Knights (33 page)

“The babe,” she said miserably. “I couldn’t bear it if you thought I’d deceived you.”

Dane smiled. “There is no comprehending what has happened to us, but this much I know—the heart beating beneath that lovely breast is a true one, and pure. I do not think, sweet Gloriana, that you can lie, nay, not even when it would be the most prudent course.”

She curved her fingers around his and squeezed tightly. “But I must live all my life in secret, my lord—have you forgotten that I am called the Kenbrook Witch? Do you not see that I will be hanged, or burned, if the servants and villagers learn that I have come back?” She looked down at the food basket, now empty but for scraps and crumbs, and felt herself go pale. “I do not want to die,” she finished.

Dane pushed aside the obstacle between them, sending the basket tumbling to the floor, and, kneeling, drew her into his arms. “Before all the saints, Gloriana,” he whispered hoarsely, into her hair, “before the Holy Virgin, the Christ, and Jehovah Himself, I will allow no man or woman to do you harm!”

She clung to him, resting her cheek against his bare shoulder. The muscles beneath that smooth, warm flesh were hard and unyielding, and yet she could have
asked for no better pillow. “You cannot fight the whole of Christendom,” she answered. “You are but one man, though the finest and strongest anywhere, and they are many.”

He cupped her face in his hands and thrust her head back a little way that he might look into her eyes. “We will say you were kidnapped and returned to us in secret, after a great ransom was paid. Maxen will help to spread the tale.”

“But Judith saw—”

“The handmaid’s grief at your passing was nearly as terrible as my own. She can be made to swear that you were dragged away by outlaws and that her fear was so great that only now does she recall what really happened.”

Gloriana was eager to believe Dane’s plan would work, although it seemed far-fetched. On the other hand, these were simple people, and if the tale was well and colorfully told, they might accept it. Surely an abduction by bandits was easier to credit than the idea of a flesh and blood woman melting into nothingness like steam from a kettle!

“Bring Judith to me,” she said, after a long moment. “Friar Cradoc, too, and Eigg. We will try your scheme, Kenbrook, but you must make me a promise first.”

“Anything,” Dane agreed, smoothing her lovetangled hair back from her face with one hand.

“Do not be so quick to pledge yourself, my lord,” Gloriana warned, in all seriousness. “You have not heard my petition.” She paused and drew a deep, tremulous breath, then let it out slowly. “If fate goes against us, and I am accused of witchery, you must swear, for my sake and that of our unborn child, to send an arrow through my heart before they burn me.”

Dane went gray as a corpse at this injunction. “I pray it will not come to that,” he said, holding her hands now, so tightly that they ached. “But you have my word, Gloriana—you will die mercifully, by my hand, but you shall never feel the flames.”

“It is agreed, then,” Gloriana said gravely, searching Dane’s eyes and thus his soul for any sign that his was a spurious oath, and finding none.

Having reached their grim agreement, Gloriana and Dane made love again, slowly and solemnly this time. The culmination was no less splendid, no less shattering, for all that it was the seal upon a deadly bargain.

When it was over. Dane poured water from the ewer that had been brought with the basket, and they washed. Then he dressed, strapping on his sword belt, and left the tower room, enjoining Gloriana brusquely to lock the doors behind him.

She did as she was bidden, though it chafed her pride to obey. A command, however sensible, was still a command.

She busied herself, through what remained of that long afternoon, by going through her chests, shaking out various gowns and kirtles and capes, draping them over chair backs and tabletops to air. She read from some of the books that had been left to molder there in that damp chamber, but mostly, she paced and haunted the high, narrow windows, watching and listening for some indication of Dane’s return.

He came at twilight with the friar and the Welshman, Maxen, as well as Judith and Hamilton Eigg, the steward. Gloriana, having seen them below in the courtyard, was waiting with the doors of the tower room flung wide long before they reached the top of the winding staircase.

Judith, at first sight of her mistress, let out a wretched, joyous sob and flung herself down at Gloriana’s feet. “Milady!” she cried. “Oh, milady, it is as I have so often prayed—the Holy Mother has wrested you from the hands of Lucifer and given you back to us!”

