Navarre crossed the river Trent riding hard. He pushed himself for several days, hardly stopping to allow himself or Kamir a draught of water. He could find Kendra on his way to Normandy, he reasoned, save her from Garrick, and still keep his word to Robin. The thought possessed him as he raced across England, pausing at every inn and tavern to inquire if anyone had seen the sheriff and his entourage. Few had, but occasionally a word would come—the tale of a glimpse of a woman's auburn hair, or the sighting of an old crone—that would send him in a different direction.
The trail twisted farther and farther south toward Northampton, which led him also toward London and a ship that would take him to Normandy and Richard. By the fourth day he had lost the trail. He'd heard nothing about an auburn-haired woman in the last day's ride, and he was exhausted. At last Navarre succumbed to his body's needs and sought out the nearest inn. He took a room and tossed the innkeeper a whole crown in return for fresh clothing and a hot bath. The bath turned out to be tepid, the clothing worn, but when the knight finished his ablutions and had eaten a meal of hot mutton and potatoes that wasn't half bad, he felt almost himself again. He headed downstairs to the tavern for an ale, and hopefully, conversation that would lead him to Kendra.
He pulled up the hood of the brown cloak he had taken from Robin in the forest, letting it partially conceal his face. It was an odd garment, edged with green Celtic knots, delicately embroidered. He'd never seen the like and thought absently that it must have cost Robin quite a penny. He looked covertly around, wondering whom he should approach and casually bring the talk around to any strangers who might have passed that way.
The customers were a dirty lot, but better than the usual grade of filth found in a place like this, he acknowledged. His gaze roamed over them—a smithy, his hands black, his well-muscled arms stretching the fabric of his shirt; a number of serfs, grubby, toothless; two whores plying their trade; and a drunken priest snoring in the corner.
Besides these, there were farmers and the general riffraff a tavern attracted. Navarre had just about decided to approach the blacksmith when the innkeeper set a large mug of ale down in front of him and bent down with a conspiratorial wink.
"Didn't recognize ye at first, guv'nor," he whispered. Navarre stiffened and his right hand went to the sword he had laid on the bench within easy reach. "Then I saw yer cloak. 'Tis only one who wears that cloak. Sir Robin, how may I assist ye?"
Navarre stared up at the man blankly, then his face split into a welcoming smile. The knight leaned away from the fetid breath of the man and studied his eager companion, marveling at how the mere presence of Robin's cloak could inspire such enthusiasm. When he went upstairs later, it was to sleep his first real sleep in a week. Kendra and the sheriff had been sighted. They had stopped at this very inn to water their horses just the day before and a servant boy had overheard that they were on their way to Coventry. Now as he lay on the thin mattress the innkeeper had provided, he smiled at the thought of the loyalty shown him purely on the basis of Robin Hood's cloak. How Locksley would love hearing this story. His smile faded as he remembered that his newfound friendship with the outlaw was over, destroyed by his demands on Navarre's honor. His mouth hardened. He was breaking that word of honor even now as he pursued Kendra instead of heading directly for Normandy.
If Richard died, would Kendra hate him for not stopping the assassin in order to save her? It seemed to mean so much to her, this "preserving of history," and perhaps she was right.
It did not take a man of knowledge to know that even a small thing changed must have repercussions upon those things around it. And the death of the king of England was not a small thing. He closed his eyes. Neither was his love for Kendra O'Brien. He would find her tomorrow, he vowed, then he would save Richard.
Kendra dismounted thankfully, pulling her long skirt free of the saddle horn, ignoring the tearing sound as it caught. They had arrived at the dwelling place of Cennach, the wise. Magda had met them as promised, and led them deep into the forest until they came to a hill rising unexpectedly out of a clearing. Cennach's home blended so smoothly into the surrounding terrain that Kendra had been amazed to see the hillside they approached broken by the presence of a brown wooden door, a window, and a chimney. Upon closer inspection she realized that a round, sod-type house had been built into the side of a small hill. Part of the living space appeared to be within the hill itself and, as Kendra stared at the dwelling, she knew, with a start of amazement, that she was looking at a medieval underground house.
