The Assassin: (Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #2)

by Pamela DuMond

  “Yes, Miri, I understand that. But trust me—Samuel, I mean Lord De Rocha, and I are totally not attracted to each other…” I felt my face flush and I fanned myself.

  He probably wasn’t interested in me—but liar, liar, pants on fire—I was still totally hot for him.

  She giggled. “Right.”

  “I just want to know who the sleazy girl is, I meant The Lady who’s sitting so… familiar and cozy with him.”

  “Cozy?” Miri wrinkled her forehead.

  “Yes. You know… tight,” I said.

  “You do not remember?”

  “I don’t follow the comings and goings of the royals the way you do, Miri.”

  “You used to,” she said. “That’s Lady Giulia De Rocha. She is a stepsister to Samuel: his mother married her father. But it is rumored Giulia cares for Samuel much more than a sister of any kind should care for a brother.”

  “That’s pretty obvious.” I watched her giggle, tilt her head back, and display even more cleavage to her growing crowd of male admirers. My only comfort was that Samuel didn’t appear to be one of them.

  “Lady Giulia has never hidden her desires or ambitions,” Miri said. “Lord Samuel’s real father moved away from Portugal and left him and his mother behind just a few years after he was born. He was a mercenary of sorts and did not desire to be tied down to one place, one country, or one family so the gossips chattered. Even though Giulia is a few years older than Samuel—she took to him. Her fervent affection for him is quite obvious to everyone—the exception being Lord Samuel.”

  I eyed him—he seemed blind to her over-the-top charms. I turned my attention to Giulia: she was gorgeous, clearly aware of that, and acted like Queen Bee of Medieval Flirt Central. Why wasn’t he interested in her? When a sinking feeling made my stomach flip-flop. “Is Lord Samuel gay?” I asked.

  Miri looked up at me and hesitated. “He does appear to be somewhat melancholy at times. But, I have also seen him laugh. I do believe he experiences happiness.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. Is he, is he…?” I struggled to find the appropriate word when a man screamed, harsh and raw, from the bottom of his lungs which shut down the chitchat, the gossip, the flirting, and the party’s frivolity like brakes screeching on a train attempting an emergency stop. All eyes swiveled to him.

  “Oh holy Mother!” Miri dropped to the floor and I bobbled the greasy platter in a desperate attempt to hold onto it.

  The man appeared to be almost forty years old, tall, built, and wore nice but dirty clothes. This man was not a peasant. This man was a noble. His hair was unkempt, his face red and sweaty, and his shoulders heaved. He walked past me and I felt light-headed from the fury that emanated from him like violent winds circling the eye of a tornado.

  He flung his arms open as he strode through the crowd headed toward the King, as the nobles shrunk back into their seats. “Father!” he yelled, his voice ripped. “What have you done?”

  ~ fourteen ~

  Two men burst into the room from an adjacent hallway, pushed through the crowd and raced to keep up with him. “Do not even think of it!” One of them hollered.

  I recognized the one man from Inêz’s house the morning after she was killed. They were friends of—

  “’Tis Prince Pedro in the flesh,” Miri gasped and pushed herself to standing.

  “Father—” Prince Pedro pulled a knife from his pocket and pointed it at the King, his hands trembling. “Father, why have you betrayed me?”

  King Afonso calmly watched him approach. “No my, son. I have not.”

  Five palace guards leapt from their seats, and surrounded the King, as they drew their daggers and brandished their swords.

  The King swatted at them like gnats. “Stop it! No harm will come to me. He is my flesh and blood. Get out of his way!” They hesitantly moved several paces back, their weapons still drawn. The tension in the room was so thick you could have cut it with a blade.

  “Prince Pedro knows.” An older noble man at a nearby table slugged back his goblet. “He knows the truth.”

  “Fool!” Another man seated next to the first hissed. “There is nothing to know.”

  Rat-face pushed himself back from the King’s table, grabbed his goblet with one hand, a piece of meat with his other, and scurried away, disappearing into one of the many connecting corridors.

  “Nadja.” Miri squeezed my arm and tugged on it hard. “I fear this will not go well. The next thing you know, some noble will accuse a gypsy of being involved. You know how the aristocracy loves to blame the gypsies. Come with me. Hurry!”

