“That man you let escape tried to kill the boy,” Joe said. “Despite the gash in Garrett’s side though, the kid will be fine.”
“Do not worry about him,” Sebastiano said, referring to George. “He will get his just do. I guarantee you that.”
Joe nodded. “So what brings you here?”
“After I awoke from a long, deep sleep,” Sebastiano answered wryly, his brows arched. “I thought to aid you in your quest.”
Joe shook his head with amusement. “You were supposed to drink from the cup on your left.”
“Apparently.”
They both shared a laugh.
“I like to think I have things under control here,” Joe went on, “but if you have nothing better to do, then I’m sure we could use another set of hands.”
Sebastiano stroked his young chin. “I have been meaning to ask you what sort of accent it is you have picked up these past many months? Have you been hiding out in Wales, my friend?”
“I never said I was your friend,” Joe mocked, still distrustful of the young man. Although, he mused, Sebastiano could very well have saved their lives by stopping the thug from catching him off-guard.
Sebastiano laughed and followed Joe to where their bags lay. “Ah, so ’Tis true. The Black Knight has no friends; his heart as cold as the arctic winds of the North Pole, his humor nonexistent.”
Joe did his best to ignore Sebastiano as he shuffled through the numerous saddlebags until he found two cups. Then he moved to the fire and filled both with warm broth.
Still chuckling, Sebastiano stayed at his side, taking the cup Joe offered. “I do not mean to be disrespectful, old man, although I must admit ’Tis said by most that you have no heart or humor.”
Joe spared only another shake of his head. “I hate to disappoint you, but I am sincere when I tell you I am not the Black Knight.”
Noting the skepticism in Sebastiano’s eyes, Joe added, “I know, without a doubt, that I’m not the Black Knight. Someone close to me has spent a lifetime searching for the Black Knight’s identity. It has been well documented that the knight saved King Henry’s life and prevented England from possible downfall. It has also been written that the Black Knight can ride a horse as well as he can walk the beaten earth.” Joe smiled, then shook it off with a snort. “You’ve seen me ride.”
“But then how do you explain the pendant, the clothes, the very scar behind your ear?”
Joe shrugged. “I can’t.”
Sebastiano finished off his broth and set the cup to the ground near the fire. “Ah, well, whatever you say.” He glanced over at Alexandra. “You love her, do you not?”
Joe smiled. “Love? No,” he said. “We’re as different as two people could ever be. Let’s just say I like her very much.”
“That the two of you are different...what might that have to do with how you feel about her?”
“Everything,” Joe said, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Absolutely everything.”
Joe made his way to the horses. Sebastiano followed, like a leach sucking the very blood from Joe’s veins.
Precious had both ears back, ready to bite one of the other horses if they so much as looked his way. Joe stroked the animal’s neck and let the horse lick the salt from his palm.
“So,” Sebastiano said, “you are traipsing across the countryside, helping a maiden in distress for no other reason, but to fill your day?”
Joe looked at Sebastiano. “Next, you’re going to tell me that although the Black Knight has a heart as dark and lonely as an empty cave, he spends his free time saving women who are in dire need of his aid.”
Sebastiano raised a brow. “For one who has never met the man and claims he does not exist, you know him well. But ’Tis not just any fair maiden he helps, only the beautiful virginal ones.”
Joe felt a headache coming on. “I made her a promise.” Joe pulled a piece of crumpled paper from his pocket, counted the lines he’d made for each day that passed. He had less than two weeks left. “And I’m running out of time.”
“Perhaps if I help you,” Sebastiano said, “you will agree to help me in return.”
For the next few minutes, Sebastiano revealed how he knew King Henry’s life was in danger. Apparently, Sebastiano himself had been hired to warn the king of danger. “If the message sent to Windsor is but the truth,” Sebastiano said, “then the king’s ruination is to take place within the week. It appears King Henry has taken a different route from the one his advisors had mapped out. Thus my frustrations have grown from not knowing where the king would be on any given day. But if that man I released speaks the truth, then I have only to get to Radmore’s Keep and await there.”
