“I’m sure you want to take off too,” Stephen said low.
“Yes.”
“We’ll stay with Janet and Terry.”
“I’ll put some tea on,” Esme said and gave Roger a quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry about Mom and Dad.”
Roger knelt in front of Janet and Terry. “I love Electra beyond measure. She’s my world. I’ll do everything in my power to find her and Emily.” He clasped Terry’s hand and gave it a squeeze, then stood and left.
****
Roger brought the lab’s spare stool over to where Oliver sat behind a bank of computer monitors. Oliver’s brows flicked up seeing the mark on Roger’s jaw. “What happened to you?”
“Terry Crippen clocked me a good one.”
“Was it something you said or your story he objected to?”
“Both. Any progress on the jolt theory?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. I had a chinwag with the fellows down the hall working on climate change. They have done studies on lightning in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and someplace in Venezuela. Those areas that receive the most strikes. They recreated the lightning hoping, in their own Dr. Frankenstein way, to recreate and harness the power.”
“How does that help? You said we need to study super lightning not everyday stuff.”
“I see no realistic way to recreate super lightning, but I have an alternate idea. I want to try bombarding the outcropping with the fake strikes the climate fellows manufactured. Sort of like carpet bombing your enemy. I believe we may accomplish the same effect as the super lightning.”
“Do you have the machine on hand?”
The scientist’s face brightened in an excited, boyish way. “I do.” He rolled a suitcase-sized black box on a dolly over to Roger. “We’ll take this to the site.” From under the lab table, he pulled out a bigger box. “Help me load it into this transport box they made.”
The two of them staggered under the weight and Oliver nearly dropped his end. The lightning box was made of heavy gauge steel and weighed as much as a full beer barrel. They’d never be able to carry it down to the spot and the area was too wooded to drive it down. He’d take it to the stables and load a cart and have one of the massive draft horses transport the thing.
“How does this work?”
Oliver thought for a moment, then explained, “Think of it as a laser on steroids.”
“Interesting. Hope the juiced-up beam succeeds. Once we get the machine at the outcropping, I need to run home and gear up before we start using it,” Roger said. “I need to be ready. The passage doesn’t stay open long. The girls were gone in a matter of seconds.”
“I have to dash to the trailer and put together a Go Bag. We both have to be ready.”
“We? You’re not coming.”
“Oh, but I am. If you think I’ve worked all my professional life on proving the existence of time travel only to stay behind when the opportunity presents itself, then you’re soft as a grape.”
The medieval world was dangerous enough for Roger, who spent a lifetime there. No way could he allow Oliver to put himself at such risk.
Roger shook his head. “No, you cannot come. I forbid it. If by the grace of God, I find Electra and Emily, I will have my hands full protecting them. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to protect you as well.”
Oliver came around the box and squared himself inches from Roger. “You can’t forbid me for heaven’s sake. I’m old enough to be your father and I’m not a fool. I know the risk.”
There had to be a way around the stubborn man. Roger thought for a moment and then said, “I need someone here to continue operating the machine so the sisters and I have the means to return.”
“Got that figured out. I’m having my son meet us there. I’ll show him how this operates and he can continue bombarding the rock.”
Ugh...another person who’s going to know he’s a time traveler. “The rate people are discovering my secret, I might just take an ad out in the Evening Standard and let the whole bloody world know,” Roger said, frustrated by Oliver’s determination and plan. “Fine,” he said, hands raised in mock surrender. “Let’s get this baby running.”
“Yes. I’m ready. Perhaps I should bring a gun,” Oliver said as they rolled the dolly down the hall.
“Have you shot?”
Oliver shook his head. “No. Never touched a gun. But how hard can it be? You point and shoot. You just said it would be dangerous. If I’m packing, I can help.”
They reached Roger’s car. “Packing what?” he asked, popping the trunk open.
“Americans say they’re packing when they’ve a gun on them.”
Great. He was taking his gun knowledge from American gangsters. “No gun, Oliver. I’ve got my sword and my skills. I don’t fancy you shooting willy-nilly anywhere near me.” He didn’t like the look in Oliver’s eyes. There was defiance behind those horned-rimmed glasses. Roger made a mental note to search Oliver’s Go Bag every morning.
Chapter Nine
Gloucester
Date: 1357
Electra and Emily found Drusilla, one of the previous evening’s serving girls, churning butter behind the kitchen. “Drusilla, do you know where Richard is?” Electra asked.
The young woman looked up from her work. “The courtyard, milady. He’s conducting business with the alewife,” she said, wiping her face with her apron. “Is there something you needed? Can help you?”
Drusilla was one of the kitchen staff who hadn’t seemed resentful of the sisters cooking dinner meals. Electra admired how hard she worked. She had to start early to finish producing sufficient butter for the household, and then work through the night’s meal, which meant long, long hours.
“Thank you. Please call me Electra and my sister is just Emily. In our homeland, we don’t possess the social station worthy of the title milady.”
Drusilla smiled, a shrewd tilt to her grin. “I wondered about that, seeing as how you’re a cook and your sister a helper. Emily and Electra it is then.”