A box filled with bright red flowers made a splash of color beneath the window, and across the 'roofline' was a profusion of English ivy, disguising where the entryway left off and the hill began. The home was nicely camouflaged and were it not for the window box and its bright companions, it would indeed be difficult to find the place, were you not looking for it. But the oddest thing about Cennach's home was the circle of large, neolithic rocks surrounding it. Kendra recognized them as being similar to the one she had hidden behind in Wiltshire so long ago as she waited to photograph a crop circle.
Now she stepped around one of the huge stones, gazing up at it in awe, half afraid to get too close to it. There was something about this place that made her feel uneasy. She glanced around, trying to put her finger on what it was, and could not. There was an aura, a feeling permeating this place, as though fairies watched them from beneath tiny toadstools, and invisible forces waited to see if the intruders meant to do good or evil. She shivered and drew her cloak more firmly about her.
Magda walked ahead of them and paused beside one of the circle stones, then motioned for them to come forward, her gray hair rising to waft about her face in a soft wind that suddenly swept across the sheltered glen.
Kendra licked her lips and took a deep breath. She didn't believe in magic or voodoo, at least, she hadn't before a sorcerous storm had sent her back in time. Now she prepared herself for anything, for she was not certain that whoever, or whatever, they were about to encounter, was even of this world.
Magda stepped up to the door in the side of the structure and knocked loudly. "Cennach, Fad saol agat. Long life to you."
Garrick stood silently next to Kendra as the door slowly opened. A tall, broad-shouldered man walked out, clad in a rough brown woolen shift, a heather-gray blanket thrown around his shoulders for a cloak. White hair swept his shoulders and keen green eyes looked out of a face lined with years and wisdom. His gaze fell on Kendra and his mouth dropped open.
"D'ar m'anam," he said softly. "By my soul."
"You," Kendra took a tentative step forward. "It's you—Professor." Her lips parted in a relieved smile, then she frowned. "But this is impossible," she said, "you were only in your fifties when you disappeared."
"You know one another?" Garrick asked, watching her carefully.
Kendra caught herself, realizing what a foolish blunder she had made. "No," she said in what she hoped was a convincing voice. "Of course not. I beg your pardon, sir, I mistook you for someone else."
Garrick looked at her suspiciously for a moment then turned and bowed low before the older man, spreading his hands apart respectfully. "We thank you, wise Cennach, for allowing us to come and seek your counsel."
Cennach had composed himself as soon as Kendra denied knowing him, and now gave his full attention to the impatient sheriff. His dark green eyes swept over Garrick. Kendra could see him evaluating the man, weighing him, discerning his character and drawing the right, dreadful conclusion.
"Come in," he said at last, with a small bow in a general direction. "You have come a great distance."
Kendra followed Garrick, Magda, and Cennach into the house, her mind whirling. Professor Ian McKay had been one of her favorite teachers in college, a master physicist whose class she had taken by accident. He had convinced her not to drop out, promising to help her through the necessary math, and she had found the experience riveting and mind-broadening.
Now, as she watched the elderly man
lead them into the interior of the sod house to a cheerful kitchen, well lit by some sort of skylight in the ceiling, she wondered how it could possibly be the same person. Ian MacKay had been in his late forties or early fifties when he disappeared. This man had to be seventy. Was it just a coincidence? A look-alike from the past? No, he had recognized her just as she had recognized him, of that she was certain.
Cennach moved around the kitchen quite gracefully for such a large man, she noted, handing out curious wooden cups and bowls, pouring out wine and spooning up stew. A crude, rectangular table sat on the dirt floor, with benches on either side. He gestured for everyone to sit and eat. Kendra suddenly realized she'd not eaten since early morning and it was now the middle of the afternoon. Kendra and Magda took seats on either side of where Cennach sat at the head of the small table and ate their stew silently. Garrick took his bowl and stood near the doorway, consuming his meal quickly as he glanced furtively out the opening from time to time.
