The Amethyst Amulets

by Cillian Burns

  "Aye, a girl."

  Miles nodded in blatantly false sympathy. “Mayhap a son next time."

  "Aye, next time.” Nicholas had no trouble acting both angry and disappointed. Inside, he hurt far worse. Miles moved away, undoubtedly believing he had successfully rubbed salt in a raw wound.

  A girl. Why had he not thought of that earlier? Quickly, he rose and returned to his bedchamber where he instructed the women to say the babe was a girl when asked. No one questioned his reason for this. They must already think him mad...or irrational with grief.

  Yesterday, one of Nicholas's men had reported hearing a soldier in Miles’ employ say his master planned to hire many new mercenaries. Why would Miles need more men, unless he had something foul in mind? Something such as acquiring Nicholas's lands by force. He scowled. Never would he have rewarded Miles with the small motte and bailey keep for helping him regain his inheritance, nor with Eleanor's hand in marriage, had he suspected the other man bore him such ill will.

  Before leaving, he drew his sister aside. He had hoped to spare her his assessment of her husband's deceit, but these swiftly moving events forced him to speak.

  "Eleanor, I beg a favor of you. Remain here for a fortnight or so and care for the babe. Find a wet nurse and swear her to secrecy. By now, you must understand the reason for this deception. Your husband is not the man I believed him to be when I gifted him with you. He covets my demesne and will stop at nothing to see me and my son dead so your son Richard may inherit.” He paused. “Unless you stand with Miles against me?"

  "Nay! Oh, never, Nicholas.” She hesitated, and then added, “You speak the truth about Miles. I...I did not wish to cause enmity between you and him."

  Nicholas rested his hand on her shoulder. “I beg your forgiveness, Eleanor. I have finally realized his true nature."

  "There is nothing to forgive,” Eleanor assured him. “You did what you thought best. At the time, I, too, believed he would be a good husband, but I was wrong."

  He drew in a sibilant breath. “Has he beaten you? I will kill him now if such is the case."

  "Nay, not beaten. Struck me, aye.” She saw his fury and quickly added, “But not hard."

  "That he should lay even a finger on you in anger is despicable. I swear, Eleanor, he shall soon answer to me.” His hands clenched into hard fists.

  She clutched his arm. “I bear it for the sake of my sons. Please remember, Nicholas, he still has them in his power at our keep."

  Nicholas nodded, regretting he must stay his hand for now. “If you wish, you may remain with me after...when what must be done is finished."

  "We shall see,” she murmured.

  Nicholas addressed Gwyneth and Alda again. “You have no duties now that Lady Julianne is dead.” His heart squeezed with pain; he took a deep breath and continued. “So, you will help Lady Eleanor care for the babe.” He gave each girl a pointed stare. After a moment, he left and descended the winding stone steps to the great hall.

  Back in his chair on the dais, he avoided the gaze of Miles and the other castle folk. Maude, the serving wench, brought bread, cheese and ale, but he could not eat. He pushed it away and dropped his head in his hands.

  The babe's name would be Edward, after his grandfather, he decided. Julianne would have approved the choice. He fought the tears welling up in his eyes—he, a man who until today, had never let his emotions show. Refusing to allow Miles to witness his distress, he reached into the leather pouch at his waist in search of his kerchief. His fingers touched warm metal.

  After a moment, he remembered removing the amulet from Julianne's neck. He had bought the necklace in Damascus two years ago when he was fighting the Saracens. The crafty old Arab kept assuring him the amulet had magic properties. Nicholas had laughed cynically, and purchased it anyway, thinking it would go well with his Julianne's violet eyes. The old crone who wrapped the amulet had given him a calculating stare, but he dismissed her as a heathen, and a woman at that, who had too much curiosity for her own good.

  Absently, Nicholas rubbed his thumb back and forth over the glowing surface of the amethyst, remembering the adorable expression on Julianne's face when he had given it to her. The stone grew warm and throbbed a little.

  What the...?

  England, April 15, 2009

  In the blink of an eye, Nicholas found himself standing in the bailey by the steps to his keep. Bewildered, he glanced around and discovered he was not alone. A woman who looked like Julianne, though she could not be, because Julianne was dead, stood opposite him, a puzzled frown on her face.