“Much more fitting,” Electra said. “We’re off to stroll the grounds,” she added, and they headed for the courtyard.
“Did you see how calloused poor Drusilla’s palms are?” Emily asked when they were out of earshot.
“I did. I can’t imagine how painful the blisters must’ve been when she first began the churning detail. At least with calluses, there’s no pain anymore.”
They rounded the corner of the keep and saw Richard speaking with an attractive brunette who looked to be in her mid-thirties. She stood by a horse-drawn cart with thick-slatted sides. White, salty sweat colored the dark draft’s neck and flanks, but he looked well fed and his hooves trimmed and shod.
Richard said something that made the alewife laugh and she laid her hand on his arm, where it lingered for several heartbeats. If there wasn’t more to their relationship than brewer and steward, she suspected the lady would like there to be.
A small boy about eight used both hands to carry a bucket of water to the cart’s horse. Richard ruffled his straw-colored hair as the boy passed.
The sisters stayed back not wanting to interrupt a private discussion. “I wonder if she’s married. Do you see a ring?” Emily asked. “I peg him for about forty and she’s about the right age to hookup with him.”
“I learned in a class on culinary terminology that alewife referred to the profession and not an indicator of marital status. I don’t see a ring. We’ll ask Drusilla. Not that it’s our business but he’s been nice to us. I’d like to think he’s that way with others,” Electra said.
Richard waved over a group of men lingering nearby and they began unloading barrels from the woman’s cart. At the same time, he noticed the sisters and waved them over as well.
When they joined the couple, Richard introduced them. The alewife was named Julia and she wore no wedding ring. According to Richard, she was the best brewer of ale and beer in the shire. Her goods were in great demand. With so fe
w professions available to medieval women, Electra thought it interesting brewing was acceptable.
“Electra and Emily are from Greenland,” Richard added. “They are our guests temporarily. Electra it turns out is a talented cook. She prepared a delicious dinner last night and the night before.”
“How nice. Although I’m surprised Beulah’s amenable to the help,” Julia said.
Richard huffed and added, “She wasn’t happy, but she recognizes it’s undesirable to refuse my wishes.”
Julia eyed them from head to toe as Richard talked. Electra knew that look. She was sizing up her possible competition. Electra would’ve loved to put her mind at ease, but who knew exactly Richard’s intent or lack of intent thereof? If he asked, Electra would say Julia was hot for him. Then again, just because the brewer wore no ring, it didn’t mean she wasn’t married. For all Electra knew, maybe a ring or jewelry of any kind presented a safety issue. Maybe the woman had a husband built like a brick privy who’d come after Richard with fists like hams. Best not to stir the pot and let the Richard take care of his personal business on his own.
“How can I help you ladies?” Richard asked.
“We wanted to know if you’d like us to prepare the evening meal tonight?”
“I would. I think everyone in the hall would. However, speaking of Beulah, try to make peace with her. She’s been Queen of the Kitchen for a longtime. This is a big adjustment for her.”
Peace with Beulah? Sure. Maybe she could flap her arms and fly back to the twentieth century while she was at it. She’d talk to the woman in front of the other staff, so there’d be witnesses. “I’ll give it my best effort.”
As they walked back, they passed Simon coming from the barracks, heading toward the lists. Every day he put the knights through their exercises.
“Good morning, Emily...Electra.” He’d stopped walking.
“Morning to you too.” Emily went over to him and Electra followed.
“What’s on tap for the men today?” Emily asked.
“Pardon? What is the meaning of on tap?”
“Just an expression. What will you have the men practice today? I see they don’t have their mounts with them.”
“No. They won’t need to be on horseback until this afternoon. This morning it will be sword practice and hand-to-hand fighting.”
Emily reached over and squeezed his right bicep. “Your sword arm?”
He nodded. The ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. He glanced at Electra and it disappeared.
Electra reached over and squeezed his left bicep. “What strong arms you have,” she said, mustering as close to a Red Riding Hood voice as she could.
A brow quirked up. “You’re toying with me.”
“Yep.”
“Don’t mind her,” Emily told him. “Did you enjoy dinner last night?”
“Of course he did. He had three pasties,” Electra jumped in before he could answer.
“It was acceptable fare. I ate three, yes...” his gaze flicked over to Emily. “...but then, I’m a man of strong appetites.”
The heat in his eyes looking at her sister brought heat to Electra’s cheeks. “We are still talking about food, aren’t we?” she asked.
Emily ignored Electra. “We’re cooking again tonight.”
“I look forward to dinner then. I must go now.” Simon turned and hobbled off at a pretty good clip for a man with a crutch.
“You can be such an ass,” Emily said, taking off ahead of Electra.
“I pride myself on it.”
Drusilla hadn’t moved from her churn. Emily stopped next to her and asked, “Is the alewife married?”
Electra waited by the kitchen door to hear the answer.
Drusilla continued to work the butter and said, “No.”
“Widowed?”
“No. The boy who watered the horse is her son. He was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Her father knew no man would marry her with a bastard son in tow. He taught her brewing so she’d make a living.”
