by Amanda Paris
I awoke sometime later on the couch, Ben’s concerned face above me.
“Emily?”
“Ben,” I said, relieved to see a face I could put a name to.
He had a washcloth and was wiping my face. He slowed helped me to sit up. I had a fierce headache.
“What happened?” I asked, holding my head in my hands.
“I think you passed out. Emily, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? For what? We were having a great evening until I fainted.”
“It was too much for you all in one day, you know, with this morning and all,” he said. I could tell that he hadn’t wanted to bring it up again, probably because he knew it would embarrass me. I could feel my face flushing.
“I suppose so, yes,” I said slowly, not actually believing that it had anything to do with that. “How long was I out?”
“Maybe fifteen seconds? I was afraid you might slip off the couch, so I put your feet up, called 911, and got a washcloth.”
“So the paramedics are coming?”
He looked sheepishly at me and shrugged.
“You just passed out for no reason, Em. I was scared.”
“It’s okay,” I assured him. “I would’ve done the same.”
We heard the sirens, and Ben went to answer the door and assure them that everything was alright. What else would happen to me all in one day?
The paramedics talked to me for some time and tried to urge me to see someone—sixteen-year-olds don’t normally just faint dead away for no reason—but Ben explained what had happened to me that morning. Somewhat satisfied, they left a few minutes later.
Ben sat down beside me on the couch and gave me hug.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I said, laying my head on his shoulder.
“Maybe it’s just the stress of the last year,” Ben said quietly.
I nodded, somehow knowing it didn’t have anything to do with Mom. As much as I missed her, this didn’t seem anything like grief. I knew what that felt like. This was an overwhelming fear of death strangely mixed with desire for some unknown knight. Maybe Ben was right, maybe it was the stress that had addled my brain.
We left a short time later and had a quiet trip back, each with our own thoughts about what had happened. When we pulled into the drive, I could see that Aunt Jo was in the living room about to watch the eleven o’clock news.
Ben got out and walked me to the door, but before I turned the knob, he stopped me.“Emily, I wanted to give this to you earlier, but it didn’t seem right with everything that happened,” he began, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small velvet bag, the kind that looked like it was from an expensive jewelry store.
My heart almost literally stopped. He placed the bag in my hands and then kissed me on the cheek, turning to go.
“Aren’t you going to wait for me to open it?” I asked him, confused. Ben usually came in to say goodnight to Aunt Jo if she hadn’t already gone to bed.
“No, open it after I’m gone. I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, smiling. He bent down, kissed me again, and was gone.
I stood watching Ben as he drove away, intrigued by the mystery gift and anxious to open it.
Opening the front door instead, I was immediately greeted by the Duchess, who waited for me. What’s with you? I thought, wondering why she’d taken so much interest in me lately—ever since the dream, I remembered, quickly putting that thought out of my mind. I didn’t want to faint again at the front door, have to face the paramedics all over again that night, or worry Aunt Jo.
The Duchess purred a greeting, and I rubbed her head. Curiously protective of me in the last few days, she followed me around the house and stayed in my room while I did homework or fell asleep.
I called out a “hello” to Aunt Jo and took the stairs two at a time. I couldn’t wait to open Ben’s gift, glad for an exciting distraction.
I plopped down on the bed and opened the bag, which revealed an emerald and twenty-four carat gold ring set in a Celtic knot. On the inside, there was an inscription that read Timeless. It was the most beautiful and unusual ring I’d ever seen, and I wondered where Ben got it.
I knew, without a doubt, why Ben had not wanted to be with me when I opened it. He didn’t trust himself not to kiss me, really kiss me, and he wanted to respect the memory of my mother tonight while also letting me know he’d always be there.
Aunt Jo knocked on the door and poked her head in.
“How was it?” she asked, her long hair combed out with two purple ribbons tying back the sides. Aunt Jo always looked like a young girl in the evenings. She had waited for me before going to bed. I wondered if she already knew about my ring.
I had tears in my eyes, and she looked concerned, coming in and sitting beside me on the bed.
“Emily,” she began, “what is it?”
“No, it’s fine. Really,” I said through sniffles.
“Everything doesn’t look fine,” she replied.
“It’s Ben,” I finally said, more than a little teary-eyed but not wanting to go into the stranger details of the day or night.
“What about him?” Aunt Jo asked. And then she saw the ring.
“Now young lady, you’re too young to be getting engaged. I hope that’s not what this is about,” she began sternly. So she didn’t already know, I thought. It must have been a surprise from everyone because Annie couldn’t keep a secret, and Zack told everything to Annie, who would’ve at least dropped a hint to me.
I laughed through the tears.
“No,” I assured her, “he just gave me a present to let me know how much he still loves me. You know, with everything that’s happened in the last year,” I finished.
Aunt Jo nodded her head. She understood, and neither of us wished to bring up the painful memories of the past year. Aunt Jo missed Mom too, I knew.
“Why don’t you try and get some sleep. It’s been a big day,” she said, giving me a hug.
