Wings of the Storm

by Sizemore, Susan

  She could hear the familiar words. She stopped, at first not understanding the language but troubled by the knowledge that she knew the song from some­where. Welsh?

  But Sibelle had said he didn't speak Welsh.

  No. It wasn't Welsh. She didn't speak Welsh either. But she did speak the language Daffyd ap Bleddyn was using.

  "... day and night on our faces . . . living from moment to moment. . . we've no symbols left... of what was once ... a year in black ..."

  Jane closed her eyes. Her head was spinning as the words penetrated her mind like some magic incanta­tion. She knew that song. Of course she knew it. It was in the language she'd spoken all her life. A lan­guage she had never thought to hear again. It was a classic, a golden oldie. But not one from the thir­teenth century. She'd known the song when she was a teenager. She wouldn't be a teenager for about

  eight hundred years.

  Jane Florian sat down hard on the piled-up hay, her world crashing around her one more time. Below her, the man she loved went right on singing in a language he had no right to know.

  26

  What was he? Who was he? Where was he from?

  Her head was pounding, her heart twisting and breaking. She remembered his touch, his eyes, his mouth covering hers, how perfectly their bodies melded together. She remembered him—abrasive, teasing, tantalizing, infuriating, brave, and protective. She remembered everything about him, but she didn't know him at all.

  Eventually the stranger stopped singing. By then she was crying, great, silent sobs racking her. She heard his footsteps on the packed-earth floor below as he finally went away.

  More important, she questioned, making herself think beyond her own sense of betrayal, what was he doing here? Think, woman! She tried to stop crying, to steady her breathing, to make her mind work.

  All right, what were the facts? She had been sent there by a time machine. It was a prototype, a risky experiment. An experiment that worked. If one per­son could be transferred successfully, so could others. That's what David Wolfe must have been working for. Okay, so they had time travel technology back home. What were they doing with it?

  If they'd had any sense, they would have disman­tled it. But it was a government-funded project. Gov­ernments had this way of not having much sense. For all she knew, there were hundreds of time travelers, running around bumping off kings or handing out personal computers to their ancestors. It could hap­pen. If one lone historian could be thrown eight hun­dred years into the past by a drunk kid, anything could happen.

  But it had only been a few months. The sort of technology and organization needed for this paranoid fantasy couldn't have been developed in so short a time. We're talking time travel here, Jane, she reminded herself. The people involved in time travel might be from hundreds of years after the twenty-first century. They could have been doing it for a long time. They could have turned all of time into a battle­ground.

  And Daffyd ap Bleddyn—whoever he was—was one of them.

  What did she do about it? Ask him for a ride home, maybe? She chewed nervously on the tip of a fingernail, thinking hard.

  "No," she whispered. Below her a horse nickered softly at the sound of her voice. "I can't trust him. He might be the person really behind the plot to kill the king. He's not my friend. He's not my lover. I'm going to have to think of him as my enemy and be very, very cautious from now on."

  She didn't want to be cautious with Daffyd. She

  wanted to run to him and shout at him and demand explanations. The deep hurt and sense of betrayal were almost impossible for her to control.

  She had loved him, she thought. Not just for one night, but ever since he'd appeared out of the smoke on her first day at Passfair. She'd never seen anyone like him, so powerfully, arrogantly, primally male. Not a man from her own time, but a conquering war­rior, secure in the strength of his sword, the surety of his place in his world.

  Every bit of it was a lie.

  She got up and cautiously made her way down the ladder. Moving quietly, ghostlike, disturbing neither the horses nor the grooms sleeping in the empty stalls, she went out into the courtyard.

  The square of ground was white with moon­light. Clinging to the shadow of the building, then of the inner wall, she made her way slowly toward the gate. She didn't know why she didn't want to return to the castle, but the need to flee was strong. She had to get away from plots and poli­tics and false lovers. She wanted to hide herself in the forest, where there were only wolves and brig­ands to worry about.

  There was a group of men by the gate, gathered near a fire while they passed around a skin of ale. Whoever else was there, she would know all the guards from Passfair. She could command them to let her through. She peeled herself away from the safety of the shadows and boldly approached the group.

