The Amethyst Amulets

by Cillian Burns

  "What tenants? You don't have any. Please stop this, Nick. You're giving me a headache.” She pushed a button and the glass went dark. A machine like that would help him do his accounts in no time—if he knew how to use it. He'd get Julie to show him. She was supposed to be a teacher, wasn't she? It couldn't take more than a day to learn how. Then he'd buy one and take it back with him.

  As for the lack of tenants, she was wrong. Somewhere there had to be a list of them and how much they paid him each year, either in kind or coin.

  Julie started rummaging through the drawers of what she said was his desk and Nicholas forgot the tenants. Was nothing sacred to this woman?

  "What do you think you're doing?” he roared, grabbing her arm. A jolt of heat raced through his treacherous body as his fingers felt her warmth through the wool garment she wore. He tried to ignore the unsettling sensation.

  She glared back. “I'm just looking for the guest list. It must be here somewhere.” She pointed at the disorderly pile of papers strewn across the desk's surface. His descendant was definitely not given to neatness.

  Before he could recover from the shock of touching her, as well as convince himself he hadn't really felt it, she pulled out of his grasp and snatched up a paper.

  "Here it is. How do you ever find anything in this mess?” She shook her head and marched out of the office. Nicholas strode after her. Did the woman never stand still?

  Next, she popped into the kitchen and greeted George who was chopping onions. Tears were running down his broad face.

  "Have you tried cutting them under running water?” She picked up a dish towel and wiped the moisture from his cheeks.

  "No, does it work?"

  "Does for me."

  George smiled and plunged his hands into soapy dish water. “I find this helps."

  Julie nodded. “I wanted to talk about the food for the feast if you have a minute."

  "Sure.” George pulled out two of the chairs at the kitchen table and he and Julie sat down. Julie produced the pad of notes from her purse and in a minute, the two had their heads together over a rapidly growing list of foodstuffs.

  Arms crossed over his chest, Nicholas watched for a while, then decided he wasn't needed. As he walked through the castle which was both his castle and not his castle, he remembered he hadn't checked the armory. The broadsword he'd used earlier had been hanging on the wall of the great hall. It would be good to acquaint himself with the equipment on hand.

  Not that he expected to need swords or lances any time soon. This century seemed too peaceful—at least from what he'd observed—for those weapons deemed necessary by him and other knights. During the day, the gates stood wide open and there were no guards. Old habits die hard.

  He entered the dim and slightly musty place. Not finding any of the switches which turned on the miraculous lights, he moved slowly from one suit of armor to the next, examining them in the dusky light from the high window slits. Each was labeled with its year and the owner's name, if known. His mouth dropped open when he saw the heavy armor of centuries beyond his. How could a man move when weighted down by fifty or more pounds of metal? And what did fighting men wear today? He'd have to ask Lily. Definitely not Julie. She already believed him a fool, or worse. And for some reason, what she thought of him mattered.

  Her violet eyes had regarded him scornfully when he announced no woman would keep his books. And how glad she'd seemed to be rid of him last even—no night. People used words differently now, so he had to take care not to attract attention. Something told him that the key to returning to his own time was contingent upon being accepted as the present Nicholas de Montclair.

  This morning he had tried rubbing the amethyst again with no result. So, he would play this part and keep his eyes and ears open. If Lily refused to tell him how to make the amulet work, he would somehow learn on his own.

  Then he came to the present owner's latest acquisition and froze. My own armor! He would recognize it no matter the century in which he found it. A little the worse for wear, but Nick had begun to clean it so the metal shone brightly in several places. Both of his gauntlets lay on the stone floor on a piece of paper with black writing on it. He wondered at the ability of the monks of this century. Look how perfectly all the letters were formed. And so small! Shaking his head in amazement, he returned his attention to the armor.

  He sat on a stool and thought about his home—the one in his century. Lily had said when he went back, not one minute would have elapsed since he left. That meant Miles could not harm his son, at least not until his return. Which bought him time to come up with a plan—if she were right. One which would help him deal with his brother-in-law.

