LADY EVER AFTER: A Medieval Time Travel Romance (Beyond Time Book 2)

by Tamara Leigh

  Walther wrenched sideways.

  The use of only one arm lost Collier the advantage, but before his opponent could draw his sword, Collier was on him again. And found a measure of satisfaction in the crack of Walther’s nose beneath his fist.

  Cursing, the mercenary retaliated with a punch to the jaw. And missed.

  Peripherally monitoring the ground below, Collier fought him along the wall-walk. Since a knight’s training emphasized the use of arms and horsemanship over hand-to-hand combat, Walther’s fists were mostly ineffective. Thus, Collier endeavored to stay near enough to prevent him from drawing his sword as he time and again sought to do.

  Just such an attempt was the mercenary’s undoing. He stumbled back, seized his sword hilt, and lost his balance.

  Collier caught hold of his belt, preventing him from plunging to the bailey.

  Mouth gaping, Walther teetered on the edge. Though the fall would not likely mean his death, grave injury could result.

  “You are leaving Strivling,” Collier said.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “My hand might slip.”

  Walther’s nostrils quivered. “I will leave.”

  “Immediately.” Collier yanked him onto firm footing, and the mercenary quickly distanced himself.

  “’Twas Lord Montagu who set me to watch over his men!” Walther proclaimed.

  “I’ll answer to him if he questions your absence. But I doubt he will.”

  “It does not end here, Gilchrist.”

  Collier would be surprised if it did. He motioned two men-at-arms forward. “Sir Rudd is departing Strivling. Accompany him to the stables to retrieve his horse.”

  As they escorted the mercenary away, Collier strode to the steps. Having observed Montagu’s soldiers these past days, he knew who would best do the job Walther thought beneath him.

  Collier called to Peter Duby, and in the time it took to apprise the lean, sparsely-bearded soldier of his new duties, Walther was mounted.

  “You have made the right decision,” Duby said as the mercenary spurred over the drawbridge. “A Yorkist Walther may claim to be, but he yet stinks of the Lancastrians.”

  Collier frowned. “He was on the side of Henry?”

  “You did not know? Aye, ere he pledged himself to King Edward.”

  “Then he turned.”

  Duby nodded. “Once he realized there was no advantage in remaining a Lancastrian. ’Tis the way of many who were once loyal to Henry. But you know that.”

  Collier did, though he hadn’t considered Walther’s roots.

  Duby squinted at horse and rider, shook his head. “I would not be surprised if next we see him across a battlefield.”

  After all the deaths Catherine had witnessed with aching heart and stubborn resolve, this one proved too much. Sitting back on her heels, she watched through spilling tears as Tilly pulled the blanket over Sara’s ruined face.

  Montagu’s physicians having taken their medicines with them, they had been able to do little to ease the girl’s suffering. For two hours, Sara had gripped Catherine’s hand and whimpered, groaned, and cried. Then of a sudden, she had spasmed on the feather-stuffed pillows from which her deathbed was made and breathed her last.

  “She is at peace, my lady.”

  Catherine looked up at Tilly. “There is no peace.”

  “Of course there is. God’s hands are gentle and loving. In them, Sara knows no more pain. She is free like a bird.”

  “She is dead!” Catherine shoved to her feet. “If not for Edward and the ungodly men who bloodied a path for him to the throne, she would live.”

  “’Twas an accident, my lady.”

  Catherine swiped at her tears. “’Twas no accident the wall required repair. Montagu did that. For Edward.”

  “Ah, my lady, such is life—”

  “Life has naught to do with it!” Catherine shouted, then caught back a sob. “Forgive me. I do not mean to be harsh.”

  The woman inclined her head, causing the lock of dark hair to spring forward. Patting it back, she said, “Mayhap you ought to lie down.”

  Before Catherine could refuse, the doors opened.

  As Gilchrist strode into the hall, he fixed his regard on the prone figure before the hearth.

  As if he cares, she silently scorned. He who raises walls against my people for his usurping king, who cares not if one dies or a thousand.

