Made sense. What royal court anywhere didn’t have its fair share of court vultures waiting to swoop down and take advantage?
“I do need some additional supplies. I’d like to go into the abbey first and light a candle,” Electra said.
“Does Greenland follow the dictates of Rome?”
“No. There’s just someone I wish to ask protection for.”
The Prince offered a knowing smile. “There is someone you love you left behind. A man, yes?”
She nodded.
“Does this man love you as well?”
“I like to think he did.”
“Then, why did you and your sister leave? Why are you not married?”
“I believe he was close to asking, but he hadn’t done so yet.”
The Prince looked puzzled. She ran through a list of possible answers that would make sense to a man of this time, a time when women simply didn’t act on their own often. He’d think her silly but she said the best reason she had. “Emily and I thought to have one last adventure before I settled down to marriage and a family.”
It occurred to her for the ten-thousandth time, that had she not gone to gather stupid wildflowers, she might be engaged by now and safely ensconced in the world she knew.
“Sounds like a strange thing for ladies to do. Borderline foolish and certainly dangerous. A theory borne out by your presence here, lost in what is a foreign land.”
An accurate depiction she didn’t appreciate hearing as her arrival didn’t result from a silly lark on her part.
He leaned in closer to her and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. Her heart shifted into warp speed. Don’t was on the tip of her tongue. If she was a medieval lady of the court and not in love, she’d be thrilled with a Prince’s touch. However, she was a modern commoner and in love with someone else. Even were the last not true, she didn’t need to compound the potential damage she’d already created with the Butterfly Effect.
Edward’s fingers lingered on her cheek. “Are you intimate?”
“I have no intention of answering that, Your Highness. It’s not very chivalrous of you to ask.”
“You have answered.” He swept his fingers down her cheek along her jaw and up her other cheek. “Do you miss a man’s touch?”
“I miss his touch.”
The Prince dropped his hand and drew back. “He’s a fortunate man.”
He kept his deep blue eyes focused on her, his face a blank canvas except for those shrewd eyes. What was he thinking? Did she really want to know? No. It was likely something troubling or scary and she was full up on both.
“If we cannot find a way to return you to your homeland, you should marry. You need a man to protect you.”
Where was he going with this? She sat dumbstruck and the Prince continued, “Two of my men would suit well.” He pointed to the two stopped ahead, talking together. “The man on the left is Percival. The one on the right is Horatio. Both are superior knights and would make fine husbands. You’ll get many children out of them.”
“I...I...” Good Lord, she couldn’t form a response. None of the history books ever mentioned the Black Prince was a matchmaking prince. Electra suspected this might be a first for him. An honor she’d never have sought.
“A cook could do much worse,” he added in a matter-of-fact tone.
His choices were nice, if she was anybody else. Percival looked in his late 20’s and Horatio looked about mid 30’s. Both were attractive. They weren’t her type, but they weren’t gargoyles either. She’d describe them as armored bookends. Each had brown hair and eyes and were similar in height with close-cut beards. The biggest difference was Horatio had a plump face with bright apple cheeks and Percival’s face was longer and his complexion darker.
“I can’t marry. I’m in love with someone else,” she said, finding her voice.
“I understand. That man is not here and your hopes may never come about. My suggestion is an alternative. No need to make a decision right away,” the Prince said. “Think about your future.”
“I’d like to light that candle now,” Electra said, feeling the whir of a thousand butterflies buzzing in her stomach as Percival looked her way.
“Why do you participate in a ritual not of your faith?”
“I take hope where I find it.”
A moment passed in silence. It worried her.
“I wonder, Lady Electra, how it is you know about lighting a candle for a special need when your land does not follow Rome?”
“Um...travelers. Visitors to my country from Europe.” Note to self: don’t offer an answer unless you can explain it.
He nodded and then waved two knights forward. “The Lady Electra wishes some private time in the church. Wait for her. When she’s done, escort her as she goes about her business.” He turned to her. “Don’t go anywhere out of my men’s sight.”
“I won’t.”
She entered the abbey and was briefly taken aback by the lack of chairs or pews. She’d forgotten that worshipers in this time period stood during mass. A votive candle rack was set before a statue of Jesus and one before the Virgin Mary. She lit a taper in front of each, one for Roger and one for Emily. She kept her requests short. She considered lighting one for herself but changed her mind, afraid of looking pushy.
Behind her someone coughed. Turning, she saw it was Horatio observing from the entry along with Percival. “Another minute, please.”
The knight signaled his approval with an open-handed gesture.
Electra pushed the marriage conversation from the forefront of her mind. She had to fix her thoughts someplace safe. She turned her attention to the windows. She enjoyed crafts. In the last few years, she’d taken classes at the local nursery, learning to make wind chimes and sun catchers. She took a pottery class with lopsided, ugly results. She’d also taken a stained glass class and loved it. Each of her sisters and her parents received a small window for Christmas that year. She made two that hung in front of her drawing room windows. One a floral design and the other a whimsical red squirrel with an acorn.
She strolled to the abbey’s stained glass windows and studied the colors and techniques and remarkable patience involved in their creation.
