In Time for You

by Chris Karlsen

  Oliver laid a fatherly hand on his arm. “I know what you’re thinking, but I wouldn’t risk it. Most folk would be too tempted by the possibility of reward for turning you in than in hiding you.”

  Sadly, Oliver was right again. “Any other ideas?”

  “Funny how that question keeps coming up and the answer has always been for us to muddle through.”

  “That was then. We’ve come this far. I won’t go away without her, even if it kills me,” Roger said and thought there was a better chance of that happening than his rescuing Electra.

  “What I’m trying to say and failing to is—I believe, somehow, we’ll figure a way to save her without making a cock up of everything. You need to believe it as well.”

  Roger suddenly found himself in a bear hug. The top of Oliver’s head only reached Roger’s nose, but the older man had him in a firm hold.

  “You’re like my second son. I won’t let you contemplate failure,” Oliver said and gave Roger a couple hard pats on the back.

  “Thank you, Oliver. I appreciate your faith in me.” On one hand, Roger was truly appreciative of Oliver’s belief, and on the other hand, he worried it was wasted.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Elysian Fields

  Emily stopped at the entrance to the great hall. Her heart sank. For the second night since they made love, Simon wasn’t at the table. He’d missed not just that first night but the morning and midday meals today as well. Harold Quarles sat where Simon usually did.

  She’d wrongly thought things would be different in this time. She thought Simon was different than most every other man she’d dated over the years. He didn’t need the admiration of the tavern whores. His talk of love was just that-idle talk. He only needed to get laid. Apparently, he didn’t need her sympathy or affection either. He hadn’t even pursued getting laid, she foisted herself on him.

  I’m a fool.

  Richard saw her in the archway and waved her over. “Come Emily, they’re about to start serving.”

  She sat next to Harold who finished pouring a goblet of wine and then filled hers. Harold—was as big a rake as he was handsome. He slid her wine over and then startled her by leaning close, bringing his hand up to her face.

  Emily froze certain he intended to make some kind of bold move, like stroking her cheek, or running a finger over her lips, which she’d seen him do to one of the maids. Or worse, what if he landed a big, fat kiss on her in front of the whole room?

  Thinking to block him, she raised her hand a fraction too late. He’d already had his hand on her.

  “Hold still. You’ve a fleck of white dust on your eyelash,” he said and plucked it off. “There.” He gave her the killer smile she’d seen him give numerous ladies.

  A servant girl brought a basket of warm bread and set it on the table in front of him.

  “Simon has told me a lot about you,” he said and broke off a chunk of bread, handing it to her.

  What did that mean? Had he told every man in the barracks what they did? Of course. Why else would a rake like Harold swoop in all of a sudden and sit in the spot next to hers? He probably planned to hit on her...the newly revealed tart. “Like what? What did he tell you?”

  “Have a care. Your bread is falling to the floor. Why are you ripping it so?”

  “Oh, sorry.” She brushed a lap full of crumbs to the floor where the hounds had gathered in expectation. “So, um, what did he say?”

  Harold handed her another chunk of bread. “He said your homeland—Greenland isn’t it?” She nodded. “He said it sounds very much like here. That seems odd to me when I see how strange visitors from some other countries appear to me.”

  “I’m not sure how to take your comment. But no matter. The truth is we are remarkably similar in habit and culture and physical appearance.”

  He eyed her. A quick head to toe sizing up. “I will say that you and your sister are fine looking women, not rare beauties, but fine enough.”

  How the devil did he manage to convince the ladies he possessed any sort of charm? “Fine enough? Seriously? You speak like the majority of men here are walking oil paintings. Take a look around this room. Because if you think that, then I’m telling Simon you’re eating some kind of weird plant that’s made you delusional.”

  “On the contrary, I agree with you. Most in this room are not terribly pleasing to look upon. I include myself in that judgment. I am not without need of modest improvement. My point is women need beauty more than men.”