It explained why no one in the bailey offered her a greeting. Electra wondered if Richard shared their prejudice. He acted friendly toward Julia, hopefully his attitude was genuine. Electra wanted to think so.
“Thank you,” Emily said.
Inside the kitchen, Beulah toiled over a large kettle that smelled like fish stew. The always enticing scent of baking bread filled the rest of the room. If pressed, Electra doubted a more inviting smell existed.
“May I?” Electra asked and grabbed a spoon.
Beulah straightened. “If it pleases you.”
Electra wiped the spoon with a clean linen towel that was folded on the counter and then dipped into the stew. The stew was the blandest she ever tasted.
“Beulah, can we talk?” she asked, putting the spoon down, which Emily picked up and dipped into the kettle too.
“If you wish,” Beulah said. Her bored tone said, I’m humoring you because I was ordered to.
“Why don’t you use all the spices you have in the cupboard? You have a marvelous selection.” Electra meant it. She never expected a medieval kitchen to be so well supplied. She’d pulled each tin container down the first night and tasted what was in them and then labeled the outside. The kitchen servants didn’t read and asked what it was she wrote.
Beulah didn’t answer.
“I’ve tasted all the spices in your store. There’s an impressive selection. You’ve got cinnamon, cloves, mace, pepper, salt, and saffron to name but a few. Why aren’t you using them?”
“The men don’t care for a mash-up of flavors.”
Electra took another spoonful of the stew, making sure she got a chunk of fish with it. She tasted the sample but couldn’t identify the fish. “What kind of fish is this?”
“Haddock,” Beulah said and took a spoonful to taste. “I find nothing objectionable in the stew.”
Electra couldn’t tell if she was a lousy cook or just plain lazy or both. “Is there enough haddock for the evening meal?” She had a plan in mind.
“Yes.”
“Good. Put it aside for me. You serve your stew for the midday meal as planned. I will serve my fish dish this evening. Let’s see which the men like better.”
Beulah stuck her pointed chin out. “Good. Let us see who bests the other.”
“I look forward to it.”
Behind Beulah the staff huddled together, whispering. She waved her hand to break up the cluster and ordered them back to work. She kept her back to Electra and went back to her chores.
Electra pulled Emily outside but away from where Drusilla continued churning. “Go ask your boyfriend, Simon, if he has a squire or other lad to spare. Tell him about the challenge and that I need someone to keep watch on the kitchen staff so there’s no tampering.”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Just go.”
Electra maintained an eye on the kitchen while she waited. Emily returned a few minutes later with a squire who didn’t look at all happy to have been taken from more manly duties. Electra explained what she wanted him to do. She asked if he had someone to relieve him for a time every hour or so and he said yes. She still planned to check on him herself.
“Let me inventory the spice cupboard one more time,” she told Emily. One by one, Electra first sniffed, then wet the pad of her little finger, dabbed it into the powders and tasted each. Beulah and her allies had all night and early this morning to fiddle with the spice boxes.
“What are you going to make?”
“I know a whitefish recipe that’s cooked in a broth with red wine, cloves, pepper, and at the end a blend of currants and saffron. For a side, I’m making leeks simmered in white wine, oil, and salt. I’ll add something green as well.”
“You’re bound to win,” Emily said and helped put the spices in alphabetical order. “I didn’t taste the stew, but it smells like bland fish. It’ll definitely need something to punch up the flavor.”
Finished, Elect
ra emphasized how important it was for the squire to not get distracted and keep a close eye on the activity. He said he understood and wouldn’t leave until his replacement arrived.
“Thank you. Let’s see what’s available in the garden,” she said to Emily and headed that way. Before they reached the gate, Richard called out and they waited for him.
“I heard of your challenge,” he said, joining them.
“How did you hear already?” As soon as the words were out, she knew. “Simon told you.”
“As steward, it is my job to know everything of interest and everything not so interesting that goes on in the castle. I don’t know how much you know about castle life, but allow me to forewarn you, in case you’re here longer than planned. There are no secrets in castles. No matter how discreet a person is, whatever they’re doing or thinking of doing, will be found out. In this castle, it eventually circles back to me.” He smiled, a cat-burping-feathers smile.
“We’ll take your advice to heart. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, returning to my original reason for stopping you. We have a very special guest tonight, nearly as important as the king.”
Electra mentally ran through the list of possibilities. It could be the queen. King Edward had quite a few children. She had no idea who were the big cheeses among his advisors.
“Who’s coming?” she asked.
“Edward of Woodstock.”
The Black Prince. She waffled between being thrilled to meet such a famous historical figure and nervousness she’d disappoint him with her meal. She did a rapid inventory in her head of other dishes to prepare instead of the haddock, not sure it was good enough. Every chef she knew drank. It was because of moments like this when a celebrity chef was visiting or a Michelin judge was coming, or in this case, a prince of the realm. She’d love to suck down a goblet or two or three.
“Thank you for telling me. I’m gobsmacked. I can only hope he is pleased with my presentation.”
“I should warn you. The king’s physicians have the prince on the plainest of diets. They insist he eat the most boring meals.” Richard looked around to make certain no one was near. “It is whispered he has a delicate stomach.”
In Time for You Page 10
