by Kristy Tate
The gypsy lay on a cot, wrapped in what appeared to be gory rags. The passageway opened up to a slightly wider hall lined with a cell made of cut stone with iron doors. The cell where the gypsy lay had a thick chain draped through the bars. A padlock dangled from the links and a key protruded from its hole.
Emory bent over the gypsy, pressing down the wounded man’s shoulders while the friar cut away the rags that had presumably once been the gypsy’s clothes. The gypsy moaned and writhed. The friar muttered something.
The friar took a clean cloth from the bag lying beside the cot and folded it. With Emory’s help, he rolled the gypsy onto his side and wrapped the cloth around the man’s middle.
The wound in his belly seemed to match the one in his back, like the sword wound she’d seen on Emory. The gypsy groaned and let out a string of curses Petra didn’t recognize but completely understood. Sweat rolled down his pain-contorted face.
The bandage secure, Emory and the friar gently returned the gypsy to his back and Emory mopped the man’s face. No longer pinned, the gypsy contorted on the cot. The friar stood still, eyes closed and head bowed. After a moment he raised his eyes to the ceiling as if asking a question. Then the friar and Emory exchanged places, but instead of holding the gypsy’s shoulders, the friar put his hands on the gypsy’s head and uttered what sounded like a prayer. He took a tiny vile from his pocket, unplugged its cork and poured a drop of slow moving liquid onto the gypsy’s head. Immediately the man quieted.
The friar and Emory looked at each other and then the friar looked up and directly into Petra’s eyes. Startled, she ducked back around the corner, embarrassed to have been caught spying on such a private moment of…What had she seen? A faith healing? What had been in that bottle?
Petra leaned against the wall, listening. An iron door swung shut with a creak and clank. Footsteps padded away. Clearly, the friar had seen her; Emory probably suspected she hadn’t left, but neither approached. The candle light blew out, leaving Petra in the dark.
She heard the gypsy’s labored breathing. Must and mildew mingled with the smell of his blood, leaving a metallic taste in her mouth. Confident that the friar and Emory had gone, she went to the wounded man.
Eyes closed, lips slack with sleep, his face gleamed with sweat. He looked oddly at peace, despite the bandage wrapped tightly around his torso. She thought she recognized the rings on his fingers and knew she’d seen him earlier in the camp. She had a dozen questions for him, but she didn’t want to wake him and she wasn’t even sure if he spoke English. Besides, he looked like he needed rest more than she needed answers.
Petra headed in what she hoped was the direction of her room.
***
Emory followed Rohan through the door that led to the chapel’s basement. Dungeons and chapels seemed unlikely bedfellows, but they shared a roof and a plot of land. Thumbscrews beneath the alter, chains beneath the choir loft, a scold’s bridle beneath the confessional, and a meeting of zealots in the rectory.
Rohan’s wide body filled the narrow stairwell and Emory tagged after him. Hearing a noise behind him, he looked over his shoulder and saw rats scurrying in shadowy corners. He smiled, wondering if Petra suffered from squeamishness, if she would turn back, return to her warm bed in the manor. Falstaff’s manor.
He knew what he had to do; Petra or no. The time approached. They emerged through a side door that opened to a cloister. Damp night air filled Emory’s lungs and he inhaled deeply, feeling a renewed sense of purpose.
Rohan, as if reading his thoughts, took note of the moon’s position in the sky and said, “They will be here within the hour. I can do this on my own.”
Emory cast a swift glance at his friend and saw a rare steely determination. Normally Rohan had the disposition of a sunny day, but at the moment he looked stern.
“I’m going with you,” Emory told him.
Rohan cocked his head, motioning for Emory to follow him around the corner. The dark windows of the rectory looked upon them, promising their secrets. Although the rectory looked asleep, Emory knew that Father Priestly must be awake, preparing for the night’s tryst. Chambers and perhaps others would soon join him. From the shelter of a lilac bush beneath the front window, Emory and Rohan would listen to the men’s plans.