  "Do you have a headache, Nick?” she asked. “You moaned like you do when one of your migraines strikes."

  Her words were difficult to understand. "Qu'est-ce que tu dis?"

  "We're speaking French today, are we?” She sighed and switched into that language. This time he understood perfectly.

  "Who are you?” Nicholas growled. “A witch trying to steal my sanity?” Both angry and apprehensive, he clenched his fists. “Bloody hell, my wife died last night and here you stand looking like her. Is this some kind of cruel game, witch?” For that matter, how had he gotten from the great hall to the bailey?

  He caught his breath as the amulet moved restlessly in his hand. He remembered the strange stories he had heard in Damascus—tales of lamps inhabited by genies and flying carpets and gems with magical powers. And what the old Arab had said. A nervous shiver raced down his spine.

  The woman's mouth dropped open. “You think I'm a witch who looks like your dead wife? You don't have a wife, Nick. You must be dreaming."

  "I pray this is a dream. Get you away from me, witch,” he shouted, mastering his fears for the moment. As he started up the steps, he noticed his arms, which were bare to the elbow, had turned a lighter shade of tan. He flipped his hands over and stared at the palms. No calluses. Then he noticed the strange clothes he wore. He had never seen them before nor any like them. He ran his fingers over the smooth cloth of his body-hugging shirt.

  He turned to the witch. “Where did I get these clothes?"

  She sighed. “You bought them at the store, as you well know.” She frowned again. “Will you stop this, Nick? We're supposed to be discussing the Medieval Society's May Day Feast and you've gone off on a tangent. I don't know why I agree to help you every year."

  Uneasy that she had followed him up the steps, he commanded, “Just go away. I do not need your help with whatever it is you are blathering about."

  Then he took in what she was wearing. “Bloody hell, woman, what kind of gown is that? It has lost most of its skirt. Your legs are bare!” His levels of confusion and frustration were growing.

  She gave him an annoyed glance. “You know, Nick, I put up with your idiosyncrasies most of the time, but today I'm in a hurry."

  He shook his head and strode inside, deciding to ignore her. Mayhap she would leave him alone if he pretended she was not there.

  Julie had taken time from grading papers, time she really couldn't spare, and driven out here to discuss the upcoming May Day event with Nick, the current Earl of Barstow. He'd started out focused, then suddenly switched to role-playing his ancestor. She sighed. It must be one of the days he amused the noon tour group by dressing like his namesake, the ancient Earl Nicholas de Montclair, and pretending to be annoyed at their intrusion. They loved it and so did he. For some reason, he hadn't changed into his medieval costume.

  She watched as he stopped dead in the middle of the great hall and surveyed it, his eyes wide in feigned surprise. Before she could ask him where his costume was, the morning tour group arrived. Well, he wouldn't have time to change now.

  On the days he interacted with the tourists, the agency charged the tour groups more, so naturally, Nick insisted on a larger fee than on the days when he was teaching medieval history at Cambridge. The fees helped pay the bills. And this drafty old place had plenty of them. For this reason, Nick opened his home to the public to help defray the huge taxes on it.

/>   Julie had worked at scraping together enough money for the taxes ever since the mathematically challenged Nick Montclair had hired her two years ago to keep his books. Since she was also supposed to see his bills were paid, Julie often scolded him about his impulsive spending. He collected suits of old armor from different time periods and could waste vast sums on the purchase of one that caught his eye.

  Nick stopped gawking and turned to face her. “I ask again, witch, what do you here? Is it your purpose in life to bedevil me?"

  "What?” Now she knew he'd slipped a cog. His little plays were usually amusing, but he seemed genuinely angry—far from his usual mellow self.

  "I would have an answer,” he growled.

  Nick's wavy dark hair, amber eyes and muscular build would have appealed to most women. Julie required more than good looks in a man and unfortunately, Nick's personality bordered on the bland. The tinge of anger in his voice just now, animated his handsome face to new heights of interest. She told herself to ignore this disturbing fact. “Very funny,” she said, jamming her hands on her hips and glaring. “You can stop play-acting now."