  If Julianne had not died, would Miles consider trying to harm the babe? He didn't think so, at least not right away. What he needed was a way to keep him at arm's length, until Nicholas could strengthen his small army. He would travel to London and search for mercenary, knights and men-at-arms. That would take time. If Julianne were alive and within the keep to guard their child, he would be free to go. However, she was dead, and that meant he had to find someone to take her place, someone to guard Edward as Julianne would have done. Where would he find this someone?

  A smile spread across his face.

  He stood and stretched. The next step was to start acting more like the present day Nick. Maybe Julie would like him better. His male arrogance rebelled against the softness of today's men. He'd always thought himself hard and disciplined, although less harsh than many other lords. Imitating Nick Montclair shouldn't be too difficult. He'd just have to stop giving orders and fall in with Julie's plans.

  With a wry smile, he quit the armory and stalked back through the great hall. His sword rested on the lord's table where he'd left it. He picked it up and went outside. His workout had been interrupted when Julie arrived. Of course, he could have ignored her and gone on with it, except he was curious about what she wanted.

  The mongrel hound had returned and basked in the April sun near the steps. Nicholas leaned down and scratched him behind the ears. The dog's tail thumped in joy. One thing hadn't changed. He straightened and began swinging the broadsword once more.

  After giving George an approximate budget, Julie left him to order the food they'd agreed upon. The cook knew Nick's funds were limited and would be careful to strike the best bargains possible.

  She returned to Nick's office, relieved to find it empty. Seating herself, she started composing the invitation. After several false starts the wording pleased her, so she went to the computer and entered the text into the Print Shop program. From a box on the bookshelf, she took a stack of stationery engraved with Nick's name and coat-of-arms. She placed it in the printer and watched as one copy inched its way out. Not as elegant as hand-written invitations, but less time-consuming.

  As she made some corrections to the page, she became aware of another presence in the room. She glanced up and saw Nick leaning in the doorway watching her. His hair was wet, so he must have finished his sword practice and showered. He wore a blue polo shirt which covered his chest but left no doubt as to the breadth of his shoulders. Strange, Nick usually favored baggy sweaters.

  "Well, hello.” Was he annoyed she was doing his work?

  Apparently not. His smile showed off his white teeth and made him more handsome than ever. He walked across the room and peered over her shoulder. “You are using the computer to make invitations,” he stated.

  "Handwritten ones take too long, and even with the computer, I have to insert each guest's name."

  "Are you nearly finished?"

  "Yes. I'll be able to get them in the mail on Monday.” She handed him the list she'd been working from. “I've checked off the ones I've done so far."

  He took the list and studied it. A puzzled expression flitted across his face, almost as if he either couldn't read the writing or didn't recognize the names. Or both.

  Don't be silly. He's just thinking about the people he's asked. The list wa
s very legible and most of invitees were his friends and colleagues.

  Nicholas nodded and handed it back. “Fine, Julie. And thank you, I really appreciate your help.” Another broad smile. Her heart did a swift cartwheel. He must have sensed it because his honey-brown eyes answered with a flash of heat. For a moment, their gazes locked and held.

  She was imagining things. It was probably just the prelude to another invitation to the armory.

  He pulled over a chair and sat down next to the desk, crossing his muscular arms across that very broad chest. What is the matter with you? She'd never even noticed Nick's arms and chest before. And usually he didn't smile all that much. Too introverted for a lighter side to pop up very often. Yet all of a sudden, Nick seemed very desirable. However, it wouldn't do to let him guess at her heightened interest. She'd already devoted too much time to convincing him that friendship was all she wanted.

  "Yes, well, I'm glad to help out. The feast is a big job."

  He stared at her for a moment, then slowly reached for her hand. “Come with me. I have something to show you.” He pulled her to her feet.

  Too amazed to resist and too shaken by the tingling of his palm against hers to pull away, she let herself be led out of the office. “What is it?"

