Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance)

by Diane Darcy

  A garderobe, or medieval toilet, was built into the external wall and she hoped she’d be out of there before she had to make use of it. A fireplace, built into what looked like a former window embrasure, made her think someone had actually lived up here at one time. She looked out a small window to see a high stone wall surrounding the tower, no doubt for keeping cattle safe from marauders at night.

  But it was the stuff heaped around the room that made her feel she’d just discovered long-lost treasure. It was piled everywhere: Furniture made of wood, some of it carved with intricate designs, some of it broken, some of it painted in reds, golds, and greens.

  Pieces of a broken four-poster bed leaned against one wall. She spotted a couple of pallets, two stools stacked on one another, a broken bench, some chairs, chests, two wooden barrels. Even a very bad portrait of what appeared to be a middle-aged man...or a horse?

  There were three candle holders tipped over on the floor, a few swords against a wall. A small stone statue, and a big stack of deer or elk antlers. Thrown over a chest was a rug made of animal skins woven together—rabbit?

  She smiled. Wow. Just wow. Some of these discarded items were museum quality stuff. And most were likely destined for the fire come wintertime. That thought made her want to cry. Or start hiding things.

  Her path to the window was blocked by a chest with various tapestries piled on top. She considered knotting the material together to dangle out the window, but as the tower was so high, she didn’t really give the idea serious consideration. Besides, wall-hangings didn’t lend themselves to knots.

  She looked around and sighed. What she needed was to get hold of that crown again, find that scumbag Jerry, get out of there, and see her grandfather again.

  She considered searching for something to pick the lock with, reached up and touched the butterfly clips, still stuck in her hair. They were too flimsy. She glanced around, but got distracted once again by the bounty. What was the hurry? She’d probably find something useful in the search. And she could pick the lock later, maybe after everyone went to sleep. That would be a better idea anyway, in case The MacGregor came back before she left.

  That thought gave her pause. She wasn’t going anywhere. Not immediately, anyway. She wanted to see Himself again before she left. She had to. After obsessing over him these last years, to meet his gorgeous self was like a miracle, despite his cantankerous attitude.

  So, for the moment, she’d just dig through this stuff and see what else she could find.

  Thinking about nighttime, it occurred to her that she might want to find some candles, and a tinderbox, or flint and some kind of firestone. It would be pitch black in here once the sun went down, and she had no desire to sit against a wall all night, wishing she’d thought ahead.

  She looked at the pieces of the four poster, quickly realized some were missing, and that there wasn’t enough space for the bed even if she did find all the parts. She pulled one of the tapestries off the chest and gave it a shake. Dust flew everywhere, and she coughed while covering her mouth with the material from her flowing sleeve.

  She tugged another tapestry from the bottom of the pile, took it to the stairs, and unfurled it. It was the size of a small blanket and would make an excellent cover if she needed it. She shook it over the stairs and a minimal amount of dust settled downward.

  Next she pulled one of the pallets, probably stuffed with straw, out from the bottom of a pile.

  A mouse ran out and under her skirt.

  Eyes widening, she sucked in a breath, dropped the pallet, and shrieked. She lifted her skirt as she danced around, her hair flying in her face as she bent down to look at the floor, half-hoping to smash the disgusting creature with her running shoes, half-dreading the crunch of bones.

  She spotted the little bugger running around the chest by the window and quickly grabbed a stool from the junk pile and stood on it, relieved when it held her weight.

  She stood there a moment while she caught her breath. She shuddered once, then took a deep inhalation of air and tried to get hold of herself.

  Mice. Plague. Hantavirus. The Black Death.

  She quickly calculated the dates. If the year really was 1260, then The Black Death plague wouldn’t occur for another ninety years or so.

  Okay, she was okay. She shuddered again.

  But why did it have to be mice? No matter where she went, it was always mice. The dig in Egypt, they’d been swarmed with them and the workers had thought it hilarious to hide them in her tent. Over in France, mice. South America, mice. She hated the little buggers. And it seemed she ran into them with annoying frequency on her travels and dig sites.

