by Kari August
Ned didn’t know. He knew only that he had this current feeling of discontent on a number of levels, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. Or whether he needed to do anything at all, or just wait for the scandal to die down, force himself to hunt for a job, and return to life as he knew it. Perhaps this was merely a temporary gloominess of spirit that would pass. Tons of people were in his same boat; he was sure of it. They didn’t seem to mope about it. Yet . . . he wanted something more. Deserved more. But did he have the courage to make what could be a radical change in his life?
So he decided to escape—the easiest way to handle an issue was to ignore it. He broke the lease on his apartment, loaded his possessions into his subcompact SUV and rented a trailer. He was going to Grandma Sally’s cabin in Estes Park, Colorado. The place had always been his favorite vacation site growing up, even if his parents had never fully appreciated it. Now it would be his refuge until he got around to figuring out what to do with the rest of his life.
There wasn’t all that much to pack, and Ned knew that probably spoke volumes. He hadn’t bought much furniture or cluttered his place with many personal possessions. He had never really moved into the apartment and made it his own. It was as if he had sensed all along that his current way of progressing through life was only temporary—or wanted it to be.
After thirty hours on the road, Ned drove up the long driveway to Grandma Sally’s cabin on Eagle Cliff Mountain and breathed a sigh of relief. He had made it. His phone rang just as he came to a stop. He looked at the number of the person calling and decided not to take the call. It was Charlena again. She was devastated by her unintentional error and had already left messages repeatedly the last couple of weeks for Ned to give her a call if there was anything she could do for him. There wasn’t, and he didn’t feel like trying to cheer her up over her mistake. Perhaps after he got his bearings again he would be able to talk to her, but not now.
Ned got out of his car and smelled the familiar scent of pine in the air. Snowcapped Longs Peak was in the distance. He smiled for what seemed like the first time in ages. He walked over to the rock by the front door and felt for the house key underneath it. Finding it still there, he placed the key in the lock and turned the door handle. A slightly musty and unused smell assaulted him as he opened the door. Sheets and slipcovers covered the living room furniture. It had been a while since anyone in Grandma’s extended family had come to the cabin. Ned had it all to himself. He relished the thought.
Grandma Sally was on one of her many long cruises, and Ned had been unable to reach her easily to tell her he was coming to the cabin, but he knew Grandma wouldn’t mind. In fact, she loved it when a member of her family used the cabin that she and Ned’s deceased grandfather had built over fifty years ago as a vacation home.
Ned walked back to his car and unhooked the trailer. He then pulled his suitcase out of the backseat and placed it on his front hood. He unzipped it and rummaged around for his hiking shorts, shirt, and thick socks. He pulled out his trekking boots next. He knew the prudent chore at this point would be to unload his car and trailer, buy some groceries, and get settled into the cabin. But he had no intention of doing that right now. Rocky Mountain National Park, which adjoined his grandmother’s property, beckoned, and he wasn’t going to miss exploring her trails on such a gloriously warm spring day. He was going to put away thoughts about his future employment. He had been saving money for years, and though it was dwindling away in his current predicament, he still had enough to get by for a while. And who needed a close companion when he had nature in all its wild glory to charge his senses?
He surveyed the gurgling Thompson River, winding its way around the base of the mountain. In fact, he might not even unpack his car tomorrow. To hell with doing what was expected of him, or figuring out important life stuff. Not when there was fly-fishing so close by.
Chapter Four
Richard could see timberland below him and was sure he was going to crash into one of the trees when his speed suddenly slowed, and with almost jerky movements he landed feet-down on a bed of soft pine needles. He blew out a long breath of relief not to have smashed to pieces on his flight back to Earth. That was, if this was Earth. Herman had better have gotten it correct this time.
