They crested a slight hill and he reigned the horse in. Wondering why they'd stopped, Megan craned her neck, trying to see around his broad back.
"There." He pointed, turning the horse sideways so she could see. "Perhaps someone there can help us."
In the valley below she could make out buildings, smoke rising from most of them. And people, she thought she could make out the tiny forms of people bustling around in the cold morning air below. But she saw no automobiles, no traffic lights, nothing to let her know they had returned to the world she knew.
It was as Kenric had said. Exactly like a medieval movie, a bustling village waited below.
She tried not to let her spirits sink. If she had somehow been transported back in time, there had to be a way out. Maybe in the village, somehow there would be someone who knew how she could get home.
Apparently eager to be off, the horse shied sideways. Megan tightened her grip around Kenric's waist. "If you would not hold yourself so stiffly, you would be in less danger of losing your seat." He told her.
She could have sworn he sounded amused. No doubt he would find it highly amusing were she to land on her behind in the snow. "I'll keep that in mind."
"When we reach the village, you must remember that you are a squire."
A boy. In other words, she needed to lose all trace of her femininity. Not, she glanced ruefully down at her baggy pants and too-large tunic, that she had much left. At least her hair was short. Though with Kenric's long hair, maybe that was another oddity in this time and place.
"I will remember." She told him, lifting her chin, determined to make this work. It had to work, if she had any chance at all of going home.
"Good." With an invisible command, he urged the horse forward and they plunged down the hill toward the village.
The villagers seemed to recognize Kenric. Several lifted their hands in greeting, their lined faces wreathed in smiles. Megan knew she shouldn't be surprised, obviously the man lived in the area, but part of her sort of expected the people to act as if he were some lunatic barbarian with a fondness for medieval clothes. This was the same part of her that steadfastly refused to believe she had somehow traveled back in time to the past. Of course everyone else was dressed similar to Kenric - the women in long, archaic dresses, their hair bound or flowing freely down their backs. The men looked the same too; long haired barbarians, though none seemed as big or as brawny as Kenric.
No one seemed to mind the bone-numbing cold.
Kenric slowed the horse, pausing in front of a weathered stone building with a crudely lettered sign out front. A tavern.
Ok. Megan rubbed her frozen hands together. Now they were getting somewhere. A hot rum toddy sounded wonderful.
"If your Roger has men searching for you, they will know it here." Chiseled features grim, Kenric dismounted, his cloak swirling around his broad shoulders.
When Megan made a move to follow him, he held up his hand. "Wait for me."
With a resigned sigh, she nodded. For now she thought it would be best if she didn't speak, in case her voice gave away her identity. She knew she could deepen it if she had to, but wasn't sure it would pass muster.
Watching him stroll away, she marveled at his unconscious arrogance. If Hollywood were to get a hold of him, he'd be a natural to play a King. Someone like King Arthur, perhaps.
No, Merlin, an inner voice whispered.
Stunned, Megan looked down at her hands. Magic? Now that she thought about it, there was something mystical about Kenric of Blackstone. Something magical. Something that gave him a look of authority far more powerful than brute strength alone could convey. Something that hinted of untold secrets that only the right key would unlock.
She wondered what it was, if it was only her imagination or a valid truth. She wondered if he knew it, recognized it, exploited it.
For the first time she wondered. Iff she told him the truth, would Kenric know how to send her back home?
The sky darkened, the wind picked up and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Snow swirled about them, stinging her face. Megan shivered. Something was wrong. Was it another storm on the way? Or something more, something that was as weird and off-kilter as a stranded woman from years in the future.
Stop. Her foolish imagination would lead to nothing but trouble. Still, she did not like the strange expectancy that seemed to hover in the chilled air. Even the war horse felt it, stamping his huge feet and shaking his head restlessly.
The war horse. She couldn't understand why Kenric hadn't named the beast. Leaning forward, she gathered a clump of the white colored mane between her numb fingers. The horse turned to look at her, ears cocked forward.
