Through The Leaded Glass

by Fennell, Judi

  She’d meant Alicia, but yes, the guy Alex was supposed to have lost to fit that description as well.

  So would Alex win now? Had she altered his destiny enough by appearing with the ring or was he about to get hurt in some other way by this guy?

  She hadn’t thought about that.

  Farley rode into the arena, his snorting, prancing horse nearly as silver as the armor on its back. Orange and brown plumes rose from the horse’s headdress, and the lance jutted above its head, aimed at the other end of the field.

  Alex rode in next to thundering applause. She’d thought he’d looked amazing in the tent, but now, seated on his stallion, armor gleaming—he was a true knight in shining armor out of a fairy tale. The mighty prince riding in on his white horse to save the day.

  Not that she was into that happily-ever-after stuff anymore, and, okay, so he was an earl and the horse was black, but, good lord, he was incredible. All her earlier adjectives floated off into the breeze as the raw maleness of him assailed her from across the field. She had to admit, even in her independent woman’s heart, she felt more than a shiver of excitement looking at him, knowing he was—for now, at least—hers.

  His armor shone in the sunlight as they took their place along the log dividing the field. The blue plume on Alex’s helmet matched the embroidered blanket on the horse’s back and the background of his heraldic crest as his squire raised it in salute.

  The crowd roared when Alex hefted his lance. His horse snorted impatiently, its heavily muscled legs pawing the ground as it shook its head… once… twice as adrenaline pulsed throughout the arena. Alex reined him in, but the excitement was palpable. The horse nickered and whipped its tail.

  Across the field came Farley’s horse’s high-pitched whinny. Alex’s answered back. Even their horses didn’t like each other. The crowd got in on the taunting with ear-piercing whistles and insults. This was, obviously, a great rivalry on all fronts.

  “Oh, God.” Kate crossed her fingers over her heart, but there was nothing pious about the pounding in her chest. What if it all went horribly wrong?

  Tristan leaned over. “Don’t worry. Alex has yet to lose. It’s vexed Farley to no end. Each year he swears he’ll be victorious and each year he fails.”

  “Does it bother him enough to want to destroy Alex?”

  Tristan was silent for a moment. “He’s lost enough gold over the years to warrant it. At least in his mind.”

  “So he could be the thief?”

  “Perhaps, but that doesn’t explain how he knew where to find the ring. Even Nick and I, the two people closest to Alex, don’t know where it’s kept.”

  Kate wanted to question him further, but at that moment a trumpeter signaled the start. The horses jumped out, their massive hooves pounding the ground as they thundered down the lists. Kate sat on the edge of her bench, feet planted firmly on the dais beneath her, feeling the vibrations from here. He had to win. His son’s life—and her daughter’s future—depended on it.

  Her gaze centered on Alex and his lance, her nerves strung out as the horses sped toward each other. Fifty feet… forty… twenty.

  And then they were within range, the lances’ tips blunted but still lethal at that speed. She leaned forward and gasped as Farley’s came within striking distance. Alex swerved and lunged, finding his mark and throwing Farley sideways, his lance almost knocked from his grasp.

  The crowd roared. Blue ribbons in honor of the House of Shelton rained from the stands and Kate took a breath. Thank God that was over.

  But then they faced off again.

  “Wait. What’s happening? Why are they lining up again?” She leaned toward Tristan.

  “That was merely the first of three challenges.”

  Three. Kate groaned. Master Griff hadn’t said which match-up would be the one where Alex was injured. Suppose she hadn’t changed his future enough? She took a deep breath, preparing for Round Two.

  Once again, both men were ready, lances poised for the trumpet. At the signal, their horses strained forward. The crowd cheered and the noise was deafening as the horses, their pace furious, met in the middle once more. Farley’s lance plunged into Alex’s shield, only to shatter like a toothpick.

  The crowd cheered again and Tristan whistled shrilly in her ear. She wiggled a finger in it and saw Nick leave the stands. She didn’t blame him; this tension was killing her.