  This is where, under normal circumstances, in her true time, she’d give Harold a verbal smackdown and leave. She knew better than to ask because he’d no doubt respond with an answer that would set her teeth on edge. Even as her head was telling her to shut up, she blurted, “Why is that?”

  She caught him midway to taking a sip of wine. He swallowed and said, “Isn’t it obvious?” He gave her a genuine look of pity, then took another swallow of wine and put the goblet down. “Women need to marry and men don’t. Women require a man’s protection, his better sense to guide her into making, if not the right choices, certainly better ones. Women suffer from flawed logic. ‘Tis common knowledge.”

  Three times she opened her mouth to blast the idiot for being a stupid misogynist whose ignorance was only exceeded by his arrogance. No. Words weren’t enough. She wanted to beat him about the head and shoulders. Maybe then he’d see how strong a woman could be. It took every ounce of restraint she had within her, but she kept her mouth in check. “Thank you for enlightening me.”

  “You’re welcome. Male logic, as you see, best serves everyone.”

  “Dickhead,” she muttered into her goblet.

  “Pardon?”

  “Where’s Simon been the last two nights?”

  “He left the castle, but I don’t know where to.”

  Emily tipped forward so Richard could see her around Harold. “Richard, do you know where Simon went?”

  “Gloucester.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Personal business of some kind. I didn’t ask.”

  Emily glanced up and caught Cedric and another knight staring at her. Why the new interest in her? Why else? They thought she was a tart too. Bloody hell. “Why are Cedric and that knight watching me?” she asked Harold. “The truth, please.”

  He glanced over to Cedric’s table and then looked over his shoulder. “They’re not watching you. Drusilla is passing behind us with more baskets of bread. Cedric fancies her. It’s she his eye is upon.”

  Great. Now she’d further humiliated herself and sounded like a conceited ninny. It was too much to bear. “I’ve no appetite. I’m retiring to my chamber.”

  Richard nodded goodnight. As she stood and extricated herself from the bench, she thought Harold winked at her. She couldn’t tell for sure in the candlelight, but it definitely could’ve been a wink. Or, perhaps she was hallucinating like she did with Cedric.

  She left the hall at a normal pace not wanting to attract more attention. The moment she reached the staircase, she bolted up the three flights to her bedchamber.

  Inside, she sank onto the mattress and cried, cried harder than she had in months. How could Simon do this to her? How could she have been so wrong about him? Lord knew she’d been wrong about a lot of the men in her life. But with the ones who’d hurt her, if she was honest, she’d have to admit deep down she’d always had an inkling they weren’t good guys. She chose not to listen to that tiny warning voice. That was on her.

  The voice had been silent with Simon. Maybe she’d fashion an upside to this failure of judgment. There’s a whole new line of work for her to do on the side...jerk-off, jackass detector. Follow me ladies, observe. Any man you see me flirting with, give a wide berth, because that is the sign of a jackass.

  Thankfully, the maid had left a fresh flagon of wine. A small pleasantry that jerk-off Simon had arranged for her. She poured a goblet of self-pity and chugged half in two gulps when someone knocked. She grabbed the linen drying
sheet and wiped her face and nose then opened the door.

  “Simon.”

  Before she could say, what the hell do you want, he asked, “You’ve been crying. What is wrong?” He pushed past her and shouldered the door closed.

  I was mentally accusing and hanging you for being the worst sort of bounder. All the evidence against you springing from my warped imagination alone. “Nothing. I was just missing Electra.”

  He nodded his understanding. “I brought you something,” he said and handed her a fleece-wrapped object.

  “What is it?”

  “See for yourself.”

  She unwrapped the object, tossing the fleecy square onto the bed. He’d brought her a wooden box with a hummingbird carved on the lid.

  “I’ve had this box for some time, this is where I kept little bits and bobs. I thought you might like it but not as it was, plain. I took it to a woodcarver in Gloucester and he did the hummingbird for me. Open it.”