  Only to be caught from behind by someone she hadn't noticed before. "At last!" a familiar voice shouted out. "I told you there was some sport to be had at this broken-down keep."

  The man's breath smelled of stale wine. A hand hard as a brick began squeezing her breast. The guards at the gate turned to look but didn't run for­ward to stop the man. One called a question. One of the other guards pulled him aside.

  "Help!" she called. "Stop it!" she screeched at the man holding her. She tried twisting and kicking, but he held her easily.

  One of the guards started toward her, but another put a hand on his shoulder and said something to him.

  "Leave me alone!" she shouted as she was dragged backward, farther away from the indecisive men at the gate.

  A second man joined her attacker. "What's this?" he asked, voice slurred by drink. She knew his voice as well. She didn't know their names, but she knew who they were. She knew what they wanted. She'd heard their plans after Hugh rode off. They wanted a woman to use through the night, an excuse for their absence.

  She had no intention of being gang-raped as part of their alibi. She remembered her panicked helpless­ness when the outlaw tried to rape her. It was only a memory. She felt no panic as the two men dragged her off, back into the darkness by the wall. She was sick of men doing whatever they wanted just because they were bigger and better armed.

  She had a dagger of her own. She managed to work it out of its sheath while the two men jockeyed with each other, both trying to paw her at the same time. They both pressed themselves against her. One was in front the one holding her with one viselike arm was behind her. She could feel the man in front's

  erection poking at her thigh. That was where she stabbed him.

  When the first man fell away, howling in pain, the other's grip loosened a little. She collapsed like a sack of potatoes, every muscle going limp, sliding to the ground and completely out of his grasp. She was hampered by her long skirts, which had twisted around her in the struggle, but she still managed to elude his grasping hands. She got up and ran, out into the moonlit courtyard.

  Straight into another man's arms. He smelled of lavender and horse sweat.

  "Let go of me!" she shouted as her attacker came running up. In the background, the man she'd stabbed was still screaming. Shouting guardsmen were heading toward the courtyard. At last.

  "Give me the wench!" her attacker demanded, grabbing her arm.

  Daffyd tucked her under his arm. He asked the man calmly, "What seems to be the trouble here?"

  She could hear the strange familiarity of his accent now. Not even the lilting cadence of modern Wales. Somewhere else, somewhere she knew.

  "The bitch stabbed FitzWilliam! I'll see her flayed. Give her to me!"

  She stayed within the shelter of Daffyd's arm, though she wanted desperately to break away from him. Guards came pelting up; one held a torch to supplement the moonlight. "Sir Daffyd," one of the men said.

  Another stared at her with bugged-out eyes. "Lady Jehane! It was you?"

  "Yes, it was me!" she shouted back. "Why didn't you help me?"

  "I didn't recognize you, lady, I swear. And it was Lord FitzWill
iam and Count DeBourne taking their pleasure. How could we—"

  "Give me the girl!"

  The screaming man was carried past on a makeshift litter. Her assailant briefly followed the small procession with his eyes.

  A guard she didn't recognize broke away from the group carrying the injured man. He came up to Sir Daffyd. "The woman did that, sir," he said to Daffyd. "Stabbed him in his privates."

  "Good for her," Daffyd said in a lazy drawl.

  "Sir?" the guard questioned.

  "Give her to me, ap Bleddyn, or you'll die with her," the attacker threatened.

  "You're quite the troublemaker, aren't you?" Daffyd said to Jane.

  "Yes," she hissed back angrily.

  He addressed the livid man demanding her death. "There are witnesses you and FitzWilliam attacked a lady of noble birth, intending rape. The lady of noble birth is the chatelaine of this castle. And my betrothed. Get out of here, DeBourne. Keep your mouth shut, and I might not challenge you to a duel."

  DeBourne, red-faced and hard-eyed with hate and fury, glared challengingly at Daffyd for a moment longer. Only a moment. Then he got control of his temper and gave one sharp nod. "You'll pay," he threatened, his venomous look taking in both Daffyd and herself. "Soon." He turned and pushed his way through the crowd of guards, back toward the gate.