"I'll name you." She told it, trying to think of a suitable name. Though it was obviously male, like Kenric, the horse did not look like an ordinary horse, at least like any horse Megan had ever seen. For one thing, he was huge. As large as one of the Budweiser horses, and then some. For another, he was beautiful. Even his heavy winter coat shone with good health. His large brown eyes seemed full of intelligence and, though she had to admit it sounded silly, good humor.
For such a horse, no ordinary name would do.
If Kenric reminded her of Merlin, then this horse could be Arthur, or Gawain, or maybe Lancelot. Lancelot. Yes. She liked that.
"We can call you Lance for short." She told the beast, watching for Kenric and wondering what he would say about her choice of name for his horse.
Kenric burst through the door to the tavern, his cloak flying around him. Watching him in the few strides it took to reach her, Megan's mouth went dry. She'd never known such heart-stopping male beauty existed, outside of movies and romance novels.
When he reached her, Kenric stopped, one hand on the saddle. "No one there has heard of your Roger, nor of any search for a lost maiden." His silver gaze narrowed in speculation. "Are you certain this Roger truly searches for you?"
Megan shook her head, wondering if he could see how she trembled and praying he would attribute it to the cold. "What... what do you mean?"
Under his breath he cursed, a low and melodic sound. With an easy motion he swung himself up in front of her. "We will ride on to the next village."
He urged the horse forward, again with no discernable movement. Later, Megan meant to ask him how he did that. But for now, she thought it best to stay silent. God help her if this proud warrior were to find out she lied. Okay, not exactly lied – she’d told him the truth after all. But she hadn’t told him everything. Not by a long shot.
Roger was not looking for her. At least not in this time. No matter how hard Kenric of Blackstone searched, he would not find Roger. Heck, she didn't even want to find Roger, just a way home. Though she detested liars, she had no choice. If she was going to figure out a way home, she would need Kenric's help.
They rode for an hour without speaking. The sun came out, weak but still warming. It made the day almost bearable, and twice Megan caught herself dozing, drowsy until the stiffness of Kenric's chain mail against her chin woke her. To his credit he said nothing, just stared straight ahead with that unrelenting profile of his.
She contented herself with studying the landscape. She'd never been to Wales, to Europe at all for that matter, and she found the gently rolling hills and thick forests beautiful.
She wondered if nine-hundred years had changed the wildness of it, civilized the purple hills like it had tamed the people. At least her people. She knew nothing about the Welsh. If she got back, when she got back, she would have to do some research. She would like to find out if history contained any record of this man, this Kenric of Blackstone. At least then she could prove, if only to herself, that she hadn't lost her mind.
The weak sun did nothing to dissipate the fog near the mountains. It grew thicker the closer they got. Megan wondered how this could be. She had never seen fog with snow.
"Look." Kenric pointed to a far off hill nearly lost in the roiling mist.
Megan squinted.
She could barely make out the outline of a forbidding building, stone from the looks of it, and nearly as immense as one of Roger's office buildings in North Dallas.
"It is Blackstone Keep, the place I was raised."
She recognized the emotion in his voice, the fierce pride she saw on his handsome face. About to ask if his family still lived there, she remembered that he'd said they were all dead and closed her mouth.
Still, she had an inexplicable urge to comfort him. Megan leaned forward, placing a hand on his broad shoulder. "I think--"
"Quiet." The commanding tone in his deep voice silenced her as effectively as a gun shot. Though he did not slow the horse's progress, it seemed to Megan that every muscle in Kenric's huge body was alert.
She listened too, glancing intently around them at the shadows of trees and the insidious mist. Glancing up at the sky, she saw the weak sun had vanished entirely.
Kenric's hand went to his sword. "When I tell you, you must slide from the horse and roll into the underbrush." The command came low, in a guttural whisper, and urgent.