“I’m afraid you are needed elsewhere,” Rohan said, his voice a whisper.
Emory shook his head, uncomprehending, until Rohan pointed at the side chapel door creaking open. Breath caught in Emory’s throat.
Petra stood in the moonlight, framed by the inky black of the doorway. The moonlight pierced her chemise, revealing every one of her curves. Her hair fell about her shoulders and shone like the color of stars. She moved through the cloister and stopped at the well, staring into it as if lost in thought.
What was she doing here? How had she escaped the curse of Black Shuck? How had she managed to twist her way into his life? Because he’d thought she would die, he’d allowed himself kindness. Knowing she would be but a brief interlude, he’d let down his guard.
Emory flinched beneath his friend’s scrutiny. “Who is she?”
“Who is she to you?” Rohan asked.
Emroy flushed. “Is she your doing?”
Rohan shook his head, the smile returning to his eyes. “She is your problem, not mine.”
Emory folded his arms across his chest. “No, she is not.”
“We can’t allow her to stay. We risk exposure.”
Exposure. Unable to tear his eyes away from the shimmery chemise, exposure seemed the appropriate word. Emory let out a small groan and hung his head. Damn heaven. Damn hell.
Chapter Twelve
Everyone in Elizabethan England was expected to receive basic religious training. By law, every minister held services on alternate Sundays and on holy days. All children over the age of six had to attend. Parents who didn’t send their children might be prosecuted in church courts. Court or church with corrupt priests in charge? Tough call.
—Petra’s notes
Had Rohan been speaking? If so, very little had registered. He’d been completely absorbed by Petra’s appearance. Nothing could be accomplished if he allowed her to stay. Sighing, he cast Rohan a pained glance and left the rectory’s shadow.
She didn’t hear his approach. She seemed to be whispering while staring into the well’s depth. Perhaps she was making a wish. Her shoulders were slumped, her head bowed, her arms and hands dangled at her side. Even from behind she looked profoundly unhappy.
Emory crept from the shadows and into the moonlight. Four stone paths dissected the cloister and met at the well. Emory stayed on the grass, his gaze never leaving her.
The moon bathed her in a glow. He was close enough to know she smelled of lavender. Looking up, she caught sight of the manor’s turrets and her face cleared. Picking up her chemise by the handfuls, she started toward the manor. He trailed after her, past the rectory, past the chapel to a path through the woods to the place where the manor’s iron fence had a few missing bars. He wondered how she knew of the short cut.
Across the grounds, the small flicker of a lantern approached. Emory wondered if Petra also saw it and knew the potential danger. He had to warn her. He wouldn’t let her stumble into a disastrous meeting.
Emory ducked beneath the low branches of a pine tree, his heart racing. Through the boughs he watched the lantern flash toward where, until moments ago, Petra had walked.
Where had she gone? He held his breath as he searched. Pines, alders, wild brambles, no Petra. Never had he felt so vulnerable. The lantern passed, but Emory stayed in the shelter of the pine.
No voices, no questions. She must have passed Chambers without notice. How had he lost her? He cursed as he headed across the broad lawn toward the manor. Stone-built, the manor had turrets, annexes, towers, and wings.
It embarrassed Emory that despite the size and scope of the place, he knew exactly which window belonged to Petra. He had watched from the woods as a gatekeeper had carried
Petra to the manor, as a young footman received her into his arms, as young Falstaff had directed the staff and a parade of candlelight had made its way to a window in the northwest corner. Hours later, as he stood in the shelter of the woods in the early morning light, he had seen Petra standing at the same window.
He knew where she belonged.
Upon reaching the manor, he began the long, slow scale of the wall. One foot up and then another, each hand and foothold searched for and then found in the stone. Midway, he stopped to catch his breath. From his perch he saw the rolling river that led to the village, the sharp point of the chapel’s steeple. He hoped Petra had beaten him to her room. He told himself that he only needed to be sure that she had returned safely. He did not intend to hang from a sill waiting for her.