  “This is so beautiful,” she said, lifting the lid. Inside were ribbons of silk and velvet. She fingered through them. There were elegant velvet ones in sapphire blue, emerald green, and scarlet. Under those were silk ones in cornflower blue, bottle green, and sunflower yellow.

  “I saw them in the Gloucester market and thought they’d be pretty in your hair.” He bent and kissed her softly. While his lips were still light on hers, he said, “I tried to find one to match your lovely hair but none came close.” He took a small step back. “I hoped you’d be pleased.”

  If shame could kill, she’d have died then and there. All the horrible things she attributed to Simon were unforgiveable. At least she hadn’t said anything to Richard or Harold. She’d have to leave, go live the woods like hermit, if she’d been that mean and stupid.

  “They’re so beautiful, the ribbons, the box, I can’t believe you did this for me.” Box in hand, she hugged him with all her strength, kissing his ear, his neck, even his hair. She started to cry again.

  “You’re weeping. Why?” he asked, still in her arms but leaning back to look at her.

  Because the day may come when I must leave you, and if I can’t convince you to come with me, then I’ll break both our hearts.

  “Emily?”

  “Just because.” She faked a guiltless smile. “It’s a silly thing we women sometimes do when we’re happy.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Conwy, Wales

  Roger and Oliver spent the day watching the castle from a nearby hill. They had a good view of the barbican and road into the town, but only had a limited view of one corner of the bailey with little chance of getting a glimpse of Electra there. If she was still at Conwy, sooner or later she’d go into the town or so Roger hoped. That’s if the prince trusted her outside the castle walls.

  Typical castle sounds traveled to where they were. The voices of knights laughing or calling out to squires. The constant hammering of the blacksmith was accompanied by the barking of the hounds freed from the confines of the kennels. The occasional woman’s voice had Roger scrambling to the top of a tree stump. The stump gave him a slightly better visual of the courtyard, but he was desperate for any bit of help. The women’s voices were those of strangers, but he thought they might be kitchen staff and might bring Electra out. By nightfall they hadn’t spotted her. All the traffic in and out was tradesmen coming and going.

  “I’ve an idea,” Roger said, seeing the last delivery cart, a beer wagon, leaving. “If we don’t see her by tomorrow evening, we will approach one of these merchants and offer to help. I can’t see any other way to let her know we’re here. The prince’s men have the castle buttoned up tight. I’ve looked and looked but can’t see any weak spots to even attempt to sneak inside.”

  “I told you this was one of the strongest fortresses built.” Oliver stretched his arms up high and then bent, touching his toes with his fingertips. “My back is killing me. Between the dirt floor of the dungeon and sleeping on the ground now, it’s a pisser. Aren’t you in agony?”

  “Some. But remember I have spent months at a time sleeping on the ground. Every time your army invaded France, I left the comfort of my home to campaign with the King. He and the higher-ranking nobles advising John slept in tents, but most of us slept outside. It never grew easier.”

  Oliver grunted and sat with his back against the stump for support. “As for your idea, how do we convince a tradesman to let us help? Most don’t have money to pay for workers.”

  “We offer to work for meals, which is handy considering we’ve little money for food. They have homes and wives. We ask them to spare us a bowl of whatever they have, and if possible, a spot in their barn loft to sleep at night. That should relieve your back of some pain. At least you’ll have a bed of hay.”

  “Who do you wish to approach first?”

  “The brewer. The one who delivered the barrels today had a rough time. From what I could see and the way he moved, he’s not young. It looks like his strength isn’t what it used to be. I’ll bet I’ve ten, maybe fifteen years on him, not to mention I’m sure I’m inches taller and know I weigh more.” Roger gestured palm out and laughed. “You, on the other hand, will be a tougher sell.”

  “I can’t help the hair. I went grey in my twenties.”

  “Your beard and brows as well?” Roger dodged the stone Oliver threw.

  Oliver rose and sat on a boulder a short distance away, his gaze fixed on the water. Roger learned early on his friend would find a place to be alone when he needed to quietly think things through. After a long minute he said, “I’ll be fine not speaking Welsh. Because of the King’s garrison here, most of the townsfolk speak English, but what if the brewer speaks to you? I’ve heard you try to fake an English accent. Dreadful.”