Undoubtedly this was a first for the chef, sending a person back to Earth, but surely even Herman could have performed better with the transition than he actually did. Richard lost count of just how many times Herman had faltered, flinging Richard from one end of the Milky Way to the other, then bringing Richard back to his kitchen so Herman could lamely apologize about his miscalculation. Richard had become so skilled with his space acrobatics that he could perfect a quadruple spin nearly every time he attempted one. Of course, this cousin of his, Ned York, had added to Herman’s confusion by moving suddenly from some major city to a small town called Estes Park.
Richard shook his head and smirked. Lord knew how many years he’d wasted just trying to get back to Earth so he could work on improving his bad reputation. Well, at least he knew it was still the twenty-first century. And really, what difference did a few years here and there matter when he had over five hundred years of Tudor lies to deal with?
He began traipsing toward a break in the foliage when he found himself on the edge of a road. A car zoomed by. Or at least that was what Richard thought it was, if he remembered Herman’s lessons correctly. He jumped back. Actually experiencing the roar and rush of wind as this mode of transportation whizzed by was unsettling. He hadn’t realized a car could be so powerful. But he straightened his shoulders and determinedly walked several minutes along the edge of the thoroughfare until he came upon a large sign directly in front of him:
Estes Park
Elevation 7,500 feet
Beware of Wildlife
Finally! With a spry step, Richard proceeded into the town proper.
Fifteen minutes later he sat down shakily on a bench in the town square. He clasped his hands tightly in his lap to keep them from quivering out of fear. He glanced around warily. This was what was considered a small village? It was immense! There were buildings, people, and traffic everywhere. How did one think above all the noise? A truck suddenly honked and screeched to a stop on the road in front of the square. The hair rose on the back of Richard’s neck. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all.
He shook his head. He had to compose himself or he just might perish in this new land. First things first. He needed to find a safe haven in this century, which meant locating his cousin Ned. Surely his relative would help him. He looked across the street and read the sign above a building: MacDonald’s Bookstore. Hmmm, Scotsmen. Couldn’t be entirely trusted. But it was a bookshop, so there must be learned people inside, and it was only information he was seeking, after all. Richard rose and made his feet walk in the direction of the store.
He entered the open doorway and looked around, astounded. There were books everywhere, from floor to ceiling. Precious, expensive books. The owner of this store had to be wealthy beyond dreams.
“Can I help you find a novel?”
Richard turned abruptly to the smiling young woman behind the counter who was asking the question. Even with Herman preparing him ahead of time about changing fashions, he couldn’t help thinking that this woman’s attire made her look a bit like a lady of the evening.
Richard spoke up: “I was hoping for some information.”
She looked at him, puzzled, for a moment; then her face visibly cleared. “Oh, I know. You must be one of the actors in the town play. I haven’t seen it yet, but I heard it’s very good.” She smiled again warmly, waiting for a response.
An actor? Did he really look so undistinguished as to be taken for a lowly actor?
“Your costume looks very realistic.” She raised her brows enthusiastically.
Richard looked down at his velvet tunic, wool hose, and leather boots and registered what she was thinking.
“We have flyers advertising the p
lay, for tourists to take when they make their purchase.” She pointed to a pile of papers on the corner of the counter.
Richard picked one up, read it quickly, and smiled. In big bold print it read:
Showing Now
at Performance Park
Shakespeare’s Richard III
There was a whole play just about him? This was marvelous! Perhaps Herman was wrong about his bad reputation. Why would an author bother to write a drama about someone unlikable?
He was brought out of his musings when she asked, “What kind of information were you looking for?”
“Could you direct me to Ned York’s place of residence?”
She pursed her lips. “Hmmm. Ned York? I’ve never heard of him. Are you sure he lives around here?”
“Yes. I believe he lives at Eagle Cliff Mountain.”
“Oh, that’s easy to find. Just take . . .”
A half hour later, Richard was feeling rather good about his prospects. Numerous persons, old and young, had stopped to tell him how much they liked the play Richard III. Apparently it was a big hit. He would definitely have to see it himself. He could go with Cousin Ned once he finally found him.