  He grinned. “You'll see."

  They entered the armory and Julie sighed. No surprises here.

  Nick stopped before a set of thirteenth century chain mail she'd never seen before. “This is mine,” he said softly.

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  Chapter 6

  "Yes, of course it is.” Julie frowned. “I suppose it was expensive?"

  Nicholas hesitated. His joy at being reunited with his armor had made him careless. “It was costly,” he admitted. That, at least, was the truth. He'd worn ill-matched bits and scraps of armor until he finally won a tournament. The sale of the prizes of horses and armor had brought enough to have this superior chain mail made. It had served him well for years and apparently had outlasted him by many centuries.

  "Nick, you pay me to take care of your accounts, but do you listen to what I say?"

  "Listen to what?” Now it was his turn to scowl. She wasn't showing proper appreciation for what had been the result of years of hard work. Her main concern seemed to be the price he'd paid for the armor.

  "To my telling you to economize,” she said, then added, “and I didn't see a receipt for your newest purchase."

  "Receipt?” Obviously, this was some modern thing he hadn't heard about yet. How to explain without—wait a minute! This was his armor. Why apologize for not giving this woman an accounting of some kind?

  "I believe,” he said stiffly, “that it was money well spent."

  "Oh, right. You had to have another one. As if you don't have twenty others.” She swept her hand around the room.

  Nicholas scowled, forgetting his plan to make Julie like and trust him. “I did need it. It's mine and..."

  "Of course,” Julie interrupted with an impatient glare. “Everything here is yours. The question is can you afford it?"

  He'd walked into her trap. If he said he had money, she'd once more deny it, then lecture him on thrift. Obviously, the present lord of Barstow Castle was either too lazy or too stupid to go looking for tournaments to augment his meager treasury. Certainly his body was in good enough condition to challenge most other knights. How had his descendant allowed this to happen to Nicholas's thriving estate?

  Julie shook her head. “You're totally hopeless when it comes to money."

  Too angry to reply, he turned his back on her. Women of his time, not even his Julianne, would have spoken that way to him. He wanted to return to his own time where his coffers overflowed and the careful accounting of each penny was unnecessary. Where he no longer had to roam the continent in search of rich purses. Where his fields produced abundant crops, his villeins and serfs were hard-working and happy, he supposed. If not for Sir Miles Norville, his life would flow along like a placid river from day to day, with only praises from the lady with the amethyst eyes. But Julianne was dead and his newborn son was in mortal danger.

  He heard Julie's departing footsteps across the stone floor, leaving him alone in the echoing armory. He sat thinking on a stool next to his armor. Julie was sensible and well-organized. Also, she bore a great resemblance to Julianne. He could take her back with him to help guard Edward, and if she played the part well, none would be the wiser. But would she go? He suspected just asking her, would get him nowhere.

  In the first place, she wouldn't believe him. And even if he did convince her he was from the thirteenth century, why would she want to go back there with him?

  No. Asking was out. And it wasn't in his nature to force a woman. So what remained?

  Trickery.

  But again—how? He didn't know how to transport himself, much less take someone else. Think. Rubbing the amulet had brought him here. Yet rubbing it several times since had produced no results. He hated to touch the witch-accursed thing, but it would be necessary.

  Lily was the answer. Rising, he strode out of the castle and walked toward the stables. He had seen a fine horse there this morning. Not his own Archangel, of course, but a stallion worthy of a warrior. He saddled the horse, then mounted and rode out through the castle's gate.

  It felt good to be on horseback again. He gave the horse its head and the two galloped down the road to Barstow Village. Not sure where Lily's shop was located, he slowed the horse to a walk and peered at both sides of the High Street. It bore little resemblance to the village of his time. The houses he passed, while not large, still seemed palatial for peasants. The various businesses had large glass windows, far beyond the purse of thirteenth century shopkeepers. Hard stone walks and roads made muddy shoes no problem. No peddlers hawked their wares in the street and several cars were parked along the roadside. He saw no other horses. People hurried in and out of shops.