  “I have no illusions,” Roger said, going to Oliver. “I wouldn’t try to converse with anyone. We’ll tell people I’m a deaf mute. It has a two-fold benefit. I won’t have to talk and they’ll speak freely around me. I won’t understand the locals, but I’ll know what the English speakers are saying. I might hear something useful about Electra.”

  “Why not? We’ve no other options at the moment.”

  Roger didn’t try to discuss what he’d do if he saw Electra and she saw him. It’s not like he could talk to her if everyone thought him a mute. Unless something came to him, he’d rely on her cleverness to let him know where they could meet.

  “I’m starved. Let’s find a tavern and eat.” Roger gave Oliver a hand up. “What was that stew Annie gave us? She had a name for it.”

  “Cawl.”

  “Spell it.”

  “C-A-W-L. My mum used to call stew like that kitchen sink stew. She said you put anything you have on hand in it. All but the kitchen sink.”

  “Tasty dish. Filling. I could go for more.”

  “Every tavern here will serve it. Is there enough coin to stay at a tavern or inn tonight?”

  Such cheer in Oliver’s voice, like he believed if he said it in a lighthearted way, the answer would be what he wanted to hear. Roger hated raining on the man’s parade. “Until we find work, you have to choose between your back or your belly.”

  “Bloody hell. When...if we get home, I’m going to buy the most expensive memory foam mattress around, a king-sized one. I’m going roll, and roll, and to roll on it like a pig in poop. I’m not leaving it for a week. There’s a lovely divorced secretary who works in the university’s administrative office. I’ll do my best to charm her into bringing me meals and drink. If she’s amenable, perhaps a massage every day I’m abed.”

  “What kind of massage? An—oh-my-aching-muscles one or the happy ending kind?”

  “I’ll play it by ear.”

  ****

  As they approached the brewer, Roger’s physical assessment of the man from a distance turned out dead accurate. Probably in his mid-fifties, old for the time, his weathered face showed his age. Deep creases scored his forehead and the corners of his mouth, lines fanned out from his eyes to his temple. T
hin with a pot belly and stoop-shouldered from hard labor, in his youth the short, man might’ve been broad-chested with powerful arms.

  Oliver and Roger had waited for the man outside a tavern within the walled town. They’d walked the protected area before they did and noted the tavern and inn locations where he might make deliveries after he finished at the castle. They saw no other beer wagons, which, if they guessed right, meant the brewer was the only one who served the local people. Roger thought that worked in their favor. If true, based on his observation of the man’s struggle with his heavy barrels, he’d welcome two able-bodied men.

  “Hello. I’m Oliver Gordon and my friend here is, Roger Marchand,” Oliver said, introducing themselves to the brewer.

  Wet coughing interrupted the man’s response to Oliver. The hacking slowed enough to give the man a chance to loudly clear his throat and spit in Roger’s direction. Roger managed to sidestep out of the green slime’s line of fire. If he wasn’t on a desperate quest and didn’t need the man’s help, he’d knock the disgusting brewer on his butt. It didn’t matter whether the man had intended to strike him with the wet wad or not.

  After a couple more wet coughs, the brewer said, “Why do I care who you are?”

  “My friend and I thought you could use another strong set of arms. As you can see, Roger is powerfully built and younger than you.”

  The man eyed Roger’s upper body then turned his attention back to Oliver and eyed him up and down. “That one is as you say.” He tipped his head toward Roger. “But you’re not one I’d call strapping. What am I supposed to do with you?”

  “I’m not as strong as Roger here, but you and I working together are.”

  The brewer’s gaze bounced between the two of them and he snorted a revolting snot bubble that drew Roger’s reluctant focus for the fraction of a second before it popped.

  “Best move along. I’ve no coin for paid labor.” He turned his back to Roger and Oliver and checked the tightness of the rope across the wagon’s gate.