Sebastiano wasn’t just any ordinary fair-haired boy wandering the countryside, Joe quickly realized, but one of many young men sent out to gather information, find the king, and warn him of impending danger. Sebastiano, it turned out, had been following George and Udolf prior to their taking Alexandra and Garrett from the inn and had every intention of keeping at their heels. That is, until the wine had put him to sleep.
Joe’s tone grew serious. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, and I understand the seriousness of your mission, but I can’t help you. I am working on a deadline myself.” Joe sighed, having no desire to explain his crazy situation. “You’re welcome to come with us or take one of the horse’s left behind by the men you’re after.”
Sebastiano appeared thoughtful. “Susan told me of your plans to liberate her sister from Radmore’s Keep.”
Joe nodded.
“You are only but a day’s ride from there. It appears we are headed in the same direction. Last night whilst I followed your trail, I had much time to contemplate how you might gain access into Sir Richard’s keep. I have a plan.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.
—George Sand
Alexandra filed through the dimly lit corridors, trying to keep up with the musicians carrying lutes and horns. Sebastiano had been elated to learn that the King of England had only just arrived. Sebastiano had sprung into action and convinced the man in charge of entertainment that he and his entourage were a well-known traveling act, and in letting their small group join them, they would surely be swamped with engagements thereafter.
Worry gnawed at Alexandra’s bones, afraid they might be found out and thrown in the dungeons along with her sister. Alexandra let the musicians pass her by as she wondered what was keeping the others. Her heart raced. If they were caught, all would be lost. The four of them, Joe, Garrett, Sebastiano, and Alexandra, were to meet at the stage entrance. While she waited, she admired the many wall hangings and elaborate decorations; tapestries rich in color and detailed with images of biblical stories and lush landscapes. Large bouquets of white and wine colored roses with sprigs of heather had been carefully placed in iron wall vases.
In all her life, she’d never seen such splendor. She could only pray that such a well-kept castle meant that her sister had been treated with the same care. The sudden quiet alerted her to the fact that the musicians she’d been following had all but disappeared.
Only one man stood waiting...a familiar man in unusual clothing. She smiled demurely as she approached the most handsome of troubadours. The tall, dark and handsome man with roguishly good looks did not appear at all amused. “Ari’s clothes were bad enough, but this,” Sir Joe said with arms held wide, “is just not me.”
Alexandra smiled as she spied him at closer view in all his regal splendor. Upon his head sat a small soft-crowned hat with upturned brim and an ostrich plume that fell to the side. A spectacular and heavily embroidered doublet enhanced his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and the skin tight hose revealed enough of him to make her cheeks warm with color.
“If you keep gawking at me in such a way, my lady, I might be compelled to sweep you into one of these darkened alcoves and have my way with you.”
“Methinks you are
a scoundrel.”
He leaned closer. “Methinks you are a seductress.”
“Have you wanted me?” she asked boldly, her gaze on his. “Since that night we shared such intimacy, have you but once thought of taking me into your arms and carrying me to your bed?”
Sir Joe did not appear taken aback by her bluntness, nor did he look away or change the subject as she thought he might. In fact, he lifted a hand to her face, and surprised her when he spoke, his voice filled with emotions. “You know I have, Alexandra. I never wanted to be just your friend. Friend and lover, yes,” he amended, his thumb smooth against her jaw. “But never just your friend.” He stepped closer, took her in his arms, and brought his lips to hers. She’d scarcely seen this amorous side of him, and she well liked it. She curled her arms about his neck, wishing the kiss could linger on forever, but it wasn’t to be.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, they reluctantly parted. Sebastiano and Garrett quickly approached, setting her cheeks to flushing at being so openly brazen. Sir Joe said quickly into her ear, “Nothing short of three kids, a toothache, and your being kidnapped by the king’s men could have stopped me from seeking you out, I swear.”