  It could have been worse. It could have been rats like in Peru.

  She drew in another breath, and realized she was starting to get tired and hungry. She hadn’t slept in probably twenty-four hours, and that, along with everything she’d been through left her exhausted. There was nothing she could do about the hunger until they decided to feed her, but she certainly could and should take a nap. She didn’t know what MacGregor planned to do with her, but she needed to make plans of her own. She’d rest up, then strategize her escape.

  She cautiously stepped off the stool. Bunching her skirt higher, she hesitated, then tugged at the pallet again. When nothing happened, she yanked it all the way out of the pile and swung it toward the stairs. So far so good. The army of mice she’d envisioned jumping out at her never materialized and she shook the pallet over the stairs to make sure.

  She turned the pallet over a few times, listened for rodents, then made herself a bed away from the pile in a clear space on the floor...far away from the chest the mouse had bolted toward. She spread the tapestry on top, then found herself a discarded pillow and punched it a few times to rid it of dust.

  She poked through the treasure trove, but couldn’t find any candles, let alone flint, and finally gave up. She’d have to pick the lock by feel alone. She’d done it before.

  She did, however, find a crude broom, otherwise known as a medieval mouse smasher, and placed it beside the makeshift bed.

  She glared at the floor by the chest, positive the little guy was watching her from the gloom. “If you don’t bother me, I won’t bother you, either. Deal?”

  No response.