  He shook his head. Somewhere in this unfamiliar bustle, the witch had to be stirring up trouble. Then he spotted a sign which said, ‘Fine Jewelry by Lily.'

  "That's it,” he muttered, springing from the saddle and looking for a place to tie the horse. He saw another sign which said ‘Stop’ and tethered his mount to it. Well, his horse was stopped, he reasoned.

  He walked to the shop and pulled open the door. A girl with thick pieces of glass in front of her eyes stared at him.

  "Hi, Nick. Looking for Lily?"

  He nodded. His descendant must know this woman, but he didn't.

  "She's in the workroom. Go right on back."

  Nicholas pushed the curtain aside. Lily sat at a high table made of stone. In her hand, a gold necklace in a twisted Celtic pattern caught the light and gleamed.

  "I need to talk to you,” he said, walking over to stare at the handsome piece of jewelry.

  "You have found your armor.” It was a statement, not a question.

  "How did you know?"

  Lily smiled. “And now you are hatching a plot to take Julie back with you. Right?"

  With a scowl, he settled on the stool next to hers. “Again, how do you always know what I am thinking?"

  She shook her head, but didn't answer his question. “You could give her the amulet."

  Nicholas scowled. “Listen to me, woman. Giving Julie the amulet will do nothing. It does not work for me and probably won't for her."

  Lily pursed her lips and raised her dark eyebrows. “It did not work for you, because I did not wish it to."

  He jumped to his feet. “I order you to make it work,” he shouted.

  "Soon, it will take you back, but not just yet. The moment must be right."

  That did not please him. “What must I do to hasten this moment?"

  "Give Julie the amulet on the night of the feast. Now here is what else must be done.” She leaned over and whispered in his ear.

  He nodded. “That could work. However, there is one more thing. I had a happy and peaceful marriage. There was no contention be
tween Julianne and me. I must learn if this future Julie will fit comfortably into my life.” He stared at Lily, waiting for her suggestions.

  "You could try kissing her,” Lily said dryly.

  That seemed a sensible idea. If he found her compatible, that would be enough. They must get along reasonably well for his idea to work. And it would help if he enjoyed her kisses. He did wonder briefly how Julie would react to his duplicity. She would be very angry with him, and he would have a hard time explaining himself. Convincing her to go voluntarily seemed an impossible task.

  He stood. “Mayhap I will kiss her. I will also give her the amulet. Women like kisses and jewelry. Gifts can soften hard words.” He grinned.

  "You speak from experience?” Lily raised an eyebrow. Her lips twitched slightly.

  "Naturally,” he bragged. “I am past a score and ten and have known many women."

  "Um-m.” Lily seemed unimpressed. She probably knew he was exaggerating. In his youth, money had been scarce, so wenches took second place to hard work.

  "I will expect the amulet to work when I rub it at the feast.” Hope rose in his chest.

  "It will work,” Lily promised, rising and walking to the shop door with him.

  He gave her a dark look as he left. “It had better."

  The days before the feast passed swiftly, too swiftly for Julie. And Nick was no help at all. He sat for hours staring at the TV, letting her and George do all the work. And when he wasn't being a couch potato, he disappeared into the armory, probably to clean more of time's patina from that chain mail he'd just bought. This new one seemed to interest him even more than the others. She'd peeked in and seen him hard at work with the rust remover.

  Annoyed, Julie lost count of the forks. Although Nick always tried to maintain the authenticity of a thirteen century feast, he didn't really expect his guests to eat with their fingers, or with just knives and spoons.

  Ninety-five of the one hundred invitations—more than she'd wanted him to send—had been accepted. Sir Stephen Norville had brought his reply in person one day while she was at the castle. Even though Julie liked Stephen, a pleasant man with blond hair and blue eyes who was married to Nick's sister, Margaret, she had the distinct impression Nick didn't. His comments had been terse and just short of rude.