  Nick stared back as if he hadn't the foggiest idea what she was talking about. He looked puzzled.

  "Funny? What means that?” He glared down at her from his six foot height.

  "Amusing, droll, silly, foolish, whatever,” Julie snapped back. She had to teach a class in less than an hour and they'd gotten nowhere yet with plans for the feast.

  Hearing voices and footsteps, she realized the tour guide was steering his group in their direction. That was the end of any planning session. Not that they'd settled on anything yet.

  The guide continued his set patter about the keep and its long dead lord. Julie smiled. Americans were always fascinated by English castles and titles.

  "Who are these people?” Nick demanded, gesturing toward the gaping group. “Bards?"

  Before Julie could answer, one of the women asked loudly, “Who's he?"

  The tour guide flushed at her stentorian tone. “You're in luck today. That's his lordship, Lord Nicholas de Montclair, the present Earl of Barstow."

  "Oh, my, he's a handsome one, isn't he, Ethel?” The plump matron, clad in rumpled cotton slacks and a flowered over-blouse designed to disguise a spreading waistline, glanced at her similarly attired, gray-haired companion. “And a real English lord. Wish we had those in the States, don't you?” The heavy combined odor of the women's perfumes swirled around Julie and Nick. He wrinkled his nose, but made no comment.

  "Sure do, Margery,” the other woman replied, peering approvingly at Nick.

  Nick's black eyebrow shot up. “Les etats?" he asked, obviously pretending to understand only part of the woman's comment.

  Julie wanted to shake him, but she played along for the sake of the money these people brought in. “A large country across the Atlantic Ocean, my lord,” she murmured.

  "You mock me. There is nothing across the Atlantic save the edge of the world,” Nick stated firmly. The tour guide translated since Nick spoke in French. The tourists tittered.

  "Why's he talking French?” asked Margery.

  "All the nobles spoke French at that time,” the tour guide told her.

  "My, how strange.” Ethel shook her head. “Didn't they think English was good enough for them?"

  "Um-m, I guess that was it."

  Julie could see the tour guide wasn't going to touch that one. The show over, he moved his group to the rear of the great hall and began pointing out features of the huge fireplace. Julie observed a few of the women glancing wistfully over their shoulders at the handsome lord—a man who at the moment stood scowling fiercely at Julie.

  "I would speak privately with you, woman,” he muttered. She could hear the anger and frustration in his voice. But why? He usually enjoyed acting the lord of the castle for the tour groups. Maybe he was annoyed at not having had time to change into his costume. Whatever his problem, she was sick of the whole thing.

  Nick gripped her wrist firmly as they walked toward the front door, away from the American tourists. “Before we discuss unwanted visitors in my keep, I must insist you find some proper clothing. Even a witch should have some modesty. Those old men were staring at your bare limbs."

  The admiring look in his eyes as he glanced at her legs took the sting out of the brusque command. Still, it wasn't like Nick to pick a quarrel, even when aping his ancestor. She decided he had to be teasing.

  "Uh huh. Aren't you tired of play-acting?” Nick seemed more confused today than usual. Sometimes she wondered about his sanity.

  Shaking her head, Julie disengaged her wrist. He should have gone on the stage. “We'll have to finish up another time. I've got to get back to teach my class. Don't you have a class, too? Get your clothes changed and I'll drop you off.” She gave him a light shove. He needed to hurry. Classes would begin in half an hour. He glowered back at her.

  Nicholas always deemed himself intelligent and quick to grasp new situations. But drop him off? Off what? Was she bent on driving him mad?

  He glanced down at his clothing, forgetting the woman's curious words. He really should change. These soft, loose leggings and form-fitting, short-sleeved tunic were more than strange. The white shoes looked like nothing he had ever seen before. And what was a class?

  As he started once more to demand an explanation, another woman also clad in odd clothing came across the hall and joined them. Tight, black leggings—surely the garb of a man—covered her limbs and some kind of shirt over what appeared to be a partial shift was knotted like a shawl beneath her breasts.

