

“Up, Mariota.” My palm cupping her jaw, I guide her face back from mine. “To bed.”

She rolls back, her glance darting nervously to my face and then down as she moves from me. I get to my feet, offering her a hand, but she stands on her own, her arms now limp and awkward at her sides, as though she doesn’t know what to do next.

Of course she doesn’t. She’s a virgin.

The light from this angle is different, even more revealing. Her eyes still downcast, she raises a hand and touches the opening of her chemise.

I grab her hand to stop her. “That honor will be mine, when I choose to take it.”

Perplexed, she blinks at me. I peel back the covers for her. Hesitating, she slides beneath them, her back to me.

I open the chest at the foot of the bed, remove two blankets and place one on the floor.

“Good night, Mariota.”

Slowly, she turns a questioning face to me.

“You don’t trust me yet,” I say. “Until you do, and until I can give up that which I left behind —”

“You love someone else.”

I do ...
did
.

I snap the remaining blanket out and toss it over my shoulders as I lie down. How do you go on loving someone you may never see again? Someone who might already be dead? Can you grieve, not knowing, and simply pick up and go on to give your love to someone else?

All I know is that with every day that goes by, it’s Claire who passes further into memory and Mariota who becomes more and more real, more and more a part of me.

LONG, LONG AGO

Blacklaw Castle, Scotland — 1333

T
he first shards of the sun’s rays span above the horizon, far out over the sea. Here and there, the sky is broken by high dusky clouds of purple etched in silver, drifting lazily northward, promising the splendor of a brilliant morning. The stones on which I sit, tucked away in a crenel along the northern battlements, are damp from the nightlong drizzle. It’s here that I come to think when I can’t sleep — which of late is almost every night.

Closing my eyes, I let my chin drift to my chest. Salty air fills my lungs, the tang of it barely sharp enough to keep me awake. Mariota hasn’t come to my room since that night, over a week ago, nor have I gone to hers. I can’t allow myself to be tempted, even though what I feel for her is so strong it seems like I’m denying a part of myself by keeping from her.

“Who is she?” Mariota says.

My head snaps up. I throw a hand out to catch myself, even though the crenel is deep enough that I’m in no danger of falling. “What?”

She’s standing not ten feet from me, the scuffed toes of her slippers peeking out beneath the hem of a light green gown that has seen many wearings. Her hair is loosely gathered at the nape of her neck, loose strands teased away by the breeze. She, too, looks as though she hasn’t slept much. Step by step, she drifts closer, like one would approach a wounded and frightened animal. “There is someone you care very much about. Someone you love.”

I stretch my legs out, glancing back out over the sea to avoid her gaze. “Why do you think that?”

“I am a woman, Roslin. Not a fool.”

I blow out a loud breath. There’s no longer any sense in keeping my secrets from her.

“Her name is Claire.” It pains me to say her name out loud. I haven’t spoken of her to anyone except Duncan since I arrived here. I’m sure he doesn’t believe me. Carefully, I dare to look at Mariota. “But it doesn’t matter. She’s no threat to you.”

“How so?”

“She’s gone. I’ll never see her again.” Not because Claire had died, because in truth I would never know the outcome of her condition. Finally, I understand. When the truck ran me off the road outside Aberbeg, it was
me
who had died that day.

And I had ended up here, reliving a past life, but with the memories of my future life completely intact.

It’s the only explanation there is. The only possibility.

If Reverend Murray is to be believed, my days here are numbered. Yet ... what if I don’t return to 2013? What if I did die the day I was run off the bridge and it’s some other life that awaits me after this one?

My head hurts just thinking about all the ‘what ifs’.

Mariota stops beside where my shield rests against the wall. With light fingertips, she traces its edge. “Are you
certain
you will never see her again?”

I turn her words over in my mind, trying to gauge the purpose behind them. There is no jealousy in her question, that much I can tell. “Am I certain? No. But ...”

That’s the problem: I’m not certain of anything. Things would be so much easier if I would only choose a path.

I have to let go of my other life. Give up the hope of ever going back. I have to live this life. However short it might be.

Next thing I know, I’m standing an arm’s reach from Mariota. I touch her shoulder.

She’s not a dream or a memory. She’s real, she’s here. I reach out again to draw her to me —

“Ah, there you are!” Duncan waves an arm at me from the inner bailey below. With his other hand, he shakes a spear in the air. I’ve graduated from wooden swords to real ones. Lately, he’s been teaching me not only how to wield other weapons — axe, spear, mace — but how to defend myself against them.

Moving toward the edge of the wall walk, I raise my hand to let him know I’m coming. Then I return to Mariota. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Sir Henry wants to see me then to go over supply lists. Perhaps later ...”

She steps near, nestles her head against my chest. I wrap my arms around her lightly and rest my chin on the top of her head.

“I’ll always be here,” she says, “waiting for you.”

I sense, though, that she’s tired of waiting. And I’ve grown tired of hoping that my life will go back to being the way it once was. Because I can’t keep wishing for what might never be. What I want, what I need, it’s right here in front of me.

––––––––

T
he sun is almost at its zenith and I’m gripped with a sudden panic. I urge my horse into a gallop over the bridge. “Sir Henry’s going to be mad as hell. I was supposed to be back an hour ago.”

“I’ll tell him it was my fault,” Duncan says from behind me, although I can barely hear him above the clatter of hooves. “He’ll fume awhile, I’ll suggest a tankard of ale and after a few gulps all will be forgiven.”

“For you, maybe.” Everything I do seems to provoke Sir Henry. At any rate, I hate being late. I always used to set my watch ten minutes fast to make sure I showed up places on time. Time is relative here, but still if you tell someone to meet you in the morning and it’s well past noon when they arrive ... I deliver a sharp kick to my mount’s flanks and Duncan’s grousing fades away behind me.

Two months ago, it was a struggle to stay in the saddle for more than a few hours. Now it’s as second nature to me as commuting down I-71 once was every morning in my Camry. I can read my horse by the direction of his ears or the arch of his neck, guide him with my thighs and a lean of my body. Duncan has a hard time keeping up with me. He won’t admit it, but on a good day I could beat him at swords now, too.

The portcullis is open. At first I assume they saw us coming, but then I notice some horses being led away by grooms and several men standing around the bailey who I recognize as Alan’s men. I slide from my saddle and lead my horse to a watering trough. I don’t worry about him wandering off. He’ll drink his fill and then wait until someone comes to get him. I know him that well by now. I place my helmet, weapons and shield beside the trough.

My gut tightens. Alan’s here, somewhere. His presence, whether expected or not, always concerns me. I scan the bailey. Some of the men are already heading to the hall, but there’s no sign of him. Unconcerned, Duncan ambles toward the kitchen. There’s a kitchen maid who’s gained his attention of late, so it figures that he’d go there and leave me to Henry.

When I hear a woman’s voice, at first I think it must be coming from the kitchen. Then I hear it again. It’s Mariota. She’s standing with her back to me, just inside the doorway from the east tower to the wall walk. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but her pitch hints at agitation. I hurry in that direction.