by Tamara Leigh
“Aye, when all quiets, your king and the rest of you will be escorted to the postern gate.”
“He lies!” Walther exclaimed. “Does he not murder the king, he will deliver him into Morrow’s hands.”
King Henry stepped alongside the knight. “Do you believe in God, Gilchrist?”
“I do.”
“Then in His name I would have your word.”
“In God’s sight and hearing, you have my word that if you relinquish my wife, you and your men will be delivered safe from Irondale.”
Henry lowered his lids. When he raised them, he said, “Release Lady Catherine, Sir Rudd.”
“Surely you are not so fool to believe a Yorkist?” Walther cried.
“I am not a fool. And I do believe him.”
“What of the money? ’Tis she who holds it.”
“I would not trade my life for it, Sir Rudd. Now release her.”
“Nay.” Walther reached behind and put a hand to the embrasure.
Weighting his back leg, Collier watched for the right moment.
“I have ordered you to release the lady,” Henry said sharply.
“And I am done taking orders from a degenerate.” The mercenary put a foot up on the embrasure. “Come, Lady Catherine, let us see how quickly you learn the rope.”
It was not the moment Collier hoped for, but if he allowed Walther to pull Catherine into the embrasure and he fell, he would take her with him.
He lunged.
Blessedly, the mercenary prized his life more highly than the satisfaction of taking Catherine’s. Releasing her, he swung his sword up to meet Collier’s.
“Get back, Catherine!” Collier shouted as he fixed on Walther’s eyes to watch for his opponent’s next move as Sir Ennis had taught him. And there it was.
As his wife scrambled away, Collier fended off a downstroke, then turned his blade around Walther’s and forced their swords up.
“My lord?” Sir Ennis called.
“Nay!” Collier snarled. He would deal with Walther—as he should have done months ago.
With a guttural sound, the mercenary stumbled back against the embrasure. At a disadvantage with the wall behind and the injury to his leg, he pushed Collier’s sword off and sidestepped.
Collier followed and delivered another blow.
“You have been practicing,” Walther said as he deflected the blade aimed at his arm, then he thrust his weight forward, freed his sword, and swung again.
Collier jumped back, catching the edge of his opponent’s blade with his own. He did not want to kill him, but if it was the only way to ensure the knave never again threatened Catherine…
Moments later, Walther staggered beneath the thrust of Collier’s sword and his own flew out of his hand.
Collier swept his blade to the man’s chest. And was tempted. For Catherine, their child, others who might yet cross his path, and those having already crossed it.
“You cannot do it,” Walther spat. “Coward!”
Though it went against all Collier believed, he might have done it if not for the specter that rose up between the battlements and seized Walther.
The mercenary shouted as he was dragged into the embrasure, scrambled for purchase, and flailed as he was hefted by a man who ought to be dead. Then his protests turned to a scream that resounded off the walls as he fell to his death.
Panting, face glistening in the torchlight, Severn looked narrowly at Collier. “So ends any who dares harm my lady.”
Knowing it was as much a warning as a boast, Collier inclined his head, then turned to where Catherine knelt beside her brother who clasped a hand over his shoulder.
As he strode to her, she sprang upright. Then she was in his arms.
Holding her close, feeling her tears wet his neck as time and again she said, “You came back to us,” he sent thanks heavenward that from this day—this life—forward, he would be with them.
Ever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“I will not forget this, Sir Collier.”
As dawn stained the sky, Collier looked at the man to whom history had been unkind. “It would be better if you did, Your Majesty.”
King Henry frowned. “You are no Yorkist, are you?”
As it was Edward’s claim to the throne Collier supported, he aligned himself with that side, but he was not truly Yorkist. Pressing Catherine’s hand in his, he said, “I am neither Yorkist nor Lancastrian. I want only what is best for England.”
The sorrow in Henry’s eyes deepened. “As it should be.”
Collier longed to warn Henry of what lay ahead, urging him to flee England and live out the remainder of his days in peace, but he could not. “You have served this country well, Your Majesty. I am certain one day you will again.”
Henry’s mouth curved slightly. “You are a godly man, and though you would have me forget what you do, I will not.”
Unfortunately, that could mean trouble.
Henry laid a hand on Collier’s arm. “Do not fear. None but these present shall ever know.”
Collier looked to the others—Catherine, Severn, Sir Richard, Sir Ennis, and Antony whose eyes were cast down. Though it was obvious the latter wished to remain at Irondale, he was on a path from which he could not turn. Like King Henry, much of the remainder of his life would be spent evading the Yorkists.
Collier removed the ring Lewis Algernon had given him. “It belongs to you, Antony.”
The boy stared, then slowly reached as if fearful it would be snatched away.
“If you need anything,” Collier said, “you have only to send word.”
Antony swallowed loudly, then slid the ring on his finger. It was loose, but one day it would fit.
“We should leave, Your Majesty,” Sir Richard prompted.
As Henry and the others drew their hoods over their heads, Catherine touched her brother’s arm. “Godspeed, Antony.”
