by Lynn Kurland
But how to take back his inheritance? He stroked his chin thoughtfully. Perhaps he should merely plant himself on the road up to the gate and challenge his father's men to come and meet him one by one. He could dispatch a dozen men, assuming none of them stuck a bolt through him first.
But what if those were men beholden to the keep and not to his sire? He would be killing his own potential guardsmen.
He chewed on that for a bit, then contemplated another idea. He could strip down to his hose, a tunic and a leather jerkin and simply slip over the wall at a vulnerable place, sneak inside the keep and put his father to the sword before anyone was the wiser. He'd done it before with great success.
It was, however, a very dangerous idea.
"Damn woman," he muttered, then turned and melted back into the woods. What did he care what happened to the wench? The priest had been addled when he'd bound that into the vow. How could William possibly be held to such a thing, especially in light of what kind of creature he'd stumbled upon?
He walked swiftly back to the chapel, but still it took him a goodly while to get there. By the time he reached the crumbling building, he was cross, soaked to the skin, and wondering what had possessed him to ever have come to the chapel in the first place.
Never discount aid from Above.
William wished his grandsire were there before him, for he would have given him some pointed thoughts on the matter. How could any wench be thought of as help from a celestial source? Aye, 'twas a pity Phillip was no longer alive. William would have retaken his keep, then returned to Artane and dumped his wench of questionable origin off on his grandsire, just to see how she would have changed his mind.
William took a deep breath to stifle what would no doubt have been a sigh of epic proportions, then slipped inside the door of the chapel. He gave his horse a pat, then looked around him to see what sort of madness Julianna was combining today.
He would have cursed, but he was too busy losing his breath. Damn the woman. Was it not enough that she had befouled his plans? Did she also have to render him dumb and faint in the head as well? If he'd had any idea just what had lain beneath the cesspit refuse, he never would have rescued her.
He wondered absently if he could truly be held to his vow if the maiden in question was of the ilk of wench that could completely distract a man from his manly duties. Perhaps he would question the priest more closely on that—but later. Now 'twas much more satisfying to look at the wench in question and give in to a few well-earned, silent grumbles.
She was sitting on the floor playing—ah, if he could but remember the last time he'd had leisure for a game!—something called checkers with his squire whilst the priest looked on. The game was something she'd unearthed from her sacred relic sack. William was itching to get a more thorough look at the sack's contents, but apparently he'd been too free with her belongings the first night, for no other look had been offered to him. Peter, however, seemed to suffer from no such ban, for he was allowed to paw liberally through Julianna's gear.
That was the first thing that set William's teeth on edge.
The second was the woman who, after cleaning up a bit, had turned out to be not so much beautiful as striking—and would that someone had struck him on the head before he'd rescued her! He hadn't paid much heed to her whilst she'd bathed that first evening, apart from saving her yet again from another disaster by stopping her from tumbling face first into the stream. He certainly hadn't thought of her as he'd taken a well-deserved rest. More unfortunate was he that he'd awoken soon after to find the arresting woman hiccuping fiercely as she tried to make sense of his squire's babbles. William hadn't been able to take his eyes from her, despite his best intentions.
She'd been offering Peter something from the palm of her hand as if he were a whipped pup who needed to be taught to trust again. And damn the lad if he hadn't succumbed fully. Even the priest had stopped making signs to ward off evil long enough to sample something from Julianna's golden box of poison. Godiva. Hah. What sort of foodstuffs was that?
The third thing that he found to be more of a distraction than he would have liked was the matter of her origins. Manhattan? He'd never heard of such a place, and he'd seen a goodly amount of villages in his travels. Not only that, how had she found herself without kin or servants, sitting against his wall dressed in clothing he had surely never seen the like of before?
Perhaps these were mysteries he should see to before he ground his teeth to powder.
And perhaps then he might have the peace he needed for planning his assault.
William stepped out of the shadows and crossed over the broken stone floor. Perhaps when he was lord of his own keep, he would see this chapel restored as well. Despite its distance from the keep, it could be made useful. To be sure he would need all the blessings he could get.
He stopped a handful of paces from his unstable wench and looked down at her. Well, at least today there was no sign of hiccups, nor of those foolish songs she seemed to spout without warning.
Nor was there any acknowledgment of his presence. William almost opened his mouth to chastise her for her lack of respect, but found himself distracted by the substantial amount of curling hair that fell down far past her shoulders. It was tangled and lovely, and he found himself tempted to put aside his cares for a moment and take his fingers to it that he might put it to rights.
And where such a damned foolish impulse had come from he couldn't have said, but he was powerfully tempted to put his hand to his forehead and see if he burned with a sudden fever.
Perhaps Julianna's madness was catching.
Then she lifted her face up and looked at him. And he knew that not only was he feverish, he was fast losing whatever paltry wits remained him.
Striking.
Aye, she was that. Her eyes were a blue of such painful vividness, he could scarce look in them. Her skin was fair and smooth, and her face was of a shape to be so pleasing, it was all he could do not to cup it in his hands and kiss a mouth that surely seemed fashioned for just such a thing. But beautiful? Nay, he could not say that about her.