  Alex and Farley lined up again and the stands quieted as the horses’ heavy breaths reverberated through the arena.

  “Come on, Alex,” she muttered, gripping the edge of her seat, that cliché finally making sense.

  “Don’t worry,” Tristan whispered. “Farley won’t win. The Traverses and Farleys have been at odds for generations, and though Simon sees himself as the man to return the glory to his family name, he never will. He allows his thirst for vengeance to fuel his anger rather than improve his technique. Until he learns to ignore his anger and attend to the match, he’ll never beat Alex. It is the same with every meeting between them. At court, at cards, racing, anything. He wins occasionally, but never decisively. It wouldn’t surprise me if Alex allows him to win simply to keep the anger and jealousy in manageable proportions.”

  The men hoisted their lances again. The horses shifted from side to side, snorting. Alex turned toward his contingent and waved.

  Tristan gave her a blue ribbon. “Wave this. He dedicates the match to you.”

  Kate took it and the crowd roared its approval. Farley, however, ruined the moment by mimicking Alex’s gesture—also toward her.

  The crowd went menacingly silent.

  “‘Tis an outrage!” a woman nearby huffed.

  “A blatant affront,” chimed another.

  Tristan scowled. “Alex won’t like that.”

  Alex’s posture went rigid. He slammed down his visor and punched the air to signal the trumpeter. The moment the horn sounded, the horses bolted.

  Again, they pounded the ground so hard Kate felt it in her legs.

  Farley’s lance again went flying when they met at the middle of the arena, this time followed by his wildly waving arms as he struggled to remain in the saddle. He flailed for the bridle, the horse’ mane, anything, but it did no good. With a nasty crunch, Farley hit the ground and his helmet went flying.

  The crowd went wild. Even more so when Alex rode over to her, removed his helmet, and accepted her blue ribbon.

  “It seems, my lady, you have, indeed, altered my fate.”

  ***

  “Isobel!” Nick hurried through the crowd after her, her blue dress kicking up dust in her wake.

  She turned and glared at him. “You forget yourself, sir.”

  She did love to use that tone with him, but he would not be cowed. She’d need him now. “My pardon, Lady Marston. I wish to have a moment—”

  “You may wish all you want, but a wish is all you will have. Good day.” She turned away.

  Not this time. “Isobel.” Nick dropped his voice as he caught her arm. “There are things we must discuss.”

  She rounded on him and he saw the barely restrained tears in her eyes. “Have you no decency? All of you, like vultures! I won’t be made sport of.” She pulled her arm away, picked up her skirt, and fled.

  Nick let her go. Alex and King Henry had done more damage than they knew.

  It was time for him to fix it.

  Chapter Six

  Kate woke to the bleating of sheep and the mooing of cows.

  Sheep? Cows? In Philadelphia?

  Not in her neighborhood.

  She opened her eyes. Crimson velvet draped across the ceiling above her.

  Ah, yes. Fourteen eighty-seven. A nightmare come to life.

  And one that better end soon. Of all the time periods in history, why did it have to be this one? Where men were the law and women were… well, not in charge. Why couldn’t she have gone back to ancient Greece and been revered as a goddess?

  Because that wasn’t who she was any more t
han a medieval “by your leave, my lord” sort of woman.

  She wiggled out from the covers and leaned against the headboard of the massive canopy bed. Last night, she’d taken Alex and his friends to where she’d hidden the window, and it still hadn’t been there. They’d used the last of the daylight to search for it only to come up empty.

  Then they’d headed to Alex’s home and, after a quick candlelight tour, he’d led her to his study where she’d drawn a picture of the window for his men to use in their search.

  He’d taken her to this room them, putting off her introduction to his people until morning.

  This morning.

  Kate crossed her arms behind her head and stared at the yellow plastered walls in her room. Time travel. She almost didn’t believe it, but this new home-sweet-home made a convincing argument.