  Oh crap—I was the gypsy who was involved. I broke out into a sweat and gripped the greasy, pork-filled platter so hard my knuckles turned white.

  “And then,” Miri whispered, “another one of us will be poisoned with the scent of mandrake on their breath, accused of witchcraft and hung, or just found dead in an alley—drenched in blood and piss.”

  “Enough with the ‘blood and piss’ commentary,” I said.

  “Have you forgotten Romani life now that you live at the King’s castle, Nadja? Have you risen so high above the rest of your gypsy tribe?” Miri asked.

  “No,” I whispered indignantly. “I have not forgotten.”

  How could I forget? Until this past week I’d never led a gypsy life. Until a week ago, I was Madeline Blackford from present day Chicago who liked gossiping with her friends, drinking lattes, eating cupcakes, hugging her dad but pretending to hate it, and was desperately in love with a boy named Samuel who didn’t remember that he’d fallen in love with me some time in the past.

  “Father,” Prince Pedro said, his voice cracking as he stumbled toward King Afonso. “Father, Inêz is dead. My love, my life, my beautiful, sweet Inêz was butchered! Our three children are motherless, bereft. I am, I am… I do not know what I am.” He dropped to both knees on the stone floor in front of his dad and wept. “I do not know who I am without Inêz.” His guttural sobs wracked the silent, cavernous room.

  “Pedro!” Queen Beatrice reached her hand out toward him as tears cascaded down her face. “My heart breaks for you and the children. But Inêz’s death was not the doing of your father. It was thieves and opportunists: those who plot against Portugal. Your father would never—”

  Prince Pedro shook his head. “I do not need to hear these words from you, Mother.” He wiped tears away with his sleeve and reached his trembling hand toward the King who did not take it. “I fear in my heart of hearts, Father, that you had something to do with this. I beg you tell me differently.”

  King Afonso shook his head. “I only want what is best for you, your children, and Portugal.”

  “You do not deny this?” Prince Pedro asked.

  Agonizing seconds ticked by but King Afonso didn’t respond. I glanced around. The room’s inhabitants held their collective breath. Samuel stared at his plate. The beautiful red-haired girl rested one proprietary hand on his shoulder and whispered into his ear.

  Prince Pedro jumped to his feet and paced in front of the king like an anxious, caged beast. “Tell me, Father.” His voice lowered. “Did you strike the first blow that pierced Inêz’s delicate hands? Or did you just watch?”

  A collective gasp rose from the crowd.

  “Nadja,” Miri squeezed my arm and tugged on it. “Come with me. Now!”

  “No,” I hissed.

  “I saw Inêz’s body today at the Monastery of Santa Clara a Vel-ha,” Prince Pedro said. “She did not die a clean or a quick death. She resisted. She fought back—like she always did. Inêz was apasionada, fiery—one of the things I most loved about her.”

  My heart thumped in my chest. The man that loved Inêz said she was “fiery.” So was my mama. I wanted to be fiery, too. “I need to see this, Miri,” I whispered. “I’m staying.”

  “A thief, Father,” Prince Pedro continued, “A common thief would have left random wounds. I traced every mark and cut on her body and face. I am no stranger to violence. I ha
ve lived thirty-five plus years on this earth learning to be a prince as well as a future king, but I have also trained to be a warrior. The majority of Inêz’s cuts were inflicted by an expert, carried out by an assassin, someone who knows death intimately and savors delivering it.

  Miri elbowed me in the ribs.

  “Ouch!” A few eyes turned toward me but were quickly drawn back to the bigger drama unfolding.

  “Have you heard enough yet, Nadja?” she asked.

  “No,” I whispered.

  “As my tears fell onto Inêz’s wounds,” Prince Pedro said. “I wondered for a few moments if my love could bring her back? Because I would do anything to bring Inêz back.” He stopped pacing and stared King Afonso in the eyes. “So I want to know, Father. I need to know, Father. Did you take my beloved from me?”

  The crowd peered at the men and held their collective breath. You could have heard a pin drop while Portugal’s King and Prince regarded each other.

  “Nadja!” Miri hissed. “We need to go—now!”