Tears sparkling on his lashes, he said, “Would that I could right the wrongs I did you, that I could be an uncle to your child.”
“You have, and I am certain we shall be together again.”
Clearly, he did not believe it, but he said, “So we shall.”
“Lady Catherine,” Severn said. “I pray you much happiness.”
She slipped her hand out of Collier’s, stepped forward, and kissed his cheek. “I thank you, dear Severn.”
Shortly, the king and his entourage slipped through the postern gate and back into the pages of a history Collier had done his best to put right.
Sir Ennis caught his lord’s eye, gave a nod, then strode across the bailey that had been a battleground hours past.
“You think Antony will fare well?” Catherine asked.
“I do.”
Once more, she took her husband’s hand. “The night has been long, but I would not have it be done.”
He drew her in front of him, and as he looked into her eyes, his heart hurt for how full it was. “I love you, my lady,” he said. “Ever I shall love you.” Then he swept her into his arms and carried her home.
CHAPTER FORTY
Strivling Castle, Northern England
Present Day
It had not been imagined. Not a dream. Not found in the bottle of Scotch he had awakened beside a week ago.
James sat back on his heels. Yesterday, he had broken into Strivling’s storerooms that had been sealed off ages ago. It had taken hours to locate the stones and pry them loose, but even when he had uncovered the treasure, logic dictated he question—as he had done countless times since Collier’s passing—if his brother had truly traveled to the fifteenth century. More, if he had returned in time to realize a life worth living.
But what James found among the ruins of Irondale Castle unequivocally answered the first question. “Thank God,” he murmured as he stared at the weathered letters cut into the headstone.
Sir Collier Gilchrist of the White Rose
A Man of God and Much Beloved
Died Augu
st…
James moved aside the vining rose that grew tight against the base of the headstone, brushed dirt from the letters cut in stone, and peered closer.
Died August, 1514
He had feared Collier would not survive the York-Lancaster conflict, but he had lived to roughly eighty years of age. But was it a life worth living?
He turned to the headstone beside Collier’s. It was more heavily cloaked in the vining rose that had crossed from one side to the other, and when he gently parted the stems and leaves, he found what he hoped for.
Lady Catherine Gilchrist of the Red Rose
A Legend in Her Own Time
Died June, 1514
Two months before Collier.
James let his head drop between his shoulders, and as he thanked God, a shadow fell across him.
“You’re trespassing. I must ask you to leave.”
He looked up. The sun at the woman’s back formed a halo around her golden hair and outlined her figure, but the light was too bright for him to make out her features.
Squinting, he said, “And you are?”
Though she had to know of his discomfort, she didn’t move. “The better question is—who are you?”
“James Morrow.”
“Ah.” It was said as if she’d heard of him. And likely she had, considering the amount of media exposure to which he had been subjected these past months.
“What is your business at Irondale, Mr. Morrow?”
Since he couldn’t tell her he had come looking for his five-hundred-year-old brother, he said, “I’m researching family history.” He nodded at Collier’s headstone. “I’m a…descendant of Collier Gilchrist.”
“Really?” Disbelief raised her pitch.
“Really. Now may I have the pleasure of your name?”
She stepped to the side, leaving her halo behind, and he found himself assessed by large brown eyes. “Nedy Algernon.”
Her unusual first name should have grabbed his attention, but it was her surname that nearly sat him back. He had not known there were any Algernons left. In fact, he distinctly remembered Collier’s unsuccessful attempt years ago to dig up a trace of the family. Might this woman be the result of an altered past?
“This is my land you’re trespassing on. I’d like you to leave.”
He stood. “You’re descended from Catherine Algernon?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Not directly.”
Of course not. Were she a direct descendant, she wouldn’t have retained the Algernon name since it was the Gilchrist name Catherine and Collier’s offspring would have passed on. “Who, then?”
Her lips compressed.
“I apologize for prying, but I have some questions about Collier Gilchrist—and Irondale—which you might be able to answer.”
She sighed. “Irondale is not for sale, Mr. Morrow.”
He looked to the ruins in the distance, and hoping humor would lighten her mood, said, “There isn’t much I could do with it if it were.”
Her eyebrows pinched. “Mr. Morrow, my dogs like you even less than I. Thus, it would be in your best interest to leave.”
He looked beyond her and to the right. Dogs, indeed. Except for gleaming eyes, bared teeth, and salivating jaws, the Doberman and German Shepherd stood as still as statues—doubtless, awaiting a command.
“Just a few minutes of your time is all I ask, Ms. Algernon, and I won’t bother you again.”
She considered him so long he felt almost nervous. Then she looked over her shoulder. “Uzi. Valkyrie. Sit!”
Eyes fixed on James, the dogs obeyed.
Nedy Algernon crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you wish to know, Mr. Morrow?”
How old was she? Twenty-five? “You say you’re not directly descended from Catherine?”
“My line descends from her brother, Sir Antony Algernon.”