  The place was more like the Philadelphia Art Museum than anyone’s home. Big, hollow halls with what would be priceless antiques in her time everywhere: suits of armor, authentic furnishings, and hand-made medieval clothing. And while it was an impressive once-in-a-lifetime experience, she’d rather see them when they were actual antiques.

  Someone knocked on her door.

  “Uh, come in?” Or was that, enter? Too bad her history prof hadn’t included a textbook on medieval manners in the curriculum.

  “Good morn, my lady.” A young girl, probably no more than sixteen, curtsied to her from the doorway. She set a tray on a small desk. “I’m Joan, your maid.”

  “Hi, Joan. I’m Kate.” Kate kicked the furs—furs!—off her legs and tried to make a somewhat dignified leap off the high bed. “Thank you for the breakfast.”

  Joan’s eyes were as wide as the cushions on the window seat.

  What had she done now? She’d put on the nightgown someone had laid out for her last night, and the ring was still on her finger.

  Oh. Probably shouldn’t be so familiar with the help. That lady of the manor thing.

  “That is—” She yanked the nightgown down around her legs. “My name is Kate, er, Katherine. Lawton.” Katherine was a normal name for this time period. Three of Henry the eighth’s wives had had it.

  On second thought, maybe that wasn’t a good comparison.

  “Yes, my lady. Lord Shelton informed the keep upon your arrival.” Joan curtsied again. “I have brought you wine. Mistress Mary will be in to assist you with your garments before you break your fast with our lord.” The girl backed toward the door and, with a final curtsy, left.

  Kate released the breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding. The keep, assist with her garments, break her fast, curtsying, wine before noon… Even with the ring this could get confusing. But if someone was coming in to help her dress, she’d better get rid of her twenty-first century underwear pretty quickly. Elastic would be tough to explain.

  Kate stuffed the anachronistic clothing under the cushion on the window seat, then opened the interior shutters to see what a fifteenth-century countryside looked like. It might come in handy with one of her advertising campaigns some day after she returned home.

  She refused to consider that the “after” might be “if.”

  Alex’s castle stood high on a hill above a river. She could see for miles. Thatched-roof cottages and wood structures were scattered across the landscape and a long dirt path meandered into the green hills. The sun was out in all its glory, catching the last of the dew in its twinkling grasp. A dense forest bordered the horizon. Butterflies dotted a crystalline blue sky unmarred by any clouds, and a hawk screeched near her window before plummeting toward the field. With a lunge of its talons and a flip of its wings, a bunny was toast (or sausage) and the hawk coasted toward a man at the forest’s edge.

  Savage but beautiful. Nature at her most basic. Kate had seen the same scene yesterday in the Lancaster County countryside when she’d driven to the faire. Well, not the man holding the bird part, but that was because life had still been normal.

  “Good morn, my lady.” A small woman bounced into her room, stopping the pity party Kate was about to start. The woman was as wide around the middle as she was tall, with sparkling silver eyes, and a smile fighting her ruddy cheeks for room on her face as she curtsied. “Welcome, my lady, to Shelton keep. I am Mary, mistress of the wardrobe to his lordship. We’ll have you looking magnificent in her ladyship’s clothes. I can’t imagine why those ruffians took yours. Waylaying an earl’s betrothed. When our lord finds them, they’ll wish they’d never heard of hiim.”

  And so, she was off. Kate didn’t even bother to try to get a word in edgewise, because Mary was Little Miss Chatterbox. She dove into the trunk in the corner of the room near the carved wood dressing screen, tossing silks and brocades, wools, linens, ribbons, and shoes all over the place like Filene’s Basement on a sale day, or like a little girl diving into her mom’s stash of old prom dresses. Emma would be able to do that someday—if Kate could manage to get out of here.

  Mary pulled out an emerald dress and held it to Kate’s chin. “‘Twill bring out the jewels in your eyes.” She draped it on the bed. “She never wore these, you know.” Another dive into the trunk produced a yellow overdress thing with lacings up the front. “Will this do, my lady?”

  Kate let the silky fabric spill through her fingers. “Do? Are you serious? It’s gorgeous. Nothing in Nordstrom’s can compare.”

