Timeless (9 page)

“Relax,” she said. “I want us to try
hypnosis.” This sounded a little more plausible, at least, like
what I’d read in the library.

She asked me to lie down on a nearby couch,
to rest and clear my mind. There was something soothing about her
voice, which calmed me, and I felt my breathing become more
even.

“Emily, I’m going to start counting. Then
you’ll tell me who you were and where you come from.”

She began counting backwards, and my
breathing fell into a regular pattern, as though she could control
my physical reaction as much as my psychological one.

By the time she got to one, I knew that I’d
left behind Emily St. Clair for a different person entirely.

I heard Ramona’s voice as if from a
distance.

“Tell me who you are,” she directed.

In a strange voice I didn’t recognize as my
own, I answered her, “Lady Emmeline de Vere.”

“Lady Emmeline, what year is it?” she asked,
as if from a distance.

“1216,” I automatically replied.

“Where do you live?” she asked, but her voice
was growing fainter.

“Montavere,” I heard myself reply.

“And where is that?”

“Sarum. Near the stones.”

“Now, Lady Emmeline, I want you to describe
everything you see, everyone you meet. What does it feel like,
sound like, look like…every detail is important.” Her voice
continued to drift and a buzzing replaced it so that I could no
longer hear her.

I could feel myself falling, the darkness
closing in as I left one world and entered another one.

Emmeline

And what the dead had no speech for, when
living,

They can tell you, being dead: the
communication

Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the
language of the living.

T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”

Chapter Five

"Dream Kingdom"

Time past and time future

Allow but a little consciousness.

To be conscious is not to be in time

T. S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton”

The sun beat down on us. I could feel the
sweat beading on my brow despite the chill in the air. My headdress
felt heavy, and my hands shook. I closed my eyes, not bearing to
look at the combatants below us. Their galloping hooves thundered,
signaling that the joust had begun.

The tension mounted as the horses’ breathing
grew more frenzied. Their sounds grew closer, then
indistinguishable. The moment had come. A great cacophonous clash
resounded, and I could bear it no longer. I forced one eye to open,
then another. Relief poured through me as a cheer went up. He was
safe.

The feeling was short-lived. His opponent had
yet to rise, and the loud, deafeningly cheers had all but ceased
when one minute stretched to two and then three. Had he killed
him?

The Black Knight dismounted, handing his
lance and shield to his squire, and lifting his visor. His black
warhorse gave a fearful snort, anxious to ride again. He had not
yet realized that this round, at least, was over.

The narrow slit didn’t afford the Black
Knight a full view, so he removed his helmet. The sun glinted off
his short, curling dark hair and made a sunburst wherever it
touched his shining armor. He bent over, removing his opponent’s
helmet carefully and checking for signs of life. The joust, a
preparative for war, had claimed many knights, maiming or killing
them. The lance could find an eye or worse. It often found a
deadlier home.

We sat above them at a distance, awaiting
knowledge about whether or he still breathed. My father, the Lord
of Montavere, arose from his place of honor above the field of
combatants. The crowd grew quiet, the joust temporarily suspended
as a life hung in the balance.

“How fares he, Sir Damien?” my father shouted
below.

The Black Knight stood, wiping his brow, and
smiled at us. My heart quickened. I am my beloved’s and my beloved
is mine.

Sir Justin must have opened his eyes, for the
Black Knight reached out his hand, pulling up his fallen
comrade.

The spectators cheered, their voices ringing
throughout the field. Knights often took fatal falls during
tournaments; it added to the danger and, unfortunately, the
excitement for many. Though Sir Damien had received his knighthood
only a short time ago, he’d become the champion in several
tournaments in the south of England. Already, people knew him as
the Black Knight of Montavere, for he had shining dark hair and
eyes, deep pools of intensity that compelled admiration. His
prowess with a sword grew along with the rumors of his strength and
courage. He could ride any horse, including Brutus, the wildest in
my father’s stables.

