The one who looked like Lucy dashed around to the other side of the bed, hovering, and he motioned her forward. Careful to keep himself modestly shielded, he staggered out of bed, and would have fallen if she had not been standing by his side. His head swam with dizziness, and he clutched at the bed. Lucy said something and pointed back to the bed, but he shook his head “no.” He pointed to the window. He had to see where he was.
Ursula rushed to his side, and together, the women helped him limp to the window. Another wave of dizziness threatened to overcome him as he clung to the rough wooden sill. He hung on to the window frame with all the strength he could muster as he stared out over the landscape. The land that stretched before him was nothing like what he remembered. This was a place of rutted, unpaved roads and darkly forested hills, stretching on to the horizon as far as the eye could see. He gripped the rough wooden sill and leaned out further, even as he realized he knew the perspective. It was the same one he’d been looking in the minutes before he fell.
Movement in the lower corner of his eye got his attention, and he looked as straight down as the thickness of the wall would permit.
ln a courtyard, cobbled with stones and scattered with straw, thirty or forty men armed with swords faced each other in two long lines, performing what looked like some complicated military drill. From a low building off to one side, smoke billowed, and a row of horses swished their tails and stamped impatiently. Three or four boys dressed in ragged smocks swarmed between the horses and a barrel-chested man wearing a soot-stained apron roared orders and gestured with hands like slabs of meat.
On the other side of the courtyard, women stirred giant pots hung on huge iron tripods, and the wind fanned the fires beneath into long orange tails. A child of indiscriminate sex burst out of the shed, chasing a squealing piglet.
As Richard stared at the unbelievable scene before him, one of the men-at-arms caught sight of him, and gestured to his fellows. The men looked up at the window and cheered, shouting incomprehensible encouragement.
Another man, who stood a little distance apart directing the rest, bowed. Obviously he was in charge of the rest of the men. Richard nodded slowly in acknowledgment.
The woman who looked like Lucy said, “Cel lit iras, mon sire?”
This time he understood the word “bed.” She wants me to get back in bed, he thought.
As the two women slowly propelled him over a floor covered in what looked like long weeds, an understanding slowly dawned that seemed at once completely impossible and yet, based on everything his senses told him, had to be absolutely real. I fell down the steps, and I fell through time, he thought. I fell down the steps but I didn’t die. At least…my mind didn’t die. My mind came back…to this castle, to another time.
This was no drug-induced hallucination, or some halfway house to heaven or hell. This was real. He remembered his last thought as he’d fallen from the tower: Let me find Lucy.
Well, he’d found her all right. In England, in the Middle Ages; just, apparently, where she had always intuitively known she belonged. Overwhelmed by what had to be the truth, he let the women settle him back into bed, almost glad for the pain, because it kept him undeniably anchored in this unbelievable reality. He looked down at the outline of the body beneath the covers—his body, now. Was it possible he had somehow transcended time?
He closed his eyes and listened to the women bustling about the room. He had fallen from the tower. That last snap he had heard so distinctly—had that been his neck? But he hadn’t died. At least, this was like no afterlife he’d ever imagined. This body—this aching, injured, uncircumsized body—felt all too real. Briefly, he wondered what had happened to it and its original owner. It must’ve been a hell of a fight, he thought. Was the other guy in the 21st century, in his old body?
He remembered dimly his physics classes so long ago. Space and time are one. We only perceive time as linear. Then if time were not linear, was there some way to return to the 21st century?
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as the woman who looked like Lucy—or girl, because she was clearly very young—held a goblet of hot wine scented with something else, something tangy and herbal, to his lips. He touched her hand, and she startled back like a frightened rabbit, but not before he caught of whiff of scent. Perspiration and something else—flowers, maybe, blended with cinnamon. It made him want to touch her, to assure himself this wasn’t a dream.
Richard closed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly. Every breath still hurt. Why had he
come here? What purpose could there be in his sudden appearance in another man’s body—in another man’s time and place? Was his muttered prayer enough to bring him here?