He wondered how Rohan fared and whether they would be able to stop Chambers. If Chambers discovered Rohan’s interference, Chambers would have him killed. How many deaths had Rohan endured? Anger and another emotion he couldn’t identify flared through him. He reached Petra’s windowsill seconds later.
The room was empty. He debated only a moment and then swung over the ledge.
The fire in the grate burned orange. If Petra returned he’d have nowhere to hide and no excuse for being in her bedchamber. If she called out, if he were discovered, conventions would force an immediate marriage. Still, he stood in the center of the room, because he couldn’t leave, even though he knew he couldn’t stay.
Someone had taken the quilt off her bed and a trail of dirty, Petra sized foot prints led out the door.
He smiled because even though he did not know Petra well, he knew her well enough to know that she would give her quilt to the wounded Roma.
***
Petra woke the next morning when Mary arrived carrying a tray of food. Sitting up on her elbows, Petra pushed the hair out of her eyes.
“Good morning, miss,” Mary nearly sang.
Petra grumbled a sleepy reply. “Is breakfast in bed typical?” The day before she’d found it awkward to balance her tray. She hated the thought of spilling something sticky on her sheets.
“Oh, no, miss. Breakfast trays are only for when the master is away.” Mary lowered her voice to a whisper. “Lord Garret likes his lie-a-bed.” Mary winked as if Petra would find this interesting.
“And the Earl, does he like to lie-whatever too?”
Mary settled the tray beside Petra’s knees and looked calculating. “A little lie-about does no harm.”
Petra looked at her breakfast and wondered if it could cause any harm. Of course, she really hadn’t expected pop-tarts, but she did miss them. Maybe the gypsy would appreciate the hard boiled eggs, slabs of ham, and a scoop of what looked like it might be beans of an unknown variety.
“Does the Earl know I’m here?” Petra asked, sitting up slowly, careful not to jostle the tray.
“How would he know that, miss?”
Petra shrugged and thought about texting, e-mails and instant messaging, not to mention phones, cell phones, telegrams, and the pony express. “If he knew, do you think he’d mind?”
Mary mumbled something like, “Not if he got to keep your jewels,” before she went out the door.
Petra picked at a piece of bread and realized that Mary probably wouldn’t discuss the Earl, her master, for fear of endangering her job. Through the window Petra saw a tinge of pink. Birds began to call, the morning was waking, but she hoped the occupants of the manor were still asleep. Three outings in her nightie seemed like three too many, but she couldn’t wait much longer. Mary would be back for the tray soon.
Slipping out the door with the food tray, Petra tried to think of an excuse for wandering the halls half-clothed but gave up. No one asked much of a half-clothed half-wit. It was a liberating thought. She walked fast, watching the eggs tumble around the tray.
The sudden clamor of church bells almost made her drop the breakfast. Wedding bells? That reminded her that Mary did have expectations…impossible expectations. Petra passed a window and looked out over the rolling estate to the normally busy square beyond the manor’s gates. The square looked vacant. No farmers, no vendors.
It’s Sunday, she realized. They observe the Sabbath. The thought cheered her and she practically skipped. Would she be invited to attend services? Would Emory and The friar be there? She had plenty of questions for them both.
Thankfully, she didn’t pass anyone on the way to the office. Inside, she kicked the door closed with her foot and leaned against the wall, catching her breath. Moments later she was in the now familiar passageway where she couldn’t help thinking of Emory.
She flushed remembering how it felt to be in his arms. Just before the attack on the gypsy camp, she had been sure he was going to kiss her. And she had planned on kissing him back. She hadn’t wanted anything more or less than that.
And then everything went wrong. She’d thought, she was sure, he’d been killed. The sickness and horror of that moment washed over her.
And then she’d found him in the passageway.
And he wasn’t happy to see her.
That hurt. That he hadn’t been as touched and moved by seeing her as she’d been hurt. A lot. He’d been shocked to see her, but definitely not happy. The thought of never seeing him again, again, twisted in her belly. It was becoming a familiar feeling.