She smiled before they turned to greet the others. It was good to know he wanted her.
“Well,” Sebastiano said cheerfully, “I see the wandering troubadour has found our monastic maiden.”
Joe looked at Alexandra, noticing for the first time her long gray robes and plain wimple.
“The story you will tell on stage has to do with a troubadour’s love for a nun,” Sebastiano announced.
“There’s no need for us to go on stage,” Joe told Sebastiano. “After the musicians begin we can quietly disappear and spread out in search of Mary.”
“We cannot,” Sebastiano replied. “I promised the head musician we would go on stage first so as to give them time to set up. They are even now waiting for us to appear. Besides, you will be assured a good look at the audience while you are on stage. Signal me if you see anything of a suspicious nature.”
“Did you warn the king?” Alexandra asked Sebastiano.
Sebastiano shook his head. “They would not allow an introduction, I am afraid, and my orders were to relay the message to no one other than the king himself.”
“I’m no actor,” Joe said worriedly. “I can’t go out there. This will never work.”
Sebastiano gave Sir Joe a friendly pat on the back. “The ladies will be enamored by such fanciful garb and will care not about the manner in which you speak the written words.”
Clearly, Sir Joe was uncomfortable with his allotted role in Sebastiano’s plans.
“Forbidden love,” Sebastiano went on hurriedly, “is the root of the story we will be telling this day. A love frowned upon by all except the two people in the midst of love’s eternal control. Two people from two different worlds some might say.”
As Sebastiano rambled on, Alexandra found her attention focused on Sir Joe’s profile as she wondered if he too noted the correlation between Sebastiano’s tale and their lives.
“Alexandra,” Sebastiano scolded, making her cheeks flare, “are you listening to a word I am saying?”
“She is too busy staring at the troubadour,” Garrett said with a tad less bitterness than usual.
“I am not staring at the troubadour. ’Tis a ridiculous notion and methinks Garrett’s injury has affected his sight. Now Sebastiano,” she beseeched, “please continue.”
“As I was saying...the troubadour professes a life of wandering the world in search of knowledge, while the woman he loves has only just vowed to serve God for all eternity. And yet now, with their love blossoming, neither can bear to part, for they have found a love so powerful, so rich, that neither can imagine life without the other.”
“How does the tale end?” Alexandra asked.
Sebastiano clapped Sir Joe on the shoulder and said, “’twill be up to our wandering troubadour to decide, for I had not enough time yester eve to write the ending. Here,” he said, handing Sir Joe a rolled parchment, “Improvise.”
Joe took the paper, unhappy with Sebastiano's crazy plan. “You owe me for this and twice more for this ridiculous outfit.”
Sebastiano grinned from ear to ear. “You look most handsome in those tights. I knew the costume would suit you well. Now come,” he said, pulling Alexandra’s hand, “we must join the musicians while these two wait for their introductions. The King of England is waiting.”
After Alexandra’s gray skirts disappeared through the heavy curtains, Joe prayed things would go well and that her identity would not be discovered before they found her sister.
Garrett snorted.
“What now?” Joe asked.
Garrett shrugged. “For a man who does not like her much, you certainly fret over my sister.”
“I never said I didn’t like her.”
“Then why are you going to leave her?”
“Because this isn’t where I belong. We’re from two different worlds. It could never work.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have responsibilities back home. And even if I didn’t...” Joe stopped when he saw Garrett giving him the same damned look that Sebastiano had given him two days ago. The kid’s steely gaze pierced into him, curious, waiting, making him feel guilty of all things. Joe was doing all he could. Damn if he’d be made to feel guiltier than he already felt. “There are certain things people get used to in my world,” Joe told Garrett.
“What sort of things?”
“Just things. Once a man gets used to those things, it’s difficult for a man to go backwards in time and suddenly not have those things. Do you understand?”