  Daffyd barked a few orders, and the guards dis­persed back to their duties. "Come along," he said to Jane after the men were gone.

  "I'm not going anywhere with you," she declared, trying to pull away.

  "Calm down, love," he soothed. "Nothing hap­pened." He started to stroke her cheek, but she pulled sharply away from the touch. He sighed. "Stupid bastards," he raged quietly. "Always hurting people who can't defend themselves. You got the best of them this time," he told her, tone gentle and calm. "You didn't let them hurt you." She clung to him, shaking, as his arms came comfortingly around her.

  She wanted very much to tell him he reminded her of Mr. Rogers. It didn't help her anger to know he'd probably understand what she meant. "Let go of me, Sir Daffyd," she demanded. Her voice was just as calm as his, but colder than ice.

  "No, I won't. Let's go, love." She resisted, but he dragged her forward, up the stairs, past the gaping faces of disturbed sleepers in the hall, all the way up the stairs and into the candlelit storeroom. He let her go as they crossed the threshold. Momentum carried her to the center of the room. She spun to glare at him. She'd never felt anything as strong as the hatred for him that seethed inside her.

  He closed the door firmly and leaned against it. He crossed his arms. "Now, what," he asked, "is the mat­ter with you?"

  Unintended, the words came out: "You lied to me! You lied to me about everything!"

  He blinked in surprise. "I've never lied to you about anything."

  She couldn't stop the anger from boiling out of her. She'd told herself she had to be careful, to be cir­cumspect, not to give anything away, but she was deeply shaken from the minutes spent in the court­yard in his embrace. A part of her had felt so safe, so loved, so wanted, so protected. She'd almost laughed at his calm handling of the situation, at the barbs he'd tossed at both the attacker and herself. She wanted to love him for the gentle understanding he'd shown afterward.

  She couldn't keep quiet, couldn't let it go. She loved him and she hated him and she couldn't lie to him about how she felt. "You trick me. You trick everyone. What do you want?"

  He spread his hands out before him. Big, compe­tent, clever hands. "I don't want anything."

  "Then what are you doing here?"

  "I thought I brought you home so you could recov­er. So we could talk."

  "Not here." She stamped her foot. "Here!"

  "Here here?" He looked as if he thought she were mad.

  Maybe she was, "You know what I mean!"

  "Jehane, sweetheart . . ."

  She took an angry step closer, dagger poised in her hand. "Who are you really?" she asked. "Who are you, Daffyd ap Bleddyn?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm Daffyd ap Bleddyn." He said it calmly, reasonably. But she saw the dawning suspicion in his eyes.

  "Who are you?" This time she asked in English. He didn't answer. "Daffyd," she said. "Daffyd." The sound struck a chord of memory. "Daffyd . . . David." She looked into his hazel-green eyes. The face wasn't the same. But the eyes. . . The voice .. . They were similar. "David."

  "Yes?" He took a step forward. She raised the dag-

  ger a fraction of an inch. He said. "I won't hurt you." He was speaking English to her now.

  "Ap Bleddyn. Bleddyn." Stephan called him Wolf. Wolf. Wolfe. David Wolfe? No. It wasn't possible. David Wolfe was twenty years old. This was a man in his mid-thirties. David Wolfe was a shaved-head, scrawny, pale geek who wouldn't know how to handle himself outside the confines of his safe and sterile laboratory.

  She asked anyway. "Does Bleddyn mean wolf in Welsh?"

  "Yes," he answered again. "Jehane."

  "You're David Wolfe?"

  He nodded. His eyes were searching her face, dis­belief warring with surprise and she couldn't tell what else. He reached for her, but she backed away quickly. "Jehane," he said. "How do you—Jehane? Je— FitzRose? FitzRose. Rose. Flower. Florian." He let out a whoop. "Jane Florian! Thank God!" His smile was like a burst of light. It was pure joy and delight. He spread his arms as if he wanted to embrace her. "I've been looking for you for fifteen years!"