Or was there something else?
After all, in the future his children were grown. The family firm he’d begun so many years ago as a single lawyer striking out on his own was doing well. He had been thinking of retiring and naming his eldest daughter managing partner. There were his grandchildren, of course—but they were happy and healthy, well cared for by loving parents. They didn’t need him.
And this girl who looked so much like Lucy, why did she look at him as though she were afraid of him? What sort of man had he been? He reached out and touched her face, tentatively, and she froze like an animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Beneath his fingers he felt her tremble. Their eyes met and held, and he was puzzled by the obvious animosity in her expression. This Lucy didn’t love him. She didn’t even like him. He lowered his hand, nodded, and she turned away with such obvious relief and bright red blush he wondered what had happened between her and the orginal occupant.
“M’ dame Eleanor?” The older woman’s voice broke the spell. The girl turned and answered, relief stark on her face.
So her name wasn’t even Lucy. It was Eleanor—which was the same root word, if he remembered his Latin and Greek. Both names meant “light.” As he watched her, moving efficiently about the room with that same peculiar grace Lucy had had, he realized that for whatever reason, he had been given a miracle of a gift, a true second chance.
He had found his Lucy. And even if she didn’t love him…didn’t like him…well, he had always thrived on challenge. He looked up into Lucy—or Eleanor’s—eyes, and was chilled by the expression in them. He’d seen kinder looks from people on opposite sides of lawsuits. She hates me, he thought. She hates me and I don’t belong here, and it isn’t going to take very much for them all to figure out I’m not the man they think I am.
But until he could figure out a way back—if there even was a way back at all—he would do everything he could to show her what love between a man and a woman could be like. Perhaps, after all, that was the reason he was here. Perhaps, just perhaps, this Eleanor would be his once and future love.
CHAPTER 5
It was the intensity in his eyes that confused her, thought Eleanor, the way his piercing gaze followed her everywhere she moved. Three days after the day Richard had insisted on getting out of bed, and showing himself to the men at arms—a foolhardy gesture if she had ever seen one—Geoffrey de Courville knocked at the sickroom door, and asked for admittance.
Ursula sniffed suspiciously as she looked over her shoulder to Eleanor where she sat pounding a salve with her mortar and pestle by Richard’s bedside. He was sleeping again, his breathing deep and even, his color better than she had seen it in many days. None of his wounds had opened up when he’d risen from the bed, even though she thought it would be many weeks before he could speak normally again. What a constitution the man must have.
He gulped the broth she brought him, although he still winced as he swallowed and spoke hardly a word. What was he thinking when he watched her, she wondered, as she gazed down at his sleepslack face, hesitating to wake him up. Was he gathering up transgressions, storing them away in his memory to punish her for them on another day? Or was he thinking of something else?
Did he miss her lying beside him, her body responding of it
s own volition to his every touch?
“My lady?” Ursula repeated. “Did you hear me? Sir Geoffrey wishes to speak to Lord Richard—”
With a little shake of her head, Eleanor roused herself. “Sir Geoffrey?’ She glanced at Richard, and set the little clay implements aside. “I don’t think so. Not yet, he’s sleeping so soundly.” She glanced down once more, and saw with a start that those blue eyes had opened and were staring at her with the same ferocious intensity. He looks like he wants to eat me, she thought, and blushed. “Richard? My lord?”
At the sound of his name, Richard shifted on the pillows as though he would sit up. He glanced to the doorway, where Geoffrey peered into the sickroom. At once he looked back at Eleanor, brow raised in an obvious question.
“My lord, Sir Geoffrey wishes to speak with you, concerning the manor defenses—there’s been trouble with Welsh, just as we expected. Are you feeling well enough?”
Typically, he didn’t bother to answer her. He raised his left arm from under the covers and beckoned. Obediently Geoffrey entered, throwing the women a triumphant glance.
Of course, thought Eleanor. The defense of the manor would always be paramount in Richard’s mind. Of course he’d speak to Geoffrey. Though listen was a better word, she thought, as de Courville settled his broad bulk in the chair she abandoned.