Gloriana touched Judith’s hair with a tender hand. The girl had always been faithful and industrious, expecting nothing but food and a robe and a place to sleep, aspiring to nothing beyond the approval of those she served.

“Your prayers have indeed saved me,” Gloriana said softly. “Now rise. Please.”

Dane stood watching, his arms folded, while Eigg struck a flint to light the oil lamp, driving back some of the shadows. Maxen guarded the door, sword drawn, and Friar Cradoc came and took Judith’s thin arm, lifting her to her feet.

“Poor child,” he said, and though he was speaking of Judith, his gaze was fixed on Gloriana’s face. His eyes were wide with amazement, but there was nothing unusual in his tone or countenance. “She was so frightened on that dreadful day that she cannot be sure what she saw.”

Judith was still weeping, and the sound was pitiful to hear.

“There were outlaws in the churchyard,” Dane said evenly, like a necromancer imparting a trance. “They hid behind the gravestones, didn’t they, Judith? And caught your lady unattended?”

Judith’s lower lip trembled, and her tear-filled eyes never left Gloriana’s face. “Tell me what I saw, milady,” she whispered, “and I will give that account, and never stray from it, on earth or in heaven.”

Gloriana knew this was true, and she was moved,
once again, by the astounding depths of her handmaiden’s loyalty. “I am unworthy of your devotion,” she said, “but I must depend upon it, and upon you, for my very life.” Tenderly, Gloriana took Judith’s hand and led her to the table, and sat her down as an equal. Then she drew up a chair and sat facing her servant. “Listen carefully, Judith, and remember all that I tell you. On that day two years ago, there was a light fall of rain, barely more than mist, and you saw me wandering amongst the gravestones of Kenbrook Hall. You were coming to fetch me”—that much, at least, was true—“when you glimpsed men hiding there, lying in wait for me. You were powerless to come to my aid, being only one small girl, after all, and there was no one to call upon for help, because my husband and his soldiers were away fighting.”

Judith seemed spellbound, clutching Gloriana’s fingers, staring off into space as if the scene were being played out for her on some celestial stage. “You cried out, milady, you were that afraid, and it fair broke my heart to see you handled so roughly—you, the finest lady in all the realm.”

Gloriana swallowed. “These were highwaymen you saw,” she went on evenly. “Strangers.” No one could be left to speculate that Merrymont might have been behind this crime, or there would surely be more bloodshed. “I screamed and struggled, but they took me away with them, and you did not see me again, from that day until this. I escaped and made my way back to Hadleigh Castle in the company of a mummers’ troupe.”

“Yes,” Judith agreed eagerly, her tearstained face transfixed. “It is so, milady. Just as you have said.”

Over and over, throughout that evening, Judith was coached in the telling of the tale, quizzed in their turns
by Dane and then Eigg, Friar Cradoc and even Maxen, who might have been an outlaw himself, so wild and unkempt was his appearance. By the time they’d finished, Gloriana was sure the poor creature truly believed the story that had been implanted in her mind.

“Tomorrow,” Dane announced, when Judith had crept into a corner and curled up on a pallet of musty blankets to sleep, “we shall announce the return of Lady Kenbrook to her home and her people. There will, of course, be a grand celebration.”

“God knows, the place could use one,” Eigg commented gruffly, and received a glare from Friar Cradoc. No doubt the friar deemed the remark unseemly, though he uttered no word of reprimand.

Dane held out his arm to Gloriana and drew her close against his side. For that brief and shining interval, she allowed herself to believe that things could be set aright, that she and her beloved husband might live happily ever after.

W
hen Maxen and Eigg and Friar Cradoc left the tower room at last, Gloriana turned to gaze upon the sleeping Judith. “Look at her, lying there like a dog,” she said. “ Tis not fitting for human beings to live in such wise.”

Dane stood behind Gloriana, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, offering strength and comfort. “Methinks we seem a primitive lot, when held up to those enlightened souls you’ve known in the future. Do you long for that time, that place?”

Gloriana turned and looked up into her husband’s eyes. His words had been easily spoken, but even in the dim glow of the oil lamp she could see that he was genuinely troubled. “No,” she answered, as certain of this as she had ever been of anything. “All I want, now or ever, is to be with you.”