  It was him. It was really him.

  "I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch," she said, and lunged at him with the dagger.

  27

  "Never," David Wolfe instructed sternly after Jane was sitting splay-legged on the floor and he held her dagger in his hand, "never warn someone of an attack. You're likely to get killed." He stuck the dagger in his belt and crossed his arms. "Or disarmed. Didn't your mother teach you anything?"

  "What's my mother got to do with this?" she snapped angrily.

  "Quite a lot, actually." He strode forward, offered her a hand up.

  She ignored it and got to her feet on her own, sur­reptitiously rubbing her aching behind. She'd fallen hard. It had almost knocked the wind out of her. It had certainly knocked the killing rage out of her. She was still angry. Angrier than she'd ever been in her life. Angrier than when she'd discovered he was from her own time but didn't know who he was.

  That wasn't anger, she knew now. It wasn't hate. It wasn't contempt or disappointment or betrayal. What she'd felt before had been nothing compared to the

  furious, contemptuous loathing she was experiencing now. She was trembling so hard with fury, she had to sit down on a nearby storage chest to keep from falling.

  Wolfe walked past her, into the sleeping alcove. He came back with a small linen-wrapped square. He sat down cross-legged beside her and put the bundle in her lap. "Have something to eat," he suggested. His eyes caught hers. Impossible to look away from those eyes as he added, "Give me time to explain."

  "Time? Time? Time!" she snarled at him. "I've been doing time, Wolfe. Hard time." Her fingers curled into claws, but she kept from launching her­self at him this time.

  "So have I, Jehane. Jane." He reached out to touch her cheek but wisely drew back. She was sorry she didn't get the chance to bite him. "Jehane's prettier."

  "Why have you let me stay here?" she questioned. "You were here the first day I arrived. You saw me. Why didn't you tell me who you were? What kind of experiment are you running, Wolfe?"

  "What do you mean, the first day?" he demanded in return, ignoring the rest of her questions.

  "When you came to tell Stephan about Hugh try­ing to kidnap Sibelle," she reminded him. How long ago had it been? Three months? More? It seemed like a lifetime.

  "You'd just arrived?" He sounded incredulous. "That was your first day? When I'd been hunting Kent for six months? Not to mention all the time I spent in Anjou and Brittany and Aquitaine and the Ile de France. I've visited as many abbeys and con­vents and priories on the energ
y grid as I could locate. Only you weren't in any of them. So I started hunting out on the very fringe. It was habit to keep hunting," he went on, sounding more as though he were talking to himself than to her. "I didn't have any hope. There's only genetic tracings this far out. And they're so faint. . ."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Time travel," he answered. "It's more complicat­ed than I thought. So many factors to coordinate."

  "Gibberish. Sheer gibberish. You make no sense. You've never made any sense. I used to sit in staff meetings thinking, This boy makes no sense. Why isn't he in a nice strict military school instead of run­ning a multizillion-dollar research project."

  "Because I got a Ph.D. from Stanford at fourteen, and was in line for the Nobel Prize for physics with that project," he answered tartly. "Credentials help, my dear. And intelligence."

  "If you're so intelligent, why didn't you recognize me? And what happened to you, anyway? Time machine blow up in your face?"

  "You could say that. And why should I recognize you?" Suddenly he blushed, his fair skin going deep scarlet. She could feel the heat from where she sat. He got up and paced the length of the room. From by the door he said, "Perhaps I would have recognized you if I had gotten a clear look at you that first day. But I didn't. The next time I saw you your face was bruised. I remember being angry because I'd thought the lad must have taken his fist to you for some rea­son. There're some things about this place I don't like," he added quietly. After a loud sigh he went on. "By the time your face healed, you were Jehane to me, with your own history and place. You were the lovely Norman widow I was attracted to. I couldn't let

  myself become involved with anyone from this centu­ry, so I tried not to think about you. But I kept com­ing back to you. Perhaps some part of me guessed. But I wasn't thinking with that part."

  "You didn't remember what I looked like?" "I was looking for an older woman," he explained hurriedly. "Someone about fifteen years older."