One displayed four famous men of the period. She recognized the names of only two. The window she admired most was of King Solomon and the four prophets. The King David window with four prophets was brilliant but the colors in the Solomon were more vibrant. Vibrant blues, greens, and ochre’s, always drew her eye.
The Last Judgment and Coronation of the Virgin were depicted in the Rose Window. She didn’t care for it. Guilt over her lack of appreciation or reverence for the piece escaped her.
Another cough interrupted her wanderings. “The merchants and peddlers await you, milady. They’ve been told of our arrival,” Horatio said.
“Thank you. I’m ready to go.”
Outside, Percival pulled a coin from a pouch on his baldric and placed it in the palm of a blind beggar who’d approached them. The beggar reminded Electra of Stephen, Esme’s blind husband. Thankfully, he lived in an enlightened time where he needn’t beg.
“I didn’t ask the Prince, but am I to cook for the rest of our party tonight?”
Horatio shook his head. “No, we are on our own this night. Percy and I are to escort you to a quality tavern we know of here, where we’ll sup. The innkeeper has made a room available for you to stay.”
A woman alone, in a strange inn, above a tavern? Electra didn’t like the sound of that. “You’re leaving me alone in this place?”
“No, milady. That would be very unworthy. Percy and I will sleep outside your door all night.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it. Sorry you have to sleep on the floor and babysit me.”
Horatio and Percy tipped their heads like a big puppeteer in the sky controlled them with the same string. “Pardon? What do you mean babysit?” Horatio asked.
“Nothing. It’s a funny expression we use in Gr
eenland.”
“We are yours to direct. Where to first?”
“The markets then the tavern.” She wasn’t much of a beer drinker, preferring wine or scotch, but tonight she’d down whatever the tavern had. She’d never needed a drink more.
Chapter Fifteen
Elysian Fields
Emily tried not to dwell too much on Electra’s absence. Fixating on it didn’t change things. She couldn’t help wondering where she was in her journey or how the Prince was treating her. Would he be the gentleman Simon and Richard claimed? At least with the craziness the rip in time brought, they had each other. Without Electra, she was like Alice down the rabbit hole.
A warm breeze filled the chamber with contrasting smells. The sweet scent from the nearby apple orchards was undercut by the smell of a cart of stable manure sitting unattended in the bailey. Unfortunately for Emily, the driver had parked the cart beneath her chamber window. The sun baking the animal leavings made the odor even worse. She stepped from the window and changed from the soft booties she wore into a sturdier ankle boot with hard sole. Time to take a walk in the fresh air by the river.
The main path down to the Severn was a stone’s throw from the kitchen door and next to the castle’s vegetable garden. As she cut through the garden, Emily pinched off some parsley buds to munch on her way. The dirt path had grown hard packed from all the deliverymen coming from the river. If she wore jeans or anything other than the long, heavy gown, maneuvering down the hill would be easy. The skirt caught on protruding large rocks and the branches of the wild shrubs that bordered the path. When the skirt wasn’t catching, it twisted around her legs nearly tripping her more than once. Out of desperation, she gathered the skirt into the crook of her arm. To hell with propriety. If there were men on the river who saw her, then so be it. It was better than tumbling down to the riverbank. There was one man fishing on the bank when she reached the bottom. Simon.
How casual he looked without the trappings of a knight. So normal. “Simon.”
He turned and waved. She waved back and headed toward him.
Simon, even at dinner, wore crisp tunics or a surcoat over loose hose. Emily assumed he wore his hose looser so it was easier to tie the one leg up rather than let it hang. But, he also always had some piece of armor showing: mail on his arms or feet, or gauntlet gloves draped over his baldric. But not today. Today he had baggy chausses with one leg still tied up, a loose tunic with simple belt, and not one piece of mail or armor.
His eyes lingered on her legs. It was only for a fraction of a moment but long enough for her to notice. “You should cover yourself, Lady Emily. It’s most improper to display your legs thusly,” he told her, frowning.
“Don’t pretend to be in a huff. I’m sure you’ve seen a lady’s legs and ankles before.” She made no effort to lower her skirt just to see what he’d do.
“I am not the subject here.” He pulled his line out of the water. “Hold this.” He handed her his fishing rod. As soon as she took it, he tugged her skirt from her arm so it dropped down. “What I have or have not seen is not important. I am not the only man on the river.”
“Fine. Whatever.” She handed him back his rod. “You’re doing pretty good,” she said, peering into a bucket of fish by his feet. “My dad likes to fish. He says it relaxes him.”
“It does me as well and Beulah can always use the extra food.” Simon drew back and cast his line into the river again.
“I’d try, but the idea of handling worms grosses me out.”
“What does grosses me out mean?”
She kept forgetting the fact everyday modern slang escaped understanding here. “They’re slimy. I don’t like touching them.”
“Do you want to try?”
“Yes and no. I wouldn’t mind, but I still don’t want to fiddle with worms.”