Megan goggled at him. "I--."
"Do you understand?"
Heart pounding, she nodded.
With the sound of steel on leather, he unsheathed his sword. It seemed to her terrified eyes to glow in the dim light.
Then she heard it, the sound of hooves pounding the earth. More than one horse pursued them, from the sound of it.
Jaw set in a grim line, Kenric spun his horse around, turning to face the threat.
"Go." He told her, giving her a small shove. "Hide."
Somehow, she did it. Slid from the horse, landed on her feet like a cat, and ran into the frozen, shadowy underbrush. Dragging air into her lungs, she crawled under a dense bush, praying some hungry animal with sharp teeth did not hide there, waiting for her. It would have been par for the course.
But the threat that Kenric faced was worse, far worse.
They burst into the clearing, three evil looking men with swords drawn, on huge war horses like Kenric's.
"Welsh." Kenric cried, this time making the word both a battle cry and a curse.
Sparks flew as sword met sword. Hooves churned snow. They pivoted, spun, charged, the huge animals unbelievably agile.
Though Kenric was outnumbered, she saw that he took care not to let them surround him. He fought fiercely, downing one man and scattering the other two. He was good. Damn good. Exactly like she would imagine someone who looked like him would be.
But how long could he continue to fight against such unfair odds?
One of the intruders noticed Kenric's sword and let out an unholy howl. Whether of pain or of fear, Megan could not tell. Though Kenric, who until now had been fighting grim faced and determined, grinned. It was the grin of a man who knows the battle is over and he has won. Seeing it, Megan felt an odd sort of wonder, and relief.
The two remaining warriors saw it also and backed away.
"Thunder." Said one, in loud voice that contained more awe than contempt.
Startled that he had spoken English, Megan crawled to the very edge of the underbrush, wanting to hear should anything else be said.
Still Kenric waited, legs spread apart, sword held ready.
The injured man on the ground moaned once, then went silent.
"We did not know." The tall man took another step back, keeping his sword lowered. "My Lord, forgive us. We thought you were another English intruder."
"I am." Pride rang in Kenric's voice.
The other man shook his head, making a sign in the air. "You are also of this land. I beg your forgiveness." He began to back away.
Something in Kenric's stance told Megan he did not like the tall man's words.
No one spoke. It was still, except for the snorting of the horses and a quiet whimper from the fallen warrior.
Finally, the tall man inclined his head. "There have been strange things happening here. Lightening during a blizzard, raw power in the air. Times are changing, the people have been restless, uneasy. Now they say powerful magic has occurred."
Glad they could not see her, Megan rolled her eyes. They were right about part of it - strange things had happened. Like her being transported nine hundred years into the past, for instance. But magic? Next they'd be calling her a witch and ordering her stoned, or drowned, or burnt at the stake. Whatever they did to so-called witches in early medieval times.
She shuddered, remembering the witchcraft trials of Salem in her own country. And Joan of Arc - wasn't that somewhere around this time? No, maybe that had been in the fourteen hundreds or something. For the first time ever, she wished she'd paid more attention to history when in college, instead of focusing on socializing. All the sororities in Texas couldn't help her now.
Unless she could perform a miracle and come up with a formula to help her pass through time.
Maybe witchcraft wasn't such a ridiculous idea after all.
Kenric spoke, drawing her attention back to the tableau in the clearing. "Take your wounded and go. I want no trouble."
"Nor us either, Kenric of Blackstone." Sheathing his sword, the tall man moved carefully to the body of his fallen comrade. The shorter, stocky man seemed frozen, undecided.
"Come on." The leader barked.
Still the other man hesitated.
"If you want to stay and fight, go ahead. But mark this, no man faces down Thunder and lives."
Puzzled, Megan frowned. Why did he speak like Kenric's sword would do the fighting for him? Did he believe it to be magical, like the King Arthur's sword in that old legend?