She turned a corner and told herself to forget Emory. She needed to talk to the man in the monk garb. He’d administered some sort of prayer or blessing on the wounded gypsy and he had found peace as quickly as if the friar had pressed a button. Petra knew that there wasn’t a button or potion that could send her home, but maybe…
But she didn’t really know that, did she? She’d arrived in Dorrington, England, in the year 1614 without a lot of pain or fanfare, so why shouldn’t she be able to return as easily? The friar had some sort of gift. She simply had to persuade him to work his magic on her.
When she turned the corner and came face to face with the empty cells, she asked herself if he had made the gypsy disappear. Where had he gone? Where was her quilt? And now what was she to do with the food? She didn’t want to feed the rats.
This was what she really hated about 1614. There were too many questions.
And rats.
***
Dressed in a soft gray dress with a pearl trim bodice, Petra followed Garret and Chambers into the tiny stone church. The congregation of villagers gathered in the chapel, even the flock of sheep trapped in the stained glass window, seemed to stare as she tried to sit in the back pew.
Chambers gave her a heavy frown and Garret sighed deeply when she settled her skirts around her. A family with six children stared at her–six round little mouths hanging open at the sight of a stranger in their spot.
“Oh, do you sit here?” she whispered. She apologized and hurried after Garret, feeling Chambers’ frown between her shoulder blades.
As the town’s leading citizen it seemed Garret had to sit on the front pew, directly beneath the stern gaze of the priest. Apparently, as the Falstaffs’ guest, Petra was expected to also.
The hymns blaring through the organ pipes were giving her a headache and the service hadn’t even started.
Garret sat like a statue, clasping a hymnal. Petra tried to peer around him to search for Emory or the friar. Instead she saw Anne slip into the back of the chapel and arrange her blue skirts as her flushed face struggled for calm.
Petra tightened her jaw, straightened her shoulders and fixed her eyes on the priest. She didn’t care and wasn’t curious about Anne’s relationship with Emory.
After the opening prayer, Petra kept her gaze on the pulpit, but her attention wandered. She found it hard to focus, and when she managed to tune in she found the sermon silly. Who, other than a priest with porcupine sideburns, could seriously blame a drought on scandalous behavior?
The priest began droning the Beatitudes, but his message barely scratched Petra’s thoughts. I don’t want to inherit the earth, she thought;
I just want to go home. It didn’t seem an unreasonable request when the Lord was promising much greater blessings. The poor, the hungry, the mourners, the meek, the pure in heart, the peacemakers- where did she fit? What about Emory? Where was he and why had he been so mean?
During the closing hymn, Garret’s strong bass voice belted out a song Petra didn’t know. She mouthed along in monotone and cast him a glance. What if she told him her experiences, how would he react? Would he think her insane? Have her locked away? Would he protect her? Could she hide behind him? Possibly, but that wouldn’t be fair. She hadn’t a romantic interest in Garret, although she wondered why not. He looked exactly like Kyle. Tall, handsome and kind, yes, but he has the sense of humor of a toad, a small voice in the back of her head told her. Exactly like Kyle. She wondered what she ever saw in him.
Garret caught her watching him, and the corners of his lips lifted, but Petra didn’t know if it was a smile or the just the necessary movement to sing chart and compass come from thee.
After the benediction, Petra looked beyond Garret’s broad back to watch the friar slipping through the broad double doors. When had he come in? No sign of Emory. Maybe since he couldn’t be harmed, he also couldn’t walk on hallowed ground, a vampire or demon sort of thing. Not that the congregation appeared so holy. She recognized a few of the parishioners--including Muffin Face, Anne, and some of the men from the cock fighting rink.
Petra didn’t believe in vampires or demons, but until a few days ago she hadn’t believed in time travel. Maybe she needed to be open minded about all sorts of things including fortunetellers, and even tarot cards. The thought weighed on her. Everything she’d known, or believed to be true, wasn’t. When everything seemed possible, then nothing was impossible.