He traced the length of her cheek with the tip of one finger. “But things are better there, are they not?” he pressed, albeit gently.

She sighed. “The twentieth century has plagues and perils all its own, and it seemed to me that people had
not changed all that much, not inside, where it counts.”

“You met a man there—one who loved you,” Dane insisted. There was no accusation in his voice, no bitterness or censure.

Lyn Kirkwood, Gloriana thought, and felt a little pinch in one corner of her heart. Though she hadn’t and would never return Lyn’s tender sentiments, she missed him, and Janet and Marge too. Friends the likes of those three were exceeding rare, in any time or place. “But I did not love him in return,” Gloriana replied, her gaze steadfast upon Dane’s face. She held her breath for a moment, before asking, “How did you know?”

“You called to someone, while we were yet abed. You were dreaming.”

Gloriana slipped her arms around Dane’s lean waist and rested her cheek upon his shoulder. “No doubt it was you I was calling, for I have sought you, waking and sleeping, from the moment we were parted.”

He embraced her, and she marveled that so simple a caress could nurture her on such deep levels. His words, however, were gravely spoken.

“A little while ago, my lady, you caused me to promise that I would make yours a merciful death before I let you burn for a sorceress. Now, I must ask a boon in return.”

She raised her head to search his face. Her heart fluttered behind her ribs, like a small bird startled into flight, only to find itself caged. “What is it?”

“If we cannot be together, Gloriana—if, God forbid, you are taken from me once again—you must accept the love this man offers, and give yourself to him.” She started to protest, but Dane silenced her by resting a fingertip on her mouth. “Hush,” he went on.
“You will need someone to help you if you are thrust into a foreign world, and so will our babe. It would give me some peace, knowing that you and our child had a protector.”

Gloriana swallowed the tears that had gathered in her throat, blinked back those burning behind her eyes. There was no point in explaining to Dane that women of the twentieth century did not commonly marry for such reasons; as intelligent as he was, Kenbrook couldn’t be expected to understand the mores and manners of a culture so alien to his own.

“If you would ask this of me,” she said when she could manage to speak, “you must first tell me—how I am to bear the touch of another man’s lips and hands, the weight of his body on mine, the sound of his voice in my ears? For it is you I love, and you I
shall
love, whether we are together or apart, for all there is of time.”

Kenbrook bent his head and kissed her. The contact was soft and brief. “I can tell you only this, madam,” he said, his breath warm upon her lips. “To imagine you as someone else’s wife is agony. But to think of you alone, in want, or in danger, with no way to provide for our child, is far worse. By what name is he called, this man who shelters you in his heart?”

“Lyn Kirkwood,” Gloriana replied, feeling bereaved, as though her fate had somehow been sealed. it seemed a betrayal, just to say the name in her husband’s presence, though she had never been unfaithful to Dane, even in her thoughts. “But I do not wish to—”

He silenced her again, with a second kiss, longer and deeper than the one preceding, then demanded, “Swear it, Gloriana—by your immortal soul. If some
thing happens, and we are parted, you will turn to Kirkwood and pledge yourself to him.”

How could she make such an outrageous promise when she loved Dane St. Gregory with the very essence of her being? How could she
not
give her most solemn word when he was looking at her with such tension, such fretful adoration in his eyes?

Such an oath upon one’s soul was no small matter, even to Gloriana, who was hardly a conventional woman of her time. She had still lived most of her life in the thirteenth century, and she took such matters as souls and vows very seriously. To do otherwise was to court eternal damnation, with all its pitchforks and fiery horrors.

But as she looked into Dane’s face, Gloriana knew he would not rest until he had her word. She sighed and gave a quick, unwilling nod. “It will be as you say,” she said.

He chuckled, and the sound held suffering as well as mirth. “I am pleased, wife—because you make this vow, and because you so clearly wished to refuse.”

Gloriana’s gaze strayed to the window and found it filled with stars. In Lyn’s world, so near and yet so far away, the lights of the cities were so bright that it was hard to see the splendors of the night sky at all, and one could barely hear the songs of birds or the whisper of the wind over the din of everyday life.

“I must see Elaina,” she said. “Will you take me to her? Now?”