Despite the nearly legendary status that had
grown around him, I always worried that another knight, anxious to
dethrone a champion, would unseat and kill him. My fears seemed
unfounded, however, as Damien remained the only undefeated knight
at Montavere. I knew the others now dreaded him in the field, even
in practice.

“We have our champion,” Lady Lamia, my
father’s beautiful wife, declared, rising beside my father and
startling me. She seemed to sense my surprise, turning to look at
me, her eyes narrowing to slits.

“Sir Damien, come forward,” my father said.
Damien slowly proceeded to the platform where we sat. Though he had
engaged seven knights already, unseating all of them, he did not
look the least bit winded. He glanced sideways at me, but only I
perceived his momentary search. He would not let Lamia or my father
catch him. He tapped his breast, letting me know that he carried my
colors, white and gold, next to his heart as he bowed. Officially,
he wore Lamia’s red scarf, which she had tied around his arm before
the tournament began.

“My champion,” she cried when he approached,
clapping her hands together as she regarded him with cunning,
lascivious eyes.

“Sir Damien, this day you have proven
yourself the best knight in the castle—a great honor for one so
young. You may request anything of your lord,” my father
magnanimously offered.

My breath caught. Would he do it? Would he
ask for my hand? We had not discussed it before, but now might be
the only real chance he would have. It all depended on my father.
Would he give his only daughter to his best knight? Had Damien
proven himself worthy enough for such a huge prize?

Damien looked at me directly, and I could see
that he weighed the odds of success and failure in his mind. If my
father turned him down, he likely would show his wrath to Damien,
forever ending any chance of our marrying.

I could feel Lamia turning her head towards
me, and I looked hastily away, a signal to Damien that the time was
not right.

“Merely to serve as my liege lord’s champion
is enough for me,” Damien answered, understanding my downward
gaze.

Another cheer rose up from the crowd. Damien
had become their favorite knight; he embodied all the ideals of the
chivalric code—courtesy, honor, humility, loyalty, fidelity. They
could not get enough of him.

My father smiled radiantly at him, his aged
features briefly cast into a look of youth as he basked in the glow
of a beloved knight, whom he regarded almost as a son. It was this
affection that I hoped would win my father over to Damien’s
suit.

“A worthy knight! We salute you!” he
exclaimed, taking Lamia’s hand into his.

The unwounded knights raised their swords in
admiration of one so young and brave. My heart swelled with
adoration, and I felt pride growing inside of me.

My face, ever a register of my feelings, grew
warm with love.

Lamia grasped my arm with her free hand and
squeezed tightly.

“And why does a maiden blush so?” she said
angrily, her words drowning in the cheers around us.

“Let me go!” I said, trying to wrench my arm
away from her grip.

“To the hall!” My father called out, not
seeing Lamia’s hold over me. She had the remarkable knack of
grasping me in public without anyone’s noticing. I often had
bruises or scratch marks for days afterwards.

She abruptly released me, leaving the
tell-tale marks that would turn black and blue by the next morning.
My father had started down, thankfully leading Lamia away from me.
I hung back from them, hoping to see Damien one last time before we
both had to return our separate ways to the castle.

The tournament had ended for the day. I
watched Damien mount his horse, but not before he gave me a
meaningful look. I knew we’d find each other later.

Lamia looked back and followed the line of my
gaze.

“This isn’t over,” she hissed through
clenched teeth as she turned back to my father, her scarlet mouth
turned down and her black eyes blazing rage.

Happily, I escaped her, if only temporarily.
I knew I couldn’t go immediately to Damien. I would have to wait
for tonight when we could find a moment to leave the hall
undiscovered. Each tournament was followed in the evenings by a
banquet in the castle. At least two hundred people would fill the
benches in the hall, and I could easily slip out with so many
milling about.

We’d taken separate caravans from the castle
to the tournament. I would have preferred to ride my mare, but
Lamia had insisted that I accompany her and my father, though I
could do so in a separate caravan, with Millicent, my maid,
following.