Whatever it was, she couldn't help but be impressed. This Kenric was brave and apparently skilled. She couldn't have found a better man to help her, despite his earlier vow to not kill. How then, she wondered, would he defend himself in a fight to the death? Would he have let them kill him, rather than take another life? And her, what of her? Would he have watched while they ran her through with one of those shiny, oh-so-sharp-looking swords? Somehow, she doubted it.
The shorter man made up his mind, hurrying over to help the injured man stand. Somehow they got him on his horse and they all took off, the hurt rider hunched low over the horse's neck.
Leaving Kenric, who looked not even winded, and his horse, Lancelot she reminded herself. Crawling out of her damp hiding place, Megan brushed snow and dead leaves off her tunic.
"That worked out well." She said to Kenric's broad back. Ignoring her, he stared off in the distance as if trying to make out the men riding away. When he turned, she was shocked to see the raw emotion on his face; whether fury or anguish she could not tell, though she suspected it was a combination of both.
"You fought them off, drove them away." She enthused, heart racing, trying desperately to pretend she noticed nothing, saw nothing. "And you didn't even have to kill to do it."
He gave a grunt, then strode to where Lancelot munched a bit of dead grass poking through the trampled snow.
"Come on." Without looking at her, he held out his hand. "We must reach the next village before nightfall. Mayhap we will find your Roger there."
CHAPTER FIVE
Once they were mounted and moving at a brisk pace through the packed snow, Kenric ignored her. She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his thick cloak, glad of the warmth. The landscape all seemed the same, more rolling hills, mist, trees, and of course, snow.
Finally, Megan decided to give in to her curiosity. "Why did they talk about your sword like it’s magical?"
His only noticeable reaction was a slight stiffening in his carriage.
"Those men, they all seemed afraid of it." She pushed bravely on.
A muscle worked in Kenric's jaw. He shook his head, telling her without speaking that he didn't want to talk about it. Typically masculine. Incredibly frustrating.
"I need to know. Seriously." Stubbornness was one of her worst faults, according to Roger. She reminded herself that Roger's opinion no longer mattered to her. "If it’s s
o dangerous that it frightens grown men into running, don't you think I should know why?"
He laughed at this, a harsh bark of sound that seemed to absorb instantly into the heavy fog.
"Some call my sword magic." He told her. "And, as I told you, its name in Welsh is another word for Thunder."
In Welsh? Though he'd mentioned the name earlier, he hadn't said the origins of it. Why would his sword have a Welsh name? He had made it plain that he despised the Welsh.
Struggling to understand, Megan nodded. "So it’s both you and your sword they’re afraid of?"
With an arrogant smile, he inclined his head once in a curt nod.
Feeling brave, Megan pushed on. "Your sword... it seemed to glow." She felt foolish even saying it, but she knew what she had seen.
The only sound was the muffled sound of Lancelot's hoofbeats and the fierce pounding of her heart. She swallowed, waited, but as they skirted the trees and rode down another slope, then straight up yet another, she realized Kenric had no intention of answering this particular question.
"I saw it." She lifted her chin, leaning around his right to try and peer up into the harsh plains of his face. "It
glowed, with a faintly silver light."
Now was the time for him to tell her she was crazy, that the head injury he suspected of happening had addled her brains.
"Some call it magic." He repeated instead, dragging the words out in a way that forbade any further questions. His expression might have been carved out of stone.
Megan knew enough to quit while she was ahead. Normally, she wouldn't have believed him, or believed in his vague explanation of magic. Magic was tricks and mirrors, illusions and smoke. But something, some force, had sent her to this place, to this time, and if it wasn't magic then she didn't know what else it could be.
The wind picked up again, frozen gusts of it blowing snow flurries and the cold, wet fog in swirling eddies around them. Despite herself, Megan shivered. Would she never be warm again?
Kenric felt it. "Wrap the cloak tight around you."
Powerful Magic Page 6