Yet he suspected he would be hard-pressed to forget the sight of her.
She turned her attentions back to the game, and William felt his head clear. He glared at the priest and cleared his throat. The priest leaped immediately to his feet and began bobbing respectfully.
William waved the man away and concentrated his energies on the two still sitting. Peter seemed to feel the heat of his master's gaze still somewhat compelling, because he looked up with only a minor hesitation.
"My lord?" he said.
"On your feet, you ungrateful wretch," William growled.
Peter cast one last, longing look at his game before he crawled to his feet and vacated his place. William sat down with a grunt and looked at Julianna. "You will," he said without preamble, "show me your sacred relics."
Her mouth worked a moment or two, and he greatly feared another attack of hiccups. Then she seemed to gather herself together.
And then she shook her head.
William frowned. He was not accustomed to being contradicted. "You will—"
"I want to know the date first," Julianna interrupted firmly. "The year."
"The year?" he repeated in surprise. By the saints, perhaps she was further gone than he'd feared.
"The year," she said, pulling her bag into her lap. "Peter didn't know, and your priest is convinced it is 1250."
Twelve-fifty? William shook his head. Daft soul.
Julianna carefully put her checkers game into the bag as well.
William frowned. She was supposed to be pulling things out, not putting them away. Ah, well, it didn't look as if he'd have his look until he satisfied her demented curiosity.
" 'Tis the Year of Our Lord, 1299," he said with a sigh. "A year from the world coming to an end, though I don't believe that foolishness." He looked at her to see if she agreed.
She was looking at him as if he were the
one who was daft.
"The Year of Our Lord's Grace, 1299," he repeated firmly. "The same as it was yesterday and the day before. And as it will be tomorrow—"
A horrendous rending sound echoed in the chapel. He was on his feet, crouched with his sword drawn almost before he knew he intended to do such.
He looked about quickly, but saw nothing. His squire and the priest had flung themselves behind the altar. Julianna was staring at him as if he'd just confirmed her worst fears. Then she slowly held up her bag.
"Zipper," she said.
He lowered his sword slowly. "Zipper?"
She pulled on something and the sound rang out again, only more faintly this time. William sank to his knees, gaping at the sack. By the saints, there was more to this business of carrying sacred relics than he'd expected.
Then another thought occurred to him. Perhaps 'twas the burden of transporting those relics that had wrought the foul work upon her senses. She was, after all, merely a woman and likely not equal to the stamina required for such a thing. Had her obligation to her relics driven her mad?
That was somehow a far sight more comforting than believing she'd arrived in her current state on her own. "I want to go home," she whispered. That was the other thing that puzzled him. Her language was understood well enough, though 'twas spoken a bit strangely. But her habit of throwing in words he could not divine was frankly quite disconcerting.
"You want to go home," he said, immediately deciding that he had no time for such a journey. He had a keep to recover and after it was recovered, he would likely be spending all his time trying to keep it recovered. Besides, his vow only called for rescuing and defending. It didn't call for providing an escort back to wherever she'd come from.
"I'm not really sure how I got here—if here is really a place anyway and not some wacky medieval reenactment boot camp—"
He paused and considered. How had she come to be sitting against his wall with nothing but her relic sack to guard her? Was she a nun? A saint?
"… I'm just not up to this," she was saying, beginning to hiccup again. "I don't—hic—like to camp, I hate to wear nylons—hic-hic—and I think I'm allergic to your damned horses—hic—"
William greatly suspected that saints did not swear. He was almost certain they didn't hiccup in such a ferocious manner.
"Not even sit—hic—com songs are working for me!" she exclaimed, glaring at him as if all that was amiss in her life was directly attributable to him.
A madwoman, he decided with finality. But one possessing sacred relics that he was almost certain would aid him in his task.
'Twas a certainty they couldn't hurt.
"I really want to go home," she said, shutting her eyes as if even the very thought of such a thing pained her.
"I will help," William lied, deciding that whatever he had to say, he would say if it would get him a look inside her bag.
She opened her eyes and stared at him as if he'd just saved her from being tossed into a fiery furnace.
"You will?" she whispered.
His conscience pricked him fiercely, and it was with a great effort that he ignored it. The woman was daft. Surely that made his vow of no effect.
Didn't it?
He gritted his teeth. "Aye, I will," he said, fully intending never to do the like.
Her look of gratitude was almost his undoing. But he hardened his heart, reminded himself that she was daft and he wasn't really responsible for her; then steeled himself for a look at things that would no doubt provide him with his heart's desire.
Never mind that she was striking. Or that she accorded him trust he surely didn't deserve. She was a madwoman and he wasn't answerable for her fate.
Or so he told himself.
six
Backwoods? Rural? Julianna was fast coming to the conclusion that there wasn't a rustic word in any of the languages she knew that described the yokel-like condition of the crew she was facing.