He leaned forward, speaking rapidly and sparingly, and she saw Richard staring with that same frightening concentration. It didn’t seem to bother the knight, though, for he continued on and on, describing the current state of the manor forces and the precautions he’d taken since the attack on Richard, his words as rapid as sword strokes.
From her place at the hearth, Eleanor watched Richard’s face. He was concentrating very hard on everything de Courville said, and a thin line had appeared between his brows, as though he wasn’t very pleased with what he was hearing.
Finally de Courville paused, and it was plain to Eleanor that he, too, was trying to assess his lord’s reaction. “And so what do you think, my lord? Our scouts have reported that the main forces have already withdrawn into the mountains beyond the river. Shall we continue our raids? Press our advantage as long as the weather allows?”
Richard’s gaze flickered over to Eleanor, and she was struck by the sudden thought that he was asking for her help. Confused, she got to her feet and tapped de Courville on the shoulder. “Sir Geoffrey, my lord can only nod or shake his head. He’s not yet up to speech. You must phrase your questions so that he answers them yes or no.”
Eleanor watched Richard’s face. He had closed his eyes, but she could see his eyes moving beneath the lids. He seemed to be thinking.
With an impatient huff, de Courville placed both hands on his knees, and spoke again, slowly and deliberately. “The raids, my lord. Shall I continue?”
Richard glanced at Eleanor, almost as though, she thought, shocked, he wanted her to answer. She met his gaze calmly, trying to show no sign of her own confusion and concem. Finally Richard shrugged and shook his head, gestures that made de Courville swear beneath his breath. “But, my lord, if we continue to harry the Welsh, press our advantage—”
Richard turned his head away, and Eleanor understood her cue. “I’m sorry, Sir Geoffrey. My lord must rest. Although he doubtless understands your concerns, his first concern must be for his own health. If he doesn’t recover fully before he takes up his arms again, there is a very real possibility that the Welsh may accomplish their goal without having to raise their hands.”
De Courville stared up at her, his mouth twisting beneath his thick beard. She knew he wanted to argue, but Richard had opened his eyes and was staring at them both with the expression he wore whenever he expected to be obeyed without question. Eleanor knew exactly what he wanted of her. “You must let my lord rest, Sir Geoffrey. You may speak with him again tomorrow, if you will. Surely there is nothing so pressing that it cannot wait?”
With a sigh of resignation, the knight rose to his feet. He inclined his head briefly toward Richard, and with another bow to Eleanor, left the room. Eleanor looked at Richard, who had closed his eyes. “Rest, my lord,” she murmured, as she resumed her place by the fire.
Reeling, Richard shut his eyes tight, and pressed his head back into the pillow. He’d had no eff-ing clue what that very large and dangerous looking man had just said. What had just happened was only the briefest taste of what was going to happen all the time, unless he learned the language and quickly.
This was no made-for-TV movie. The Conan-the-Barbarian lookalike was looking to Richard—to Richard, who marched for peace in college and law school—for leadership, and he would know it in a moment if Richard were any less than the man he remembered. And then what? Probably nothing good.
Richard’s mind spun. With only the greatest effort, he pushed those thoughts out of his head. He forced himself to breathe calmly. He could do this, he knew he could. He had to. Norman French was one of the two great rivers from which modern English flowed. In the past days he had listened closely to both women talk.
“Yes” and “no” were plain enough. Names and titles he understood, as he did all the nouns that had a similarity to the French he remembered from school. The total of those could probably fill up all of one page in a French–English dictionary.
But how did infants learn to speak? They listened. All the time. At this point the best thing would be to listen to them all speak as much as possible…to immerse himself in the sounds and the rhythm and the cadence of the language. At least, he thought, the poor fellow whose body he’d stolen was probably illiterate. He wouldn’t have to learn to read and write to carry out his charade. But eventually—surely at some point, if he were going to stay in this time and this place he would have to learn to read. And write. But not yet.