I sniffed, gave her a hug, and lay down on the bed, not bothering to change. I didn’t want the night to end even though I was tired. I drifted off sometime later and dreamed of a strong, handsome face. It wasn’t Ben’s.
Chapter Three
"The Quest"
And what you do not know is the only thing you know…
T. S. Eliot, “East Coker”
Mr. Dean’s history class was not the most riveting place to be, but after my strange dream and frightening encounters, I became more interested in the Middle Ages and started paying more attention in class, to the amusement of Annie and Ben, both of whom had fifth period with me.
“And so, as you can see, the Black Death wiped out as many as a third of England’s population during the fourteenth century,” Mr. Dean finished, looking excitedly around. His fervor diminished by the bored or sleeping faces in front of him until he saw me. His face lit up.
“Ms. St. Clair,” he said.
I hated being called on in class.
“Yes?” I said, tentatively, feeling the blush creep up my neck.
“I’d like us to review what we covered last week for our upcoming test on the thirteenth century. Can you tell me which king signed the Magna Carta?” he asked.
I thought for a few minutes and then knew.
“King John,” I answered.
“Excellent. Now, for extra credit—can you tell me what year?”
Automatically, I answered, “1215.”
“Impressive. Place?”
“Runnymede, England.”
Annie and Ben both turned to look at me, and even I was surprised. I hadn’t bothered to read the assignment last week, and I didn’t usually pay that much attention in class. Annie and I typically passed notes, while Ben and Zack popped us with rubber bands.
“It seems that Ms. St. Clair has been doing her homework,” he said. “Good job, Emily.”
Mike, who sat in front of me, turned and laughed, while his neighbor, Jamie rolled her eyes, muttering “teacher’s pet” in a loud
whisper.
By this time, my cheeks were on fire.
I couldn’t understand how I knew these things. It was as though I remembered them, not from a textbook but from memory.
The bell rang, and Mr. Dean was coming to my row. This was only getting better.
“Yes, sir?” I asked, hoping he didn’t want to quiz me further.
“Nice work today, Emily. I didn’t know you had such an interest in history,” he said, smiling.
“I don’t,” I said hastily until I saw his disappointed face.
“I mean, I don’t usually,” I backtracked. “But I’m really interested in medieval England.”
I didn’t know where that came from, but I knew all of a sudden that it was entirely true. I was interested in history.
“You know, I’m in charge of the trip to Europe in the spring,” he began. “You should really consider going. The school is having several fundraisers to pay for it. I’m also getting us a discounted rate for airfare and the hotels from a travel agent I know. We’re hoping to raise enough to cover the cost of visiting several countries, including England.”
“Yeah, that sounds great. Where do I sign up?” I asked.
“With me. I’ll put your name down. I can get you more detailed information and a permission slip to take to your Aunt.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, glad now I’d spoken up in class. The urge to find the place in my dream was still strong. I’d had a few vague, similar dreams to the first one, though none of them had left me as paralyzed with fear as that first nightmare or my two strange experiences, one of which almost left me dead, had. I didn’t see crazy faces in the water or the bathroom mirror—that is, if you didn’t count mine, I thought, grinning just a little to myself. I was glad I could find it even somewhat funny.
Ben was waiting for me outside by the lockers.
“So you’re really going to Europe?” he asked.
“Yeah, it looks like I am…Why don’t you come too?” I asked, wanting to make amends for the last time we’d talked about it. Since then, we hadn’t discussed the trip. Though I had hesitated at first, I couldn’t really imagine taking it without him. I still wasn’t entirely convinced that all of this wasn’t some figment of my vivid imagination, the product of some film I’d seen long ago that must have made a huge impression in my mind.
“Why not? It might be fun,” he said. “But I’ll have to talk to my parents first. I’ll tell Mr. Dean tomorrow. I never realized you were so interested in history,” he finished, laughing as he put my books in the locker beside his.
“Me either,” I answered, laughing too.
We held hands as we walked to sixth period. Ben had Spanish, while Annie and I had French down the hall.
“See you after,” I said, turning to go inside.
Before I could, though, Ben pulled me around, turning my head and finding my lips.
Mrs. Anderson had hall duty and cleared her throat. “Mr. Harmon, Ms. St. Clair,” she warned.
We broke apart, and Ben smiled at me.
“Sorry,” I mumbled to her, not a little surprised by Ben, who usually hated public displays like that.
Everyone in class was staring at me when I entered French class. I was the last one to take my seat.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Emily,” Madame Renalt said, smirking in that oh-so-French way I really hated.
“Bonjour, Madame,” I muttered, looking away from everyone. I knew my face was beet red. I hoped that she’d ignore me instead of making some smart comment in French. She had an unfortunately wicked sense of humor. A small perk, I guess, for being a high school teacher.
“Tu t’amuse?” she asked. As if I was having fun, I thought, now really embarrassed.
Everyone laughed. I could feel my cheeks growing hotter under everyone’s watchful eyes. I wondered if they could spontaneously combust.