I knew Damien would not be able to find me
without attracting notice, and I focused instead on biding my time,
waiting until later to elude Lamia’s penetrating eye. Lately, she’d
begun to keep a closer eye on me, and I wondered what her plans
might entail. They could not bode well.

The mist cleared, and the castle rose up
before us, the outer stone walls towering over the small, strategic
peak that the first Lord of Montavere had chosen as his castle site
in 1102, over a century before. He’d defeated another less powerful
noble, overtaking the weaker Norman stronghold, a more defenseless
structure easily breached during an attack, and replacing it with
the impenetrable defenses of Montavere Castle. It had taken the
last 100 years to build, with a thousand masons all working
together, some generations following their forefathers, to complete
the massive outer walls with four tactically advantageous towers.
Guards manned the walls at all times, ready should intruders
approach to attack.

The last of the masons had only recently
completed the finer work, including the multiple gargoyles Lamia
had ordered built when she married my father. She required them to
work at a nearly impossible rate of speed and with impeccable
precision. They adorned every arch and entrance, perpetually poised
to leap out and frighten onlookers. Many a scream was heard
throughout the day and night by the castle dwellers still
unaccustomed to their fearsome gaze.They always caused me to shiver
as I approached. I averted my eyes, eager to avoid the daemonic
faces leering over us as we entered through the drawbridge, which
crossed a large, murky moat.

Glad to be free of Lamia for a time, I
hurriedly left before she remembered me, finding my way to my
chamber, located far from hers. Damien would likely still be in the
field. The celebration had begun and would continue through the
evening, when the contestants and castle inhabitants would drink,
feast, and dance merrily at the banquet. They would forget for a
time the oppressive presence of Lamia, who cast a dark shadow over
us all.

The afternoon dragged on interminably. I
spent the majority of it sewing, hoping to avoid my stepmother,
who, fortunately, did not seek my company. I guessed that she had
begun to suspect my feelings for Damien, and I didn’t want to
answer her questions. I had no facility for lying and didn’t relish
the punishment she might mete out to me.

Millicent, my maid, sat quietly beside me,
mending one of my skirts. Since Lamia had arrived, I received no
new clothes, and Millicent did her best to alter the ones I did
have.

We worked for awhile, our heads bent over
together, but I grew impatient and finally stood up. Walking over
to the window, I began pacing.

“Wearing the floor out, are we?” Millicent
asked, not looking up.

I stopped in front of the window that
overlooked the woods below.

“Got something on our mind, do we?” she
prodded.

I started at the question, lost in my own
thoughts.

“Sorry. What did you say?” I asked.

“Hmph!”she muttered.

Millicent had been with me since birth, and
she was more mother to me than maid. I had no secrets from her.

“Sorry. I was just thinking,” I replied,
snapping out of my dreamy state.

“This wouldn’t happen to be about a certain
knight who won a certain tournament today, would it?” she asked, a
smile on her face. I could feel her warm wishes, though I didn’t
turn around.

“Mmm,” I murmured.

“No, I think not,” she said, putting down the
dress and turning to me with concern.

“I suspect it’s her, isn’t it?” she
asked.

She came over and put her large, comforting
arms around me, just as she’d done since I was a child. I laid my
head on her shoulder, glad to have her with me.

“I hate her,” I said fiercely.

“I know, dear. And she’s going to do
everything she can to keep you from him.”

“What are we going to do?” I moaned.

“I don’t know. Maybe you should talk to your
father,” she answered kindly.

“Do you think he would listen? He’s bewitched
by her!”

“Shhhh! Don’t say it,” Millicent whispered,
looking over her shoulder as she crossed herself.

“Well it’s true,” I said, though I lowered my
voice.

“Oh, my dear,” she said, stroking my long red
hair. There was always comfort to be found with Millicent, though
we both knew that this problem was larger than both of us.