  She lay down and tried to get comfortable. She needed to escape, find the crown, locate Jerry, and get back home, but she couldn’t do any of that without some rest. She drifted off into dreamland, thinking about broad shoulders and aqua-green eyes.

  ~~~

  He’d sent for Quinn and Dugald and they were to leave at first light to locate the king. Ian locked the crown in the chest in his room, then walked with Brecken down to the village. Now that heads were calmer, he needed to find out what, if anything, was known of the woman.

  He would question her in due course. After she’d had time to regret her circumstances. After he’d had time to gather all the necessary information about her. After he’d rid himself of this craving to see her.

  He admitted that her flattering ways had affected him. No doubt that had been her intention all along—hoping he would go easy on her.

  Brecken kicked a stone out of his way, then craned his head to look back at the tower. “When do I get to see her?”

  Ian glanced over. Had his cousin read his thoughts? “After I know everything there is to know.”

  “It isna likely she’ll turn out to be a cousin come to visit.”

  Ian agreed. “So where could she have come from?”

  “Why not just ask her?”

  “Everybody lies.”

  Brecken laughed. “Not everybody. I don’t.”

  “Och, truly, then? So you’ve told your mother about Tori, have you? Let her in on your wedding plans and your reasons for pressing so hard to find a priest? I rather got the impression your mother believes your efforts are on her behalf, that because she misses the sacrament of confession, you’re doing all in your power to provide her with comfort. Am I wr
ong?”

  Brecken hung his head, his light brown hair falling forward. “You are not wrong. I am a liar. But if ye could just see your way to letting a priest visit. Once Tori is my wife, my mother will accept her.”

  When Brecken looked up, Ian simply raised a brow.

  “When Tori is wi’ child, she’ll have to, won’t she? But if we only handfast, Mum will be after me to dissolve the union. She has it in her head that a servant is not the lassie for me. No, she wants me to wed a Campbell, or even Colquhoun’s daughter, as if such a wretched marriage would somehow calm our borders and her dower will enrich the lot of us, and increase our standing.”

  He glanced at Ian, a sly tip of his head. “But wi’ you here, there’s no reason for me to do such, is there, now? You can marry a Campbell or a Colquhoun, and it’ll have naught to do wi’ me.”

  Ian shook his head. “Leave me out of your schemings. I’ll not be the recipient of your mother’s wrath because you couldna work up the courage to tell her the truth.”

  Brecken kicked another rock out of his path and sighed. “But if—”

  “Nay.”

  When they reached the village square, dusk encroached. The first matter Ian noted was the untouched pyre, the wood still in place, almost as if waiting for the witch to return so they could finish the deed.

  The villagers started to gather in the square, more coming out of their homes as word spread. Ian crossed his arms and waited for the stragglers. Brecken imitated him. After a few minutes, Ian asked, “Does anyone wish to tell me what happened here today? How did the lady come to arrive in our village?”

  When Willie took a breath, Ian held up a hand. “Not you, Willie. I’m not here to listen to any falderal, nor have I patience for it. I wish to hear from the others.” He glanced around at his clan. “Tell me what happened.”

  Willie, expression resentful, glared at his neighbors, left and right.

  Some of the others, especially the women, looked frightened. Of him, Willie, or the lass, he had no way of knowing. “Was she here to visit someone? Speak up. You willna get in trouble. You have my word.”

  No one spoke.

  Ian sighed. “Raise your hand if you witnessed the girl’s arrival.”

  A slender woman, the blacksmith’s young handfasted wife if Ian remembered correctly, raised her hand timidly. Her pretty face flushed red when he focused on her. “Aye?”

  “I...I...was in the square when she appeared.”

  “How did she arrive? From which direction? Did she say where she came from?”

  The young woman’s mouth crumpled. “Nae...I...she...appeared from...the...she...wasna there, then she was,” the lass finished with a rush. Her husband, older by at least ten years, having lost his first wife to childbirth, placed an arm around her, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

  “I’m sure you mean she came from the trees. Off the path to the lake, no doubt.”

  Still pressed against her husband, she shook her head. When the blacksmith nudged her chin gently, she lifted a fearful, tear-stained face and shook her head. “She wasna there, then she was. I saw her and her man appear, fighting like devils, as if straight from the nether world itself.” At that, she burst into sobs and was quickly enclosed in her husband’s arms.

  Ian refrained from rolling his eyes.

  Murmuring started in the crowd. “I cut my finger,” a man called.

  “’Tis the witch what caused it,” said another.

  “The longer she lives, the more trouble she’ll bring down upon us all!” Willie said.

  A man coughed. “I’ve already started to take sick.”

  “My guts have been griping.”

  “Witch.”

  “And I saw her, wi’ my own two eyes, appear right out o’ the mist.” Willie’s voice rose above the others.

  Ian was quick to insert, “There was no mist. ’Tis been sunny the whole day through.”

  “I saw what I saw.” There was no doubt in the man’s voice, but Ian had heard that kind of conviction before. In this very square. With some of these very people, including Willie.

  “Enough!”

  The crowd quieted once again.

  Ian closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing his patience to return. He dropped his hand and took a breath. “I intend to send the woman away, just as soon as I’ve all the answers I need. Now, does anyone know any truth about her?”

  No one responded.