“I see that Sebastiano was right,” Garrett said.
“Why? What did Sebastiano say?”
“He said that it was a shallow man who picked material possessions or ambition over love; a man lacking depth of character, a superficial man who sees compromise as a weakness and acceptance as fear. To a man like this...like you,” Garrett amended, “loving another unconditionally would soon yield you powerless.”
Joe eyed the boy skeptically. “How old are you?”
“Two and ten.”
“And Sebastiano told you all of that?”
Garrett nodded, a smug look upon his face.
“And you believe him?”
Again Garrett nodded.
“Well, it’s not true. I don’t have to defend myself to you or anyone else. But I’ll tell you this, kid. I’m going back to my time because that’s where I belong. It’s my home.”
The music had stopped and they both listened for a few seconds as Sebastiano began his introductions.
“I’m sorry your father left to go to war,” Joe went on hurriedly, “but I can’t stay and take his place, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“You are an ass,” Garrett said without the usual childish snort, “and you do not know anything about me. My father left because he thought himself a failure. Because we did not always have food on the table, he thought we would all begin to look at him differently. He failed to grasp that we loved him no matter how much food he brought home at the end of the day. I do not blame myself for his leaving. He had no choice. I only wish I had told him I loved him before he left to do the King’s bidding.” Garrett narrowed his eyes. “Do not presume your feet are big enough to fill someone else’s boots, for they are only as big as your heart.”
Garrett walked away, leaving Joe feeling like a jerk, a certifiable, selfish jerk. The kid was tougher than he looked, and a lot smarter, too.
Joe shook his head, hurrying to catch up to the boy after he heard Sebastiano call out, “And here he is, I well promise you this time, the wandering troubadour from Toulouse.”
Something fell to the floor, but Joe didn’t have time to glance over his shoulder to see what it was. Besides, he and Garrett were already on stage and the curtains had long since risen.
Garrett took to the stage like a bee t
o honey, bowing stiffly, despite his well-bandaged injury, and smiling, of all things. Joe had yet to see the boy smile, but damn if Garrett wasn’t doing it now, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling as if he’d been born to be on stage. When the clapping finally died down, Joe reached into each of his shirt pockets and came out empty handed. He’d lost the script.
He looked to the audience, taken aback by the eclectic array of colors and design. The castle itself was grand, but seeing the people of this time, not actors and actresses, but true nobility, was simply incredible. The ladies wore conical headdresses and veils with wire support. Dresses were either heavily embroidered or of fur-lined silks. Sparkling gemstones, necklaces and brooches abounded, even their belts were adorned with jewels. Ermine and sable-lined cloaks kept the ladies warm.
And then Joe saw him...the King of England...it was difficult not to stare. King Henry VII in the flesh. The first of the Tudor dynasty. The king’s complexion appeared sallow set against the crimson velvet of his fur-trimmed hat. Compared to his unborn son, the future King Henry VIII, this King of England was slender. His face looked cheerful though, despite the small blue eyes and poor, blackish teeth that showed clearly when he smiled.
A loud cough drew Joe’s attention to the side curtain where Sebastiano was urging him to say something, anything.
Joe looked over at Garrett and threw his arms out in wide, exaggerated hopelessness.
Garrett stepped forward and said, “Knights and Ladies, Kings and nobleman. ’Twould seem this tale begins, as you can see, with one lone man, a desperate man some would say, who cannot, as hard as he tries, find his way without his life map. Hardly more than a piece of worn parchment this map, but not to this man. To this lonely soul ’Tis much more than that.”
Garrett paced the stage with a stiff bounce to his gait.
“This life map,” Garrett continued, “has become the unyielding goals of a man who does not realize that sometimes one’s destiny is stronger than one’s dreams.”
Joe shook his head and said to the audience, “The narrator is a fool.”
A Knight in Central Park Page 21