  “Fine!” I bent forward to place the platter on a table, but knocked over a goblet that clattered and then spilled wine all over some nobleman’s lap. “Crap! I’m sorry!”

  “You stupid, clumsy servant!” The man jumped up, peered at his pants, and then glared at me.

  For a few seconds, all the eyes in the room focused on me, and I felt like one of those doomed chickens Miri chased around the yard before she wrung its neck. “I’m so sorry, Sir.” I grabbed napkins from the table and tried to mop up the wine on his chest and lap as well as the table. “So very sorry.”

  “Just get away from me, you stupid gypsy sow!” he said.

  My face was burning. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

  I looked up and saw Samuel staring at me. For the first time since he’d abandoned me on the road outside Coimbra, he met my eyes. ‘Be careful,’ he mouthed.

  Like, seriously? Until, when? Until I can travel back to my home in Chicago and be done with this crazy place and violent time? And really Samuel? You dump me in the middle of a pasture, won’t look me in the eye for almost a week, and now you mouth, “Be careful.” Thank you so very much for all of your concerns.

  “Father!” Prince Pedro roared. “I need to know!”

  I turned and grabbed Miri’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Thank the goddesses! I was beginning to think you were addled.” Miri took my hand and we maneuvered through the crowds toward the kitchen. “The royals will always fight over, well, practically everything. But we do not always have to be in the middle of their disputes; we can pick and choose our battles.”

  “Good advice,” I said.

  The servants were gathered in a small blockade next to the kitchen’s entrance gossiping as they tried to peek into the grand dining hall. We tried to navigate around them but it was like trying to get into the cafeteria at Preston High during lunch hour on pizza day.

  I spotted a relatively unobstructed exit on the left that led to a corridor. “Look!” I pointed. “We can leave this frigging nightmare through there, wander down the back hallways and find our way back to our bedroom.”

  “Perfect!” Miri said as we made our way toward it. “What does ‘frigging’ mean? Is that a word you have picked up from your time spent at the castle?”

  “Um…” Oh, what the... “Yes. It is a royal Portuguese word that means… crazy. Or… insane.”

  “Aha,” Miri said. “So would it be correct if I said, ‘I had a frigging time killing that one, angry, fat, frigging pig.’”

  I coughed. “Yes.” I almost smiled. “I do believe that would be correct.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Light from lanterns flickered high on the walls above us as Miri and I trudged down a nearly deserted corridor. I was so tired that I could happily lie down on the floor and fall asleep within seconds. I might actually get a sounder night’s rest here than sleeping on the pallet next to my new BFF, Miri—she of the challenged airways. “Is Prince Pedro always like that?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” Miri asked.

  “Dramatic, brandishing weapons, out-of-his-mind, you know, crazy,” I said.

  “You mean is he frigging?” She shrugged. “Prince Pedro just discovered Inêz has been killed. Of course he is out of his mind. How would you feel if the love-of-your-life died?”

  My mind flashed to when Samuel left me in 1675 and I thought I’d lost him for good. “I’d be a mess,” I said. “My mind would be twirling like a twister and my heart would be ripped wide open. I’d say stupid things and most likely do stupider things.”

  “What is a twister?” She asked.

  “A tornado,” I said.

  She shrugged.

  “When the winds in the skies grow gray, gather together, and look like a funnel.” I put my hands together forming a V-shape.

  “Another royal word. Fine.” She sniffed. “Prince Pedro returns from a hunting trip, discovers his beloved Inêz is dead, his children have been carted off to a monastery, and the gossips say his father, King Afonso, is to blame. I cannot say I would act differently under similar circumstances.” Miri hesitated. “I smell roasted pork. Are you hungry?” She gazed back at the kitchen.

  “Not really,” I said. “All the excitement killed my appetite.”

  “It is the opposite for me.” She turned and strode back. “I will fetch us dinner. Wait for me here.”

  “I’ll wait for you in our room.”

  “No. I need you to help me carry everything. Just stay. I will only be a few minutes.” She disappeared into an entrance to the kitchen.

  I plunked down on the floor, leaned back against the stone wall and stared at the ceiling. I wondered if Prince Pedro got his answer from his father. I wondered why Giulia kept hitting on Samuel, and why he didn’t respond. Would I ever figure out what my message was in this lifetime, or had I already screwed that one up for good, and now was in time travel purgatory?