Kendra frowned at him. Was he worried someone would find them? If so, why hadn't he brought the guards along? And who was left to even rescue them, she thought sorrowfully. Marian, perhaps? Her stomach twisted and suddenly the smell of the stew made her feel queasy. Kendra pushed the bowl away as grief, sharp and unbidden, stabbed through her. Cennach fastidiously cleaned the last of his stew with a hunk of bread, then set the bowl aside and steepled his hands together in front of him.
"Now, how may I be of assistance?" he said softly.
Kendra opened her mouth, then closed it. There was no mistaking that soft, slightly Scottish voice. It was Ian McKay!
"Magda has told me a little about your situation, milady," he said, in the same calm tones she remembered from college, his eyes warning her to play along.
"Magda tells us you know the secret of traveling to other times," Garrick said, striding over from the doorway and standing beside Cennach. "I will pay you well to share that information with me."
Cennach barely granted the sheriff the courtesy of an upward glance before turning back to Kendra. "That is yet another discussion," he said. "First I must hear the lady's request."
"I'm afraid it's really the same as the sheriffs," she said, shifting uncomfortably on the bench, "although for quite different motives," she added, darting an angry look toward Garrick. "I went to England to find a man named Ian McKay who had disappeared while doing an experiment concerning crop circles. I went to investigate. While I watted at the site of the crop circle, a terrible storm arose. I was caught in it and knocked unconscious. When I awoke, I was here, in the past. That's the short version, if you catch my drift."
Cennach had begun nodding his head and she saw that a subdued excitement had him in its grip. "Aye, your story is similar to—" he broke off, then smiled and continued "—to others I have heard."
"You mean it is possible?" Garrick said, leaning forward, his gray eyes feverishly bright. "She is telling the truth? How do you know?"
Cennach rose and moved away from the table, his brown robe flowing freely behind him. He stood with his back to them for a moment, then turned, and Kendra flashed back to her college days when McKay had taken center stage, then paused before telling some fascinating fact of science to his class. She felt the same familiar awe now as he began to speak.
"I know because I am a seer, a man of knowledge." The lines around his mouth deepened slightly as his lips curved up.
"But not a witch," Garrick said hastily. "Magda said you were not a witch or a sorcerer."
"No, I am not a practitioner of witchcraft or druidism. I have, however, seen strange things, my Lord Sheriff, things you cannot possibly comprehend. There is such a thing as time travel. Now, you may believe me, or not."
"Aye," Garrick nodded thoughtfully, "but you must admit, 'tis a fanciful story."
"Fancy is sometimes confused with reality, I agree, but at times reality is not granted enough possibility of fancy."
"Cennach," Kendra began, not wanting to talk in front of the sheriff but seeing no other choice, "is there any way for me to return home?"
"Perhaps."
"I told her that if anyone could help her, it would be you," Magda said, patting Kendra's hand.
"And what of me?" Garrick broke in, jumping to his feet. "I must know the secret! All of England depends upon it!"
Cennach swept him a disdainful look. "I doubt that, my lord. As a matter of fact, I daresay England would be destroyed if men begin jumping through time, pursuing their own objectives."
The animation left Garrick's face and his hand closed around the sword at his side. Kendra heard the now all too familiar sound of metal against metal, as the sheriff drew a dagger from a short scabbard at his waist, next to his sword. He held the tip of the weapon just beneath Cennach's chin.
"I am willing to pay well for the information," Garrick said, his fingers tense around the hilt. "However, I am also willing to mete out punishment if you should refuse."
"Your threats do not frighten me," Cennach said, his face stoically composed. "I am an old man. Death holds no terror for me."
"I wonder if this young woman shares your sentiment?" Garrick asked, his handsome face wrinkling into a mocking smile. "Despite the death of her lover, I fear she desires to continue her life, in her own time. A pity." He dropped the sword from Cennach's throat then reached out and grabbed Kendra by the nape of the neck and pulled her from her seat.
She cried out as the wooden chair toppled sideways, scraping her leg, then gasped as the sheriff jerked her against him and lifted the blade to her throat.