Collier had mentioned the boy—a rebel likely to die for the Lancastrian cause but who, it seemed, had made it to maturity. “What do you know of Collier Gilchrist?”
“You really believe you’re a descendant?”
“It’s not implausible. The Gilchrists were vassals of the Morrows.”
“There were no marriages between the families. Thus, you are either a liar or mistaken.”
“You know for certain there weren’t any marriages?”
Though her smile was hardly genuine, it brightened her face. “Genealogy is a passion of mine, Mr. Morrow. There were no marriages.”
His heart sped. She could prove a wealth of information. “What do you know of the Gilchrist family?”
She stepped forward. “My research is far from complete, but if I tell you what I know, will you leave?”
Not petite, he thought as he looked down at her. About average height. However, there was nothing average about her looks. Despite dark shadows beneath her eyes, she was lovely. “Yes, I’ll leave.”
She bent before Collier’s headstone. “He was called the peacemaker—God’s man.” She smoothed her fingers across his brother’s name. “He defended his family with great courage and without ever taking another’s life. Truly remarkable for the middle ages and his rank.”
No, James couldn’t imagine Collier would kill. “What was his life like?”
“Good, I think. As you see, he lived to a very old age. And his wife, Catherine, as well. I like to think his passing soon after her death was more the result of a broken heart than of age.”
Of that James had no doubt. “Did he have any children?”
“Three.”
“Sons? Daughters?”
She looked up. “Not in five hundred years was a daughter born to the Algernons or Gilchrists. Sons only.”
“Five hundred years?” He shook his head. “That hardly seems possible. And you—”
“I’m the first since Catherine.” She stood and walked farther into the graveyard. “Over here is the grave of Lewis Gilchrist, Collier’s eldest son.”
Then named in honor of Catherine’s father.
Her back to James, Nedy Algernon halted before a granite headstone. “He also lived to a good age, as seems the case with most of the Gilchrists—leastwise, from what I’m able to dig up so far.”
“So far?”
She turned. “As I said, I’m still working on their genealogy. Unfortunately, it’s patchy since the generations of Gilchrists appear to have led quiet lives.”
“Quiet lives?”
Something that looked like mischief sparkled in her eyes. “It’s as if it was bred into them—that or some deep, dark secret made them leery of leaving an ugly footprint on humanity.”
Doubtless, Collier had taken measures to ensure history remained as intact as possible. “Not an ugly footprint, but a potentially messy one,” James said and didn’t realize he had spoken aloud until this more appealing side of Nedy Algernon dissolved.
Suspicion replacing mischief, she said, “Do you know something I don’t?”
He made a face. “Just a wild guess. So tell me, how do you go about discovering a person’s genealogy?”
She stared at him until he was certain she found the lie on his face, then said, “Archives, old journals, diaries.” She retraced her steps. “And of course, the internet, though it’s so littered with misinformation, it can be more hindrance than help.”
“Did Collier Gilchrist leave behind a diary?”
“He did.”
Excitement shot through him. “You’ve read it?”
“Parts of it. Though he began it in a hand that appears similar to our modern English—he must have been considered a poor speller—over the years his writing lends itself more to what we recognize as Middle English. Likely, Catherine tutored him.”
James realized he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise to leave Nedy Algernon be. But how to persuade her to allow him to see the diary? “Are there any Gilchrists still around?”
“Certainly, and all of them men.”
“Then how is it an Algernon is the owne
r of Irondale?”
“I did the same as you, James Morrow. I bought back my ancestral home which, before the Yorks won England from the Lancasters, was to have been Antony Algernon’s.”
Made sense. “Do you live nearby?”
“In the manor house, of course.”
James frowned.
“You can’t see it from here.” She jutted her chin to a place beyond him. “It’s over the rise, built well back from the castle.”
He was certain there was not—rather, had not been—a manor house. Prior to purchasing Strivling, he had flown over Irondale several times and seen only castle ruins. Was Nedy Algernon the result of an altered past? he wondered again. Had she, like the manor house, not existed four months ago?
“That’s really all I can tell you,” she said. “Now it’s time for you to leave.”
As much as he wanted to see the diary, now was not the time to ask. “I’m in your debt.”
“Good day, Mr. Morrow.” She started toward her dogs.
“Ms. Algernon?”
She looked around.
“Would you have dinner with me?”
“No.”
Whoever Nedy Algernon was, and wherever she had come from, she was not at all friendly. Or maybe it was just him. But he would find a way past her defenses, he promised himself as she walked away. And he did.
“Ms. Algernon?”
She swung around. “You are not accustomed to keeping your promises, are you?”
“I have something you might be interested in—a fifteenth-century portrait of Catherine Algernon.”
She startled.
“Though unfinished, it has an interesting history. Dinner?”
She lowered her chin, and he saw her sink her teeth into her lower lip, but when she looked up, her face was impassive. “Lunch. Tomorrow. You can pick me up at the manor house. Say…eleven thirty?”