  She was middle-aged and tall, near his own height, and large boned. Her long brown hair was tied back with a brightly colored scarf. Something about her seemed familiar. As he searched his memory, the new arrival stopped in front of them

  "Hello, you two. How are the arrangements for the feast going?” Her words sounded something like those of the people who had just left.

  "Not well, Lily. Nick's been entertaining the tourists instead of helping plan the menu.” The witch also spoke in what he thought was some strange form of Anglo-Saxon.

  Lily glanced at her watch. “You'd better hurry, Julie. Don't you have a class at one?"

  "Yes, I was just waiting for Nick."

  By now, he'd begun to pick up a little of this speech. It seemed a bit like the serfs’ Anglo-Saxon—which he also spoke.

  His patience exhausted, Nicholas bellowed, “Waiting for me to do what?"

  The woman who looked like Julianne switched back to French. “Oh, do give it a rest, Nick. Just go change your clothes and we'll go."

  "Go where?” Why was she giving him orders?

  Lily laid a hand on the witch's arm. “Today's Friday. Nick's one o'clock class is a language lab on Thursdays."

  "Oh, drat, I've got my days mixed up. I'd better run then. Don't forget you're coming to dinner tonight, Nick. And bring the account books. I want to see just how much you can afford as your part of the feast. You did say the Medieval Society was footing most of it, didn't you?"

  Nicholas shrugged, wondering what she was talking about. “Your words are senseless,” he said, beginning to lose all patience with these two. Why was he, a grieving husband, being subjected to this senseless prattle?

  With an exasperated sigh, the witch flipped her long blond curls over her shoulder and turned away. Her lovely bare legs shot a lick of fire to Nicholas's groin. Mesmerized by her perfection, his gaze moved upward to her bottom. Julianne had always had a beautifully rounded one; a bottom that he alone had observed. For some reason, he wanted to wrap his cloak around this beautiful witch, then remembered he wasn't wearing one.

  "Bloody hell, whoever-you-are, come back here!” he shouted. He started after her, but Lily caught his forearm.

  "No, Lord Nicholas. Let her go. We need to talk. Without Julie."

  Anger surged through him. How dare these women speak to their lord this way? And what had happened to the people who usually half
-filled the great hall?

  He whirled around and took a threatening step toward Lily. “Aye, we do,” he thundered, “I will have answers and I will have them now."

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  Chapter 2

  Nicholas glared at the woman called Lily. He wanted to shake her, except then she might refuse to answer his many questions. Patience, a virtue he had in small supply, might get him farther.

  "Well?” He raised an eyebrow and gave her his lord-of-the-manor stare.

  She returned it unflinchingly. “So, Lord Nicholas, you arrived safely. I meant to be here to meet you, but I was, er, detained.” The tall woman had switched from French to Anglo-Saxon. Odd she would choose the guttural speech used by the serfs and villeins. Her clothes, though strange, were of too fine a quality and her speech too refined for her to belong to that caste.

  "Do I know you, woman? You seem familiar."

  "Yes, my lord, you do. I am Lily, the healer in Barstow Village. You have bought potions from me several times. Also, I work in fine metals. Bracelets, chains—amulets."

  Nicholas frowned. “I remember a healer named Lily at my wife's childbirth bed, but she was an old hag."

  "Healers come with many faces and in a multitude of shapes and sizes. It is sometimes best not to trust what your eyes think they see.” Her words were as strange as her clothes.

  "But, how came you here?” If she were the midwife who attended his son's birth, what magic had she worked to change her appearance so drastically? A chill like a frigid mountain stream raced down his spine.

  "In the same manner as you, my lord."

  "And that was...?"

  "An abrupt passage through time."

  He stared at her. It was close enough to his own experience, at least the abrupt part. But through time? Bloody hell, where am I?

  He strode over to his chair and sat down, motioning Lily to stand on the opposite side of the lord's table. He badly needed to keep his authority intact.

  "First, I would know, who is this witch who looks like my wife? She orders me around as though she were the Queen of England. Do not tell me I am mistaken for her words were most disrespectful. And her garb is that of a strumpet.” His modest, obedient wife would have swooned with shame to be seen in such clothes.