  Not until he was nearly upon her did she notice the cuts and bruises on his face, neck, and hands. Though the men who had carried Sara to the keep had said Gilchrist was near when the stone fell, they had not mentioned he had been injured.

  He halted alongside the figure beneath the blanket and stood there a long while. When he turned, the regret on his face seemed genuine. “I’m sorry, Catherine.”

  Trying to hate him, and hating that she had to try, she said, “It should have been you.”

  Collier might have morosely laughed over the truth of that were he not struck by the possibility her words were far from wishful. Though in that other past Walther had killed Catherine, was it possible the supposedly former Lancastrian had united with her to oust the Yorkists—beginning with Collier? Many were the times he had caught the mercenary watching Catherine. Though never had he seen the two speak, that did not mean they hadn’t.

  “I have sent Rudd Walther from Strivling,” he said.

  The anger in her tear-reddened eyes leapt. Anger, not dismay. Either she acted well or knew nothing of what the mercenary had planned.

  “Think you I care what you do with your men?” she demanded.

  “Don’t you?”

  “Of course not. I—” She gasped. “What say you?”

  He glanced at where her maid stood with worried brow. “Walther cut the rope that loosed the load of stone.”

  Her eyes widened. “’Twas no accident?”

  “As you said, it should have been me.”

  “You think I…” Color surged into her face. “Unlike you, Collier Gilchrist, I have no deaths on my con—”

  She caught back her words, and the fire in her eyes went out as if doused by water. Then, shoulders sagging, she turned toward the stairs.

  Collier started to follow but was stopped by Tilly who stepped alongside him. “Sara was a favorite of hers, sire. She must needs be alone.”

  It was more than the girl’s death, he knew, just as he knew this woman gave good counsel. “You are right. Could you bring me a towel, hot water, and salve?”

  “At once, sire.”

  As he stared after the woman who closely resembled the housekeeper who had called herself Matilda, he wondered if there was anything to be learned from her that would help him make sense of how he came to be in the fifteenth century. Unfortunately, he couldn’t ask her outright without rousing medieval superstitions.

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes, returned his thoughts to Catherine. And hoped he wasn’t wrong about her—that she didn’t hate him that much.

  No deaths on my conscience.

  Aching from hours spent on her knees in the chapel, Catherine stared at the ceiling of her chamber.

  Her conscience was far from clear. As much as Montagu, she was responsible for those killed during the siege. Even had the giving of lives allowed Strivling to stand against the usurper, their deaths were too great a price to pay.

  She squeezed her eyes closed. What had driven her to such madness?

  Your woman’s heart is showing, Hildegard’s reproving words drifted to her. Be strong. For me, King Henry, and God.

  She opened her eyes. Why must she first be strong for Hildegard? And why God? The former was long gone, and did the creator of the universe truly need her to be strong for Him?

  Such pondering urged her to ignore Hildegard’s words, but still King Henry was in the midst of them. And if anyone needed her to be strong, it was he.

  Clenching her hands on the coverlet, Catherine slid back into the woman Hildegard had groomed her to be and silently vowed that soo
n she would do her duty.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Soon did not arrive soon enough. Every opportunity was thwarted—be it by Gilchrist’s presence or the needs of the castle folk. But now, a fortnight since the end of the siege, Catherine had her chance.

  As Gilchrist had left the hall to check on the progress made on Strivling’s walls, she would have two or more hours to accomplish what must be done.

  She pulled on boots that had belonged to her betrothed, the toes of which were stuffed to make them fit, then snatched up her gown and dragged it on over the tunic and breeches. As she worked the fastenings, her gaze was drawn to the bed.

  Last eve, she had been visited by one of her dreams. Though frightening enough to awaken her, she remembered little of it. But it portended ill.

  Most dreams began the same—indistinct, but with each passing night becoming more memorable. Then there were those dreams that never fully took shape but were followed by misfortune.