He pulled his line out and lay his rod on the ground. “I have a lure you’ll find acceptable,” he said and dug into a pouch tied to his belt. “That boat,” Simon nodded toward a wooden rowboat sitting on the bank. “belongs to the castle. There should be another pole in it. Would you fetch it for me, please?”
Emily brought it over. In Simon’s hand, he held a lure made up of the brightly colored portions of two peacock feathers. The shafts were tied with twine and covered with wax to secure the string.
“I’ve caught my fair share of trout with feathers,” Simon said. “Attach the hook just so.” He looped the hook through the twine, which Emily knew to do, but it clearly pleased him to show her. He gave her the baited rod and moved behind her. “Now, I’ll show you how to cast your line. If you don’t do it right, you might snarl the hooked line on your skirts.”
He wrapped his arms around her. His left arm lay against her left. With his right, he guided her arm back. Then pressing his chest to her spine, he guided her arm forward to cast the line into the water.
The lure landed several yards out and floated along the surface. Simon no longer pressed against her, but he didn’t move away either. “The fish love the colorful feathers. They wiggle like the wings of the flying insects they feast upon and so fool the fish into biting.”
When he spoke, his beard tickled the top of her ear. Like Richard, Simon kept his well-trimmed and close-cut. She turned just enough to look up at him. She hadn’t noticed before, but in the bright sun she saw how thick his eyelashes were. They were darker than his reddish brown beard and hair that had the occasional strand of gold. The stern expression he wore around the castle was gone now. He wasn’t what she’d call handsome but he had a rugged, masculine look that could compete with any leading man she could think of.
“Thank you for helping me. Let’s see if they bite for me.”
They didn’t wait long before a fish snapped onto the hook. “Flick the line out,” Simon said, helping her put a snap in her wrist.
As she did, Simon moved next to her, smiling when she brought the fish within reach. She held tight to the squirming trout and removed the hook. She couldn’t bear how its mouth opened and shut rapidly in its struggle for air or how the eye locked on her. She threw it back into the water as hard and far as she could.
“What are you doing?” Simon asked, gawking at the spot the fish plopped down.
“Catch and release.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“It’s an act of kindness. I wanted to enjoy the relaxation of fishing, but I don’t want to hurt the fish.”
“You’re mad. Do you not eat fish in your land?”
“Yes.”
“How, unless a woeful fish surrenders to you and lays down upon your table? I do not understand how this ‘catch and release’ business works in your country but here in England we practice catch and eat.” He stared out at the return spot, looking dismayed. Emily wasn’t certain if he felt dismay at the loss of the trout or at the possibility she was touched with madness.
“Let me try again,” she said.
“And if you get a fish?”
“I’ll keep it and give it to Beulah.”
He snatched the line from her and dug out another feather lure. “I should hope so.”
Simon gave her the pole and stepped behind her again. This time when he helped her send the line farther out, he stumbled backward and almost went down on his good knee.
Emily dropped the pole, turned, and grabbed a handful of shirt. “Simon.”
He managed to maintain his balance but he grimaced, gave a short grunt and pulled from her grasp. Bending, he began to vigorously rub his thigh.
“What’s wrong with your leg?”
“It’s nothing. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
That wasn’t even a mediocre lie. “Let me help.”
“No!”
“Simon—”
“I said I’d be fine and I will.” He straightened, but a blind man could see he tried to not put his full weight on the leg. Good thing his crutch was made of sturdy oak, or it would’ve broken apart from his grip.
“You n
eed to sit and rest the leg.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Simon...sit. Now. I’m not one of your scaredy-cat squires you can bully. Do what I say, or I’ll kick your bucket of fish into the river.”
“Emily, do not test me. I’m not in the mood.”
“Don’t test me.” She picked up the bucket. “I’ll do it.”
“God’s teeth! Who’d have guessed you to be such a scold?” He sat on the bank with gingerly effort, folding his undamaged leg under him. When she knelt next to him, he asked, “What do you intend?”
She tapped the knee of his good leg. “Straighten your leg.”
“Not until you tell me what you plan.”
“It won’t hurt. Your bones have muscles attached.” She squeezed his thigh. “Those on your—” she paused not wanting to say your good leg, “weight-bearing leg will tense and tighten from overuse. They may become sore because you did something that made you move in ways different than normally. Rubbing your thigh and calf when they hurt gives you temporary relief, right?”
“Yes. If you mean to rub my leg, then I must object. You can’t go about doing things like hiking your skirt high and rubbing men’s legs. It is not done. Not here.” He shook his head. “I’m baffled this type of behavior by women in your country is tolerated.”
Emily shrugged and sat back on her heels. “If you’d rather be in pain, then so be it. If you want to feel better, then let me massage your leg.”
He didn’t move, just stared at her with a tight-lipped stubborn expression. He straightened his leg as she started to stand. She sat up on her knees and fixed her skirt so it didn’t pull and she had more mobility. She worked her way down his thigh, alternating between rubbing in circles using her palm and then squeezing. He leaned back on his elbows and after a few minutes, closed his eyes. After she worked her hands over his thigh, she felt the muscles relax under the ministrations. “Your leg feels better, doesn’t it?”
In Time for You Page 16