First he had to get them to talk to him. His mind raced. Talk—how did one say that? In modern French, the verb was parler. And in modern English, Parliament was the place where people met and talked.
He opened his eyes and raised his head, wincing in pain. “El—” he rasped, before the pain made his throat close in protest.
Eleanor looked up, wearing the same startled-rabbit expression she always did whenever he looked at her. Immediately she set down her sewing and hastened to his side. She touched his forehead with the back of her cool hand and gaznd at him, concern and fear mixing on her face. “My lord?”
She was completely bewildered when he beckoned for her to sit in the chair by his side. She looked back at Ursula. “Ursula, what do you think he wants?”
Ursula shrugged. “Offer him wine.”
Eleanor picked up the goblet, and raised it to Richard’s face. He pushed the cup away.
“See if he’s cold,” suggested the old woman.
Eleanor reached for the woolen blanket folded at the bottom of the bed. Again Richard shook his head violently, gesturing once more for her to sit. “Talk,” he rasped.
Aghast, Eleanor sank into the chair. Talk? she wondered. He wanted her to talk? About what? The manor, she decided. Of course. Geoffrey couldn’t tell him everything. Slowly, haltingly, she began, twisting her fingers in the rough woolen fabric of her skirt, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Like any other common bully, obvious fear always whetted his appetite. As she went on, Richard settled back against his pillow with the barest sigh. Gradually her voice grew stronger and she couldn’t help but notice his hand lying upturned and vulnerable on top of the coverlet, close to the edge of the bed. It almost seemed as though he invited her to take it.
Hugh crept through the undergrowth, his soft leather boots making no noise at all. The day was a rare one for late October—the sun was warm, and the sky, for the first time in weeks that he could remember, was clear. Beneath the flame-colored leaves, the forest was quiet. On the perimeter
of the remains of the little village, Hugh paused. Before de Lambert’s vicious attack, it had been a forlorn enough little place, and now in only a matter of a few weeks, th
e forest looked as though it would claim it entirely.
Hugh looked over his shoulder. It would never do for someone to find him here. Richard’s men would drag him back to de Courville, who would punish him severely for abandoning his tasks. De Courville was strongly lobbying against him, petitioning Eleanor to send her brother away to the house of some greater lord, where he could learn the skills of knighthood and win his spurs. But Eleanor, fearing to hand Hugh into the clutches of someone like Richard, hesitated and in that gap, Hugh hoped to prove his worth—to his sister, if not to Geoffrey.
That’s why he had come, risking both their anger, to see if he could find some clue, something that might link Giscard Fitzwilliam to the attack. De Courville wouldn’t listen to him without proof.
But what? Arrows, perhaps, some scrap of clothing, some tangible evidence that the feeling in his gut was true. The bracken scratched his face as he crouched in the underbrush. The musty odor of the damp leaves belied the horror he remembered. The evidence of that awful day was gone, buried in a mound in the center of the village. He got to his feet and started through the trees, certain that no one was about, when he heard horses breaking through the forest, and he realized that someone was coming.
Instinctively he ducked down as two horses broke into the clearing. Two women—girls, really, for they were not much more than his own age if even that old—sat upon the horses’ backs, the one clinging for dear life, the other riding with the easy, comfortable seat of a girl who spent a lot of time in a saddle. Her dark hair blew about her face, her riding dress billowed behind her. She turned around and gabbled something that Hugh realized at once was Welsh, reined her horse abruptly, and slid to the ground.
The other girl awkwardly managed to induce her mount to stop, and half rolled out of the saddle, speaking in frantic whispers, clearly terrified.
Hugh peered through the brush, hoping to get a better look at the tall dark-haired girl. They went to the mound in the center of the village. He saw the one in charge gesture impatiently to the other. The other drew a wreath of fading wildflowers from her belt and offered it to her mistress, who placed the wreath in the center of the low mound of raw earth, then bowed her head.
[1997] Once and Future Love Page 5