  Mary scrunched her face.

  Oops. The ring obviously didn’t do colloquialisms. “I mean, they’re beautiful.”

  Mary helped her into the dress and all the paraphernalia that went with it. Strands of pearls, gold chains, a few rings, a brooch or twelve…

  She’d probably start clanking when she hit the stairs.

  But when Mary bent down to put Kate’s stockings on, Kate stopped her. The woman wouldn’t miss the peach polish on her toenails and that would start a discussion she didn’t want to have. “Um… I can do that.” She sat on the bed and began working her feet into the stockings.

  “Very well, my lady. I’ll get her ladyship’s combs for your hair.” Into the trunk went a good portion of Mary, then more beautiful clothes came flying out., enough to make Kate wonder how deep the chest was.

  “‘Tis odd.” Mary tipped back to her feet. “The combs were always stored here, but they’re gone now.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t need them.”

  Mary tapped a finger to her lips. “‘Tis possible Lord Shelton put them elsewhere, but when Lady Shelton passed, he ordered them packed with her things.”

  “But I don’t need them. Really,” said Kate.

  Mary studied the trunk a little longer, still tapping, then exhaled. “Well, no matter.” She took a velvet bag from inside the lid and pulled out a small delicate chain and a veil. “Will this do?”

  “Sure. I mean, um, yes. That will be fine.” She held her head a little higher and her back a little straighter while Mary did her hair. A countess would be familiar with the weight of the chains on her waist and in her hair, and she’d been slipping up left and right all morning.

  She’d better get into character and stay there if she wanted the thief—and everyone—to believe her. And she did, at least until they found her window. Then she was kissing this chattel thing—and, if she were lucky, Alex—goodbye.

  ***

  “Sorry I’m late.” Kate ran into the solar at a most undignified, un-countess-like pace.

  Alex didn’t care. She looked beautiful.

  He cursed himself for noticing. As he’d cursed himself for kissing her.

  He held out her chair, then stepped back, denying himself the opportunity to feel her hair spill over his fingers. He had thought of little else through the night.

  “Thanks.” She sat before him, the bared skin above her bodice taunting him, and he bit back a groan.

  Well, perhaps he had thought of other things as well.

  “That room is wonderful, Alex,” she said, as a servant brought flaky pastries drizzled in honey, assorted meats, tarts, ca
kes, and dried fruit. He had no idea what people in her time liked so he’d asked Cook to prepare a variety of items—which was more than enough to make him question his sanity.

  As if last night’s events weren’t enough.

  “I am glad you approve. It belongs to Shelton’s countess.” He ignored the pain in his heart at the thought of Jeanne sleeping there. “As do those clothes. You look beautiful in them.”

  “Mary said these were never worn.”

  “My wife had them made for after her confinement, but she died birthing our second son. As did the child.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged, the memory still painful. “They are gone. Many women die in such a manner. My mother did, along with my brother.” Alex turned his head, cursing the huskiness in his voice. He should be beyond this pain.

  “It happens in my time, too. My sister had a tough time with her twins. If she’d been here, she probably wouldn’t have lived through it. But, luckily, she had modern medicine and doctors and monitors.” Kate nibbled at her pastry. Honey glistened on her lips.

  Alex pulled his gaze off her mouth. “Monitors?”

  Kate spoke of things called germs and antibiotics and other marvels from her time that could prevent death, not only in childbirth, but for injuries as well. His mind raced, no longer concerned with the honey.

  Until she licked her bottom lip…

  “And do these antibiotics work better than your plastic, Kate?”

  “Funny.” She speared a sliver of apple with her knife. “Yes, they do, but the last thing we need to read about in the history books is medieval doctors talking about bacteria. Though…” She tapped the slice against her lips. “I could eliminate the use of those disgusting leeches if I teach you guys properly. But it’s probably not a good idea to start changing world history.” She slid the apple into her mouth. “Looks like I’m only good for altering personal history.”