  She wished she could remember this last one, though even if she could, there was naught she could do to change it. However, it seemed Gilchrist could…

  Pushing thoughts of him aside, she left her chamber and descended to the hall. Upon entering the corridor that accessed the kitchen, she saw the door to the storeroom was open.

  Her heart leapt. The last barrel of ale and sacks of grain had been carried up to the kitchen yesterday. In the absence of stores, what business had anyone in there? Was her secret discovered?

  She stepped into the doorway. The upper level of the storeroom was empty, but the trapdoor was flung open in the middle of the room and the rope pulley dangled above it.

  “Stack it there,” the cook’s voice drifted upward. “And be neat about it.”

  Then the stores Gilchrist had purchased had arrived. Unfortunately, the timing was poor—for her. Of course, if the supplies were quickly put away, there might still be time. She descended to the lower level.

  “My lady!” The cook’s face was lit with excitement. “The supplies arrived just as Sir Collier promised.” How he tired of making substance of water, pathetic vegetables, and grains!

  “So they have.” Gaze drawn to the servants who piled sacks of milled grain in a shadowed corner, she pointed opposite. “Nay, stack them there.”

  “My lady,” one huffed, brow glistening with perspiration, “there are fifty or more sacks here.”

  At least a dozen of which she would have to move if they did not. “’Tis too dark there.” A feeble excuse. “I wish you to move them.”

  “But my lady—”

  “Now!”

  “Leave them,” Gilchrist’s voice resounded through the room.

  She spun around and saw he stood on the stairs, the sling that had supported his injured arm absent. “They would fare better against the other wall,” she spoke her first words to him since Sara’s death, when he had accused her of seeking his demise.

  “How is that?” he clipped.

  “It…” Unable to think of a plausible excuse, and fearing she would further rouse his suspicion, she muttered, “As you would have it,” and brushed past him.

  On the upper floor, two men now knelt alongside the trapdoor. Having secured the rope around the barrel between them, they began working the pulley to lower it to the floor below.

  Catherine retreated to the kitchen where the servants were so excited by the prospect of preparing a meal worthy of their attention, they paid her little heed. When the cook returned a half hour later, she slipped out.

  No light shone from beneath the storeroom’s door.

  Still there is time, she assured herself. There had to be, for this could prove her last chance. Taking a torch with her, she entered the storeroom and pulled the door closed.

  Bloody northern weather! Collier silently cursed and, shifting his shoulders beneath his short mantle, looked from the merchant’s wagons rumbling over the drawbridge to darkening skies. It wouldn’t be the first time work in the bailey was suspended to allow a storm to pass.

  Wondering how much time they had before it rained, he thumbed a silver groat—the coin being all that remained of the purse from which he had paid the merchant. Though he had expected repairs on the southern wall to be completed before day’s end, it wouldn’t happen now.

  He blew out a breath and tossed the coin high. As he watched it spin head over tail, a vision of Catherine in the storeroom returned to him. Why had she been so adamant about moving the grain across the room? What did it matter whether it was stacked in the corner or—?

  “Strivling’s wealth,” he growled and abandoned the groat to the dirt.

  Over the inner drawbridge he sprinted, past the surprised castle folk, and up the keep’s steps. “Where is Lady Catherine?” he demanded of the servants who looked up when he entered the hall.

  “’Tis some time since last I saw her, sire,” a woman said.

  A man servant shook his head. “Neither have I seen her.”

  Collier strode to the storeroom. Though the upper floor was dark, light flickered up the stairway. She was still down there. With Strivling’s wealth.

  He descended the stairs and was faced with a storeroom empty but for the supplies stacked against the wall. No Catherine—unless she had heard him and hidden.

  “Catherine!”

  Silence.

  He considered the sacks of grain whose placement she had protested. Slumped amid shadows, they appeared untouched.

  Had he guessed wrong? Or come too late? Though he questioned whether Catherine was strong enough to move the grain, one thing was certain—she would try.