Three miles out of town Richard came to the Rock Inn—“A Tavern for Friends.” He realized he was feeling a bit thirsty, but did he dare such a bold move on his own without first meeting up with his cousin?
Yes, he was the warrior king. Surely he could handle purchasing an ale. He walked into the front entrance and looked around, immediately eyeing the bar along the side wall. There were several young men standing and laughing together at the end of the long counter.
He strolled over with as casual an air as he could muster and sat down on one of the empty stools, slightly away from the men.
A burly fellow behind the bar viewed his attire with a bemused smile and then asked, “What can I get you?”
“An ale, good man.”
“Tap or bottle?”
Tapperbottle? Figuring it was the type of ale, Richard answered, “Yes, I’ll take a tapperbottle.”
The man frowned. “How ’bout a Fat Tire on draft? It’s our most popular.”
Huh? How could ordering an ale be so confusing and involved? But Richard decided to plow ahead. He nodded regally, then demanded, “But make it your finest. No mixing in the dregs.”
The man shook his head as if he were dealing with the town fool, but he filled a tankard and placed it in front of Richard. He took a tentative sip. Hmmm, not bad.
The man was still standing in front of him. “Five dollars—or are you running a tab?”
Richard inwardly shrugged. He had no idea. He took a stab at an answer: “Walking a tab.”
The fellow smirked slightly, but it seemed to satisfy him. He guzzled the ale down and asked for another. By the time he finished the second—taking it more slowly this time—he was feeling friendlier toward his fellow patrons at the end of the counter, who, other than a few curious stares, had been largely ignoring him up until this point. He raised his voice and asked, “Can I join you men for a drink? My treat.”
They exchanged a few quick glances among themselves before the tallest one with the most gregarious face replied, “Anyone can join us who’s paying.” The others chuckled.
Richard stood up and walked over to the men. “Request whatever you like.” He had no desire to deal with the ordering complications himself at this point. The men nodded approvingly.
The short, stocky one suggested they all have a round of whiskey, and a half hour later Richard was laughing over a bawdy joke with the men. The bartender walked over, declared his shift was over, and informed Richard he needed to pay a partial tab. He handed over a piece of paper, and Richard quickly glanced at the confusing column of small figures.
So it was time to pay. That he understood. He just wasn’t sure how much. Richard felt around the inside pockets of his tunic. He knew Herman had given him some money. He fingered the leather pouch in one pocket and confirmed that it was still filled with the precious metal coins. He then moved his hand over to the other pocket he had stuffed with pieces of paper he figured couldn’t possibly be of any real value, despite Herman’s protestations otherwise.
Richard hesitated. Hmmm. Should he try it? Yes! He would make the brash move of seeing whether he could actually pass off the paper as money.
He handed the wad of flimsy sheets to the bartender. The man’s eyes widened as he smiled. “Is that your idea of a great tip?”
Astounded, Richard couldn’t help asking, “So you’ll take the paper in exchange for the drinks?”
“But don’t you want any change?” The bartender tried to hand some of the papers back to Richard, along with some metal coins—oh, superb!—that he removed from a drawer that popped open from the beeping machine on the counter.
Richard inwardly smirked. The bartender could keep the paper. “Just give me the coins. You can have the rest.”
The man’s mouth gaped. “I never figured you for a rich actor. Have I seen you in anything before?”
“Not unless you’ve read your history.”
“Huh? Wait a minute. These bills aren’t counterfeit, are they?” The man chuckled uneasily.
Richard started getting anxious. “Uh, no. Of course not.”
The bartender blew out a deep breath. “Well, I’ll take a chance. Um, thanks, man.”
The other men had been standing around quietly, watching the proceedings intently. When the bartender walked away, the shortest one ventured, “So how long is your play running? You are an actor, right? What’d you say your name was?”