  “Her name, where she lives, anythin’?”

  “She be a witch,” muttered someone from the back.

  Ian sighed. “Fine. Thank you for your help. You are excused.”

  He watched them disperse, some casting fearful glances over their shoulders.

  Brecken shrugged. “Mayhap she’s been sent by your enemies to kill you? ’Tis suspicious, is it not, that your food was poisoned the moment she arrived. Perhaps her man is skulking about nearby?”

  That was the second time it had been implied that the girl had a man. Ian didn’t know why, but the implication irritated him. “Take some men and search.”

  Brecken’s expression lightened. “Right you are. I willna let you down!” After a joyful smile, he took off running toward the keep.

  Ian glanced at the woodpile. He considered his enemies, and he had not a few. The Comyns and Durwards had always hated him. But then, they loathed anyone whom the king trusted or had any affection for. If they killed everyone the young king favored, there would be a multitude of bodies lying about the court. And, of course, the fact that Ian was no longer at court should be enough to have kept him safe from their schemes.

  He would suspect his father’s wife except she’d died of the fever along with his father and half-brothers last year.

  He could no longer believe ill motives of Brecken. The man didn’t have it in him. His interests were obvious, and jealousy simply didn’t fit with his character. Ever since he’d stepped in to save Ian’s life on Campbell land, he could no longer hold onto the suspicion.

  Ian considered the Fergusons. He’d thwarted their grandson’s assassination attempt on the king’s life last year. But the family had not spoken against Ian, and had been ashamed when they’d collected the body. They’d also been grateful, rightfully so, that the king had been lenient, only charging a hefty fine, and allowing them to hold their property.

  Thinking closer to hand, he truly doubted any from the village wished him dead. They might not care for him, but blood was blood and protection was protection. His death could make no difference to their lives, and if Brecken were laird, their lot might actually worsen under his immature management.

  His mother’s monument caught his eye. He studied the west side and, again, noted the completely undisturbed ground. He paced closer, but could in no way see where the woman would have dug up the crown.

  Regardless of the warm evening air, a chill ran up his back. He took a step closer, squatted, and pretended to pull a few weeds to see if the grass would lift, to see if the woman had somehow replaced the greenery so perfectly it couldn’t be marked.

  Three of the village women rushed forward and started to pull weeds around the monument.

  He tugged harder on the grass, sure it was a trick, but in the last couple of months the grass had grown so well that there was no lift to it at all.

  He bent to test other areas around the monument, and the women quickly scrambled out of his way before continuing their work.

  The hair on his neck rose. He was tempted to dig into the ground to find out if the crown was still there. He stood and brushed off his hands. Could someone have created a forgery so he would give himself away by doing exactly that?

  He quickly looked around but saw no one acting overtly suspicious. He couldn’t imagine someone creating such a perfect forgery for the purpose of tricking him. It was the crown. He was sure of it. Somehow, she’d acquired The Crown of Scotland.

  For the first time, he considered that she might truly be a witch. That somehow she
’d conjured it from its hiding place without disturbing so much as a blade of grass.

  He drew in a breath, let it out slowly, then, with a murmured thanks to the women still pulling weeds, headed toward the castle.

  He didn’t believe in witches, he reminded himself. But that woman had some explaining to do.

  Chapter Eight

  Ian looked through the iron bars, unlocked the door, and silently opened it. When a crazed witch didn’t rush down the stairs, or otherwise jump out at him, he picked up the platter and tankard from the floor, eased into the gloom, and headed up the tower steps.

  Not a witch, he reminded himself. A perfectly ordinary woman. Mayhap.

  He’d made her food himself, not trusting anyone at the moment, especially as they all believed him daft for harboring a witch. He didn’t want anyone taking matters into their own hands for the second time this day, now did he?

  When he reached the top step, he cautiously glanced around, half-expecting an attack, but the female was nowhere to be seen. He glanced toward the window and chills climbed his back as he considered mayhap she had in truth turned herself into a flying creature and escaped.

  No, she was but a woman, made of flesh and bone, the same as the rest of them. He was becoming a woman himself if he thought he could not handle a mere slip of a girl.

  The sound of a slight breath sent more chills racing up his spine and he turned a half-circle to study the tower room. The rubbish, stacked higher in some spots than others, was dark with shadow, the broken furniture and other discards seeming ominous and grim. Surely she wasn’t hiding within the cast-offs?

  He heard the noise again and looked behind a couple of chairs to find the witch, or rather, the woman, curled in an old tapestry, sound asleep.

  He let out his own breath and watched her sleep, her face becoming clearer in the gloom as his eyes adjusted. She truly didna appear as a regular female. Even in the dimness, her hair was a muted red rather than colorless as he’d expect in the shadows. Her face was certainly pretty. Her lashes long and dark against high cheekbones. She was a beauty, to be sure, though he didna like to think of her that way. In his experience, beautiful women were rarely trustworthy. And he’d liked her. Enjoyed her spunk, and certainly how she’d looked at him. Like he was a meal, and she was starving.