"It would, indeed, be a pity for her life to be ended," Cennach said. Kendra swallowed hard as she saw the regret in her teacher's eyes. He wouldn't give this evil man the secret of time travel, she knew it with a certainty. Not even if it meant both their lives. Her eyelids fluttered shut as his next words confirmed her thoughts. "But I cannot tell you."
"Such a pity, especially since she carries a child." Magda gasped and the sheriff turned Kendra toward her, one arm around her waist, the other still holding the dagger. "Ah yes, my dear witch, there is little I do not know. Since I was a child, surrounded by fear and intrigue, I found I could more nearly predict the actions of my dear stepmother if I watched what she said to other people when she thought I wasn't around. Your private conversations were not always as private as you thought, my dear. Nor has your ailing stomach gone unnoticed."
"Your stepmother was an evil woman," Magda said, moving to his side, one gnarled hand on his sleeve. "She practiced the black arts and was well known to those of us who did not. Can you not see, my Lord Sheriff, that her wickedness has warped your outlook, given you a distorted sense of right and wrong?"
"Aye, you may be correct," Garrick said, "and who better to know than a fellow witch?" He turned, and without warning, plunged the dagger into Magda's chest, then wrenched it free as she sank to the floor, the front of her gown quickly turning crimson.
Kendra screamed and struggled futilely against the sheriff. The pumping blood was a sure sign a major artery had been pierced.
"Let me help her!" she cried. "In the name of God, let me help her!"
"Ah, but that would defeat the purpose, would it not?" Garrick said. "And God has very little to do with it."
Cennach hurried to kneel at the old woman's side. He pressed his hand against the wound, but even before he looked up at Kendra and shook his head she knew it was too late. He held Magda in his arms as the last of her life's blood ebbed away.
"Bastard!" Kendra screamed. "Heartless, wicked bastard!" Garrick brought the dagger back to her throat and she choked back further words, sobbing brokenly.
"Interesting, do you not think, that the great prophetess could not see her own death approaching." He chuckled, then gestured toward her broken body. "Take her outside." Garrick commanded. "I cannot bear the stench of death."
"Amazing, since it follows you like an obedient hound," Cennach said harshly. With a sigh, he picked Magda's lifeless body up in his arm
s and carried her outside. In a moment he was back, his green eyes flashing with anger.
"I would never help you now," Cennach said, his voice tight with control. "Do you think I would give a monster like you such power?"
"But you do not understand," Garrick said, and Kendra was chilled by the sincerity she heard in his voice. "The only way to kill a witch is to plunge a newly honed blade into her heart. I told Navarre this, but he would not yield to me. He would not yield. These two are the evil ones, not I. These two!"
"You are insane."
Kendra wracked her brain frantically for some possible means of escape. This couldn't be the way her life ended, not now, not when she was carrying Navarre's baby. Wasn't it enough Navarre had been taken from her? Wasn't it enough that she was probably trapped here in the past forever?
"Please God," she whispered aloud, "please help us."
"You do not seem to understand," the sheriff said, his voice strained. Kendra gasped as he pressed the sharp point of the dagger into the soft skin beneath her collarbone, pricking her slightly. She began to tremble as a thin stream of blood trickled down her chest. "I am the Sheriff of Nottingham," he said, his words growing more fervent, more intense, "and you must do as I command or I will kill this witch as I did the other."
"Then you must destroy us both," Cennach replied calmly, "for I will not let you kill her without a fight, and I will not tell you the secret."
"I will kill her and I will make you long for death. In the end you will tell me what I want to know."
Garrick's laughter broke against Kendra's ear and she shuddered. Her mind was blank, her ability to move, gone. In all of her adventures as a reporter she now realized she had really never worried about making it out of whatever danger she had placed herself. She had always weathered it through, using her survival skills when and if she could. If she lived, fine, if she didn't, at least she'd be with James and Nicole. Perhaps she would feel the same now, would rush headlong toward death in order to be with Navarre again, if it were not for the little life inside of her. Now she wanted more than anything to live, to have one more chance to do it right.
Tess Mallory - Circles in Time Page 27