I took my seat, opened my book, and looked down at my desk, burying my nose in the book as far as I could. Angela had this class with me, and while I was happy for her to see how much Ben loved me, I didn’t relish the idea of being the center of attention again today. I’d had enough of that recently.
Annie passed me a note: You okay?
I didn’t want to risk getting caught, so I just nodded.
She scribbled on the back of her notebook: Wow!!
I shrugged. Angela was watching me, her eyes shooting daggers at my back. I had the incredible urge to turn around and stick my tongue out at her, but Madame Renalt was looking straight at me. It was going to be a long hour.
****
When I got home that afternoon, I began reading about the history of England from my textbook, and I didn’t stop until Aunt Jo called me down for dinner. I still had the strange feeling that the past was just that—not just something I’d read but something I’d lived. The sections on “everyday life” especially interested me, and I felt a kinship with the women depicted in the segments on “domestic life.” Like me, they had spent much of their time with a needle in their hands.
I was most intrigued by the idea of “courtly love” between a knight and his lady and the “knight’s life,” including his preparations for battle, often to fight in tournaments and the Crusades. A knight trained for years in the household of a noble lord before he was given his knighthood in a special ceremony. They trained for the joust when they were not on the field of battle, and their armor often weighed as much as they did. I could see in my mind the charging horses, the shining armor, the cheers from the spectators. It was as though I knew what it felt like to watch them.
It was not surprising, then, that I had the dream again that night. The details were the same, but this time I knew who my protector was. I called out his name: Damien. It was the last word I screamed before I awoke in the middle of the night, again in a cold sweat. This time, the dream seemed even more vivid, if that was possible. Frightened, I went down the hall to the bathroom, though I didn’t dare to turn on the cold water.
I looked at myself in the mirror, almost afraid of what or who I’d see there. My eyes, which looked wild and distracted, stared back at me. Curiously, my arms had scratches, several of which bled, and small, dark bruises, as though someone had frantically tried to pull me through the woods.
Could I have done that in my sleep? Wouldn’t it have awoken Aunt Jo?
I stumbled back to my bedroom, wishing that it wasn’t three o’clock in the morning. I wanted to talk to someone, to understand what was happening to me. But I didn’t know who could help.
Since I couldn’t sleep, I went to my desk—another antique that had belonged to my great-grandfather—and turned on my laptop. Deciding to see what I could find online, I typed “Damien, 1216,” just to see if anything would appear. If I only knew where we were in my dream, I thought. I felt fairly certain of the date and that we were in England, but I needed more. I sat back in frustration. I wasn’t even sure what I was searching for, only that I needed to find out more about him.
I tried another term, “Sir Damien,” and found a registry of all knights of the realm prior to 1500 AD from the British Museum. My heart began to beat erratically. I had to remind myself that was only a listing, nothing more, and yet I knew it was the one I needed. The date corresponded to the one in my dream. In my excitement, I nearly didn’t see the tiny asterisk by his name. I quickly scrolled down, anxious to see what history had remembered about the knight I was certain was mine.
Sir Damien reputedly grew legendary as the Black Knight of Montavere, defender of the medieval castle held by the Lords of Montavere, a strategic stronghold that came under attack sometime in the 1480s, when the last Lord of Montavere died in the final battle of the Wars of the Roses. The castle was eventually destroyed.
This was it! I could feel it inside. Frantic to know more, I printed the entry and read it several more times. I wanted to find the listing’s author, which took several minutes of wading through the material at the beginning. The Foreword listed no author for the entry; it m
ust have been an anonymous submission. According to the general editor, whoever wrote the entry had done so during the 1730s, and I wondered if anyone living knew anything about the Lords of Montavere, their castle, or the famous knight who had once defended it.
I tried to discover more, using the keywords from the paragraph as my search terms. But I found nothing more. That couldn’t be all, I thought, frustrated that it was the middle of the night. I couldn’t learn anything more on the internet about my Black Knight. I wondered why he’d been called that. I was certain it wasn’t because he had a black character; he’d shielded me in my dream from danger. I decided to try to find out more from Mr. Dean, if I could, about how knights acquired their names.
Frustrated I couldn’t turn up anything new about Damien, I turned my attention to the other, more frightening parts of my dream. I knew that the knights coming for me thought I was a witch, so I decided to search online under the term “witch.” After pages of information I didn’t need about the Salem witch trials, I finally found a page on witches in England during the Middle Ages. Bingo.
I was reasonably suspicious about most of the stuff I found on the web, but this site looked fairly credible. At least it didn’t have cartoon witches flying around on broomsticks.
Someone had linked an article that looked helpful. According to it, witches in England were sometimes called “wise women.” They had extensive knowledge of herbs and sometimes helped as midwives in delivering babies. Often, however, the “wise woman,” intending good, was the scapegoat for unexplained crop failures or disease. She was often treated as an evil witch, who held a “Witch’s Sabbath,” reportedly ate children, and copulated with the devil. Though the “witch hunt” mania didn’t begin until after the Black Death, reaching a peak in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, persecutors accused and tormented suspected witches in the centuries before the mass witch hunts began.