Richard straightened. No, he was not an actor, and he was tired of being taken for one. How lowly. It was time he tried to tell the truth. “I’m Richard Plantagenet, though you probably know me as King Richard III. I’ve arrived from the fifteenth century into your time period. . . .” He had to stop. The men were bent over, and guffawing too loudly for him to be heard.
The short one snorted and slapped his leg. “He’s some crazy, rich eccentric.”
The tall one spouted, “Wait till they hear about this at work.”
Richard’s temper flared. He crossed his arms and stood directly in front of Shorty Pants. “What did you dare call me? An anointed king of England, chosen by God to lead—”
“A crackpot. A loon. You want to make something out of it?” The man tried to stand taller and the others suddenly quieted.
Yes, he did. But he had no weapons on him, nor his usual group of guards to handle this rabble-rouser. Now, if Richard were one of his brothers, Eddie or George, the man would be on his back from a quick punch to his face. But Richard prided himself on his rational and controlled behavior. He was famous for it, especially in comparison to his exuberant brothers. This was not the time nor place to get into a tavern fight.
He answered instead, “You will learn soon enough exactly who I am and the truth about my reign.” He then turned and departed amid another bellow of laughter.
Once outside again, Richard smoothed the front of his tunic. This was going to be tougher than he thought. He needed his cousin Ned more than he had initially realized, not only to guide him through the baffling intricacies of the twenty-first century, but surely, as a relative, Ned would believe him and work to defend his honor and the family name.
He decided to hurry on. A few minutes later he stopped to briefly gaze up. He looked at what had to be Eagle Cliff Mountain, soaring in front of him. He saw one of the more prominent, higher houses on the elevation—in fact, it was the largest—and decided to start his inquiries about finding Ned there. Surely, a York descendant owned the best home on the mountain.
Fifteen minutes later, after climbing a steep path, he knocked on the door to the house.
No answer. He knocked more loudly. After hearing a soft shuffling inside, the door opened halfway to reveal a man rubbing his eyes, clearly having been woken up from an afternoon nap.
Richard gasped at the sight of him. It couldn’t be. W
hat was he doing here? “Eddie, how did you get here?”
The man, wearing new-fashioned clothes, frowned back at him. “Eddie? No, my nickname is Ned.”
Richard’s mouth fell open. “You’re Ned York? You look just like my brother Eddie!”
Ned smirked. “If this is some gimmick to try to get me to buy tickets to your play, I’m not interested.” He tried to close the door on Richard.
Richard stuck his foot in the door to keep it open. “Wait. I’m not selling tickets to the play in town. I’m here on personal business.”
Ned opened the door again, but narrowed his eyes slightly. “What personal business?”
Richard smiled his most engaging grin, though he knew it probably didn’t quite hit the target, since he was typically a no-nonsense individual. Ned looked back at him and tilted his head slightly, as if he were trying to figure out the expression. Richard quit trying to appear sociable and proceeded with his explanation. “I recently learned we were cousins, and I wanted to meet you.”
Ned attempted to close the door again. “Look, I only have one cousin, and his name is Clarence, so bust off.”
Richard kept his foot in place and pushed back at the door until he forced his way in. It was Ned’s turn to gape back at him in surprise. Richard quickly expounded: “Now, Ned, while I am truly glad to see that the York blood obviously flows bravely in your being, I want to tell you this is not the time for York belligerence. You simply must give me a chance to explain.”
Richard looked quickly around, frowning slightly at some fishing equipment piled haphazardly on top of a dining table, a pile of dirty dishes in the sink of an adjoining kitchen, and an unmade bed in another connecting room. “Good Lord. Who hired your servants? They’re terrible.”
Ned crossed his arms and glared. “You’re looking at the servant of the house. I keep it myself, not that it’s any of your business, whoever you are.”
Richard turned back to Ned and partially bowed. “I’m Richard, your first cousin, nineteen times removed.”