  He retrieved the torch. Though the stacked grain looked the same as when the workers had heaved the last atop the pile, when he stood directly before them he saw torchlight fell deeper against the back corner of the wall.

  “Holy rood!” he muttered, distantly aware he had substituted a curse of the middle ages for twenty-first century profanity. Tightening his hold on the torch, he climbed atop the grain.

  From the ground up, the back corner of the wall was cleared to a width of three feet—enough to accommodate Catherine and allow her to retrieve the coin and household valuables she intended to deliver to the Lancastrians.

  Thinking they must have been hidden somewhere beneath the floor, he directed the light down into the space. But it was not a loosened stone that came to light. A wadded garment lay there, its color the same as the gown Catherine had worn this day.

  Meaning the castle’s secret passages didn’t end at the hall. Though he hadn’t heard of others, this one likely led outside the walls.

  Wondering how much of a start Catherine had on him, he dropped down into the space. As the torchlight revealed nothing out of the ordinary, he thumped a fist across the stone wall. And found the hollow place.

  He peered at the mortar. It seemed intact. He pushed against the stones, but they were as ungiving as the rest of the wall. A release of some sort, then. He searched a hand over the stones, and finding nothing, commanded himself to think.

  The catch would be separate, but it would be nearby and disguised. He looked up. To the left was a wall sconce. Though it belonged in this dark corner, that might be the beauty of it.

  He stood and pushed it. Nothing. He pulled it. A squat door swung inward.

  Shoving the torch through the opening, he crawled in after it. As the shaft was a tight fit for his broad-shouldered frame, he was glad his failed attempt to add spelunking to his list of recreational sports had better accustomed him to cramped spaces.

  Emerging from the shaft, he straightened. Cut from the rock on which Strivling was erected, the landing was five feet wide and, like a funnel, narrowed toward what appeared to be another shaft. And it was, complete with crudely-cut steps that wound steeply downward. He descended them as fast as his footing allowed, turned sharply left, right, and left again.

  Portions of the stone steps having broken away, the going was treacherous. But Catherine had surely prepared for the arduous trek, as
evidenced by the gown left behind. So how much farther? And what was her destination?

  Shortly, he had his answer when he heard the muffled roar of the sea. Did a boat await her? Was she aboard and heading into waters tossed by the brewing storm?

  Praying he reached her first, he quickened his pace. The steps turned twice more, then the landing appeared below—the incoming tide surging over it.

  It couldn’t get worse.

  Emerging from the shaft into chill, ankle-deep water, Collier had to stoop to accommodate the cavern’s low ceiling, and as he surveyed his surroundings, he saw it could, indeed, get worse. The floor of the cavern sloped up from the shaft, meaning very soon the entrance to the passageway would be flooded.

  By the light of his torch, he ran up the incline to where the cavern floor leveled off. Here the ceiling rose, allowing him to straighten to his full height, and he saw the moist walls reflected the light of his torch, but not the light of day. Thus, the cavern’s entrance lay distant.

  Guided by the sound of the sea, he negotiated the twists and turns as the deepening tide crept up his legs. And, at last, daylight appeared.

  Water swirling around his upper calves, he searched the expanse before him. It cut a gently curving path to the cavern’s entrance, beyond which lay the sea. But soon that immense body of water would fill this place, making retreat impossible. If it was not already.

  Against the cavern’s far left wall, a light appeared, and he picked out the silhouetted figure laboriously wading through the tide. Under the circumstances, he wished Catherine had made it to the boat. To be on the water in such weather would be dangerous, but to be in the cavern could prove deadly.

  “Catherine!”

  The light jerked, then extinguished. Even with the tide rising around her, she wouldn’t abandon her objective.

  Did she believe the boat still awaited her? Had she not earlier been thwarted by the delivery of the food supplies, she would have made it, but now it was unlikely.

  Berating himself for alerting her to his presence, he dropped the torch and pushed through the water. It dragged at him, but he had the advantage of not being burdened by what she sought to deliver to the Lancastrians.