Could it have something to do with the current date?
Twelve-ninety-nine. She'd finally resigned herself to the truth of it. How could she deny it, given the circumstances? Take the reactions, for instance, to her little show-and-tell of the contents of her bag. Spiked heels had left knight, teenager and priest falling back in horror. Day-Timer with pencils had left them gaping in slack-mouthed astonishment. A Mickey Mouse Pez dispenser had left the priest crossing himself, William scratching his head, and Peter holding out his hand for candy.
Teenage boys acted like teenage boys no matter the year, she supposed.
She had turned to literature to see what sort of reaction that would get. She peeked over the top of her book to see three belly-laughing yahoos. No offense to the Screen Actors Guild, but she had her doubts it had many members who could read The Canterbury Tales in the original language, much less guffaw over their contents.
William had definitely loosened up the longer she'd read. He now managed to contain his mirth long enough to sit up, wipe the tears from his eyes and cough a time or two.
"By the saints, Julianna," he said, "you're a fine spinner of tales. Can you do another?"
"I didn't spin them," she said, turning the book so he could see it. "I'm just reading what's written here."
"Bah," he said, waving a hand benevolently. "Women cannot read. But you needn't fear we'll think less of your words just because they come from your head."
"I can too read," she said tartly, "and what I'm reading is what's written on this page. Here. Look for yourself."
She watched his face still at the sight of the book shoved at him, and she knew in an instant that he couldn't decipher what was written there. She brought the book back in her lap without hesitation, though why she wanted to save him embarrassment of admitting his illiteracy she couldn't have said. It wasn't as if he'd done all that much for her.
Besides washing her hair, that was.
"Where did you learn to read?" William asked, as if her own possible qualifications were too ridiculous to contemplate.
"I learned in school. Then at university," she answered. "Cambridge here in England, University of Indiana at home."
"Cambridge," William said, looking at her skeptically. "Do they allow women to study there?"
Julianna wished suddenly she were sitting back on The Bench in Gramercy Park covered with bird poop. She wished she were sitting in a lousy interview trying to justify the fact that she was fluent in Latin, Norman French, and various forms of English instead of listening to a happy combination of all three being spewed at her from three directions in a decrepit church in the middle of the Middle Ages.
She wondered if this sort of situation could be considered a dire, dire emergency. When she felt her breath begin to quicken and knew that another round of serious hiccups was on the way, she decided quickly that it could. She reached into her bag, dug around in its depths and pulled out her don't-drink-until-absolutely-necessary cola. Without a pause, she twisted the top of the plastic bottle, sniffed quickly to appreciate the fine bouquet of escaping gases she didn't want to identify, then pulled the top completely off, put the bottle mouth to her lips and took an enormous swig of nirvana.
Odd how she'd forgotten that carbonation burned like whiskey.
She coughed, her eyes watered madly, and she soon found herself being slapped on the back by what felt like half a dozen baseball bats.
Her drink was ripped from her clutching hands, and William's face came into view not six inches from hers.
"What do you?" he bellowed. "Think you to poison yourself truly this time?"
Julianna held up her hand to stop him from trying to beat any more oxygen into her lungs, coughed another time or two, and gasped out her most pressing need.
"Give it back," she wheezed. "It's my last one."
"And none too soon, I'd say," William said, eyeing the bottle with disfavor. "Where did you come by this foul drink?"
"I brought it with me."
He resumed his seat, keeping her final ves
tige of cola-ized civilization firmly clutched in his hand, and lifted one eyebrow as he looked at her.
"Brought it with you from where?" he asked.
Well, there was no time like the present to explain the future.
"I brought it," she said without hesitating, "from the year 2001."
William blinked at her, Peter's mouth hung open and the priest began to cross himself again.
These were not good signs.
Then all three suddenly relaxed and smiled indulgently as if they'd orchestrated it. They looked at each other.
"Womanly weakness," the priest offered.
"Daft as a duck," Peter said wisely.
"Too much learning," William concluded. "And ill aftereffects of her misfortune at the bailey wall." He turned and looked at her. "Think you the refuse seeped into your head and fouled your thoughts?"
"No, I—"
"A pity we've no surgeon," he said, frowning suddenly. "He could look at your head and see if any holes there are leaking."
"I don't have any leaks in my head!" She held up her Day-Timer. "What about this? What about the shoes? Good grief, what about me? How did I get out here in the middle of nowhere just out of the blue?"
"Aye, how did you?" Peter piped up. He caught William's frown and ducked his head. " 'Tis a fair question, my lord."
"It matters not," the priest said, rubbing his gnarled hands together. "She's a maiden fair in need of a rescue. 'Tis his duty to see to her."
"He has not the time," Peter said, turning a disgruntled look on the priest. "She's befouled his plans. No offense, my lady," he said, throwing her an apologetic look. "But you did. My lord was nigh onto recovering his keep when we found you sitting against the wall, and what was he to do?"
"Couldn't leave her," the priest said, shaking his head. "Against his vow."