  Maybe Time’s Maker—whoever/whatever that might be—God, goddess, evolution, was simply playing games with me, making me stay here to pay for my awful mistake. Ryan had told me that sometimes Messengers had several key messages to deliver during their trips. I wondered if I had multiple messages.

  I caught the scent of something delicious and my tummy rumbled. Apparently, I was hungry after all. I sniffed the air and peeked down the hallway expecting to see Miri marching toward me with chicken and wine. But there was no Miri, and I realized all that deliciousness was wafting from me. My dress smelled like roasted pork.

  Oh yuck.

  I had tried to wipe my greasy hands on anything but my dress, but apparently I screwed up that as well, and who knew when I’d be able to wash it? It’s not like I’d spotted any Laundromats in medieval Portugal.

  Suddenly, someone grabbed my arm. “You are coming with me, gypsy,” a man said. “A certain royal desires to speak with you.”

  I jumped, then squirmed, but couldn’t break free from his rock-solid grip. He hoisted me to standing and I peered into his face—it was the guard from that day at Prince Pedro and Inêz’s estate. One of the men who shared a meal with Samuel.

  “You’re mistaken,” I said. “Why would a royal want to speak with me—a lowly kitchen servant?”

  “Because,” he dragged me down the corridor, “you seem to be a lowly kitchen servant in one too many kitchens.”

  “Miri!” I hollered.

  She tore into the hallway juggling goblets and plates. She stared at me, horrified. “Take your hands off her, you frigging beast!”

  The man clamped a stinky rag over my mouth.

  “Miri,” I rasped, when suddenly my tongue felt like a slab of over-cooked beef in my mouth. “Mirrrr…” But I could no longer form words, and everything shot to black.

  ~ fifteen ~

  I woke. My eyes felt thick and heavy, my body ached, and yet I was enormously hungry. Did Chaka, Aaron, and I share a bottle of champagne like that one night we partied after a Homecoming? I basical
ly didn’t drink, and so on the rare occasion I did, I’d wake up with some special kind of hangover. But then I remembered a beefy soldier grabbing my arm and shoving a stinky rag on top of my mouth.

  I was still caught up in a bend of time in medieval Portugal.

  I blinked my eyes halfway open and glanced around. I lay on a beautiful bed; my head rested on a pillow, and an expensive-looking red tapestry embroidered with gold and silver threads draped across me like a blanket. I squinted from the sunlight that shone through a series of tall, metal paned windows cut high on the walls across this lofty, large room.

  Prince Pedro sat on a chair, his feet resting on top of a wooden desk as he picked his fingernails with the blade of a small knife. Oh God, I hoped he wasn’t “the royal” who wanted to talk to me. How could I explain arriving too late to prevent the assassins from murdering Inêz?

  Two agitated men paced in front of the Prince and the windows. Sparks practically flew off of them each time they crossed paths.

  “You cannot go to war against your father, the King,” the one man said. “You need to re-think this.”

  “And you cannot tell me what I can or cannot do, Jorge,” Prince Pedro pointed his knife at him.

  Jorge was the soldier who kidnapped me. I didn’t recognize the other man, who was also dressed in military gear, nor did I remember him being at the villa the day after Inêz died.

  “Your father most likely arranged for my sister, Inêz, to be murdered,” he said. “He must pay for his sins! War is the only way to teach him and his advisors that bad decisions have consequences. The people will back you, Your Highness.”

  “No!” Jorge said. “Fernando is too close to the situation to think clearly about retaliation. His emotions are raw and he mourns her as well, Your Highness.”

  “I am not so befuddled by grief as you think,” Fernando growled. “Now is the time for Prince Pedro to seize Portugal’s throne. What beef-witted course of action will your father, the King, do next? Assassinate your children that you bore with Inêz? What will happen if—no, let me rephrase that—what will happen when the King’s trusted advisors whisper poisonous words into his failing ears? When they insist that Beatrice, John, and Denis pose a threat to your ‘legitimate’ heir to the Portuguese throne? How will you feel when you find your daughter and sons dead: cold, stiff, and covered in defensive wounds? Is that what you are waiting for? Because unless you go to war—that is what will happen.”