Marie (The Curse of Lanval Book 2)

by Rebekah Dodson

  “Maybe I can help,” a small voice said from behind us.

  I looked over my shoulder to see Marie entered the room. Her parchment still tucked under one arm, the other hand lifting her skirts gently from the dirty stone floor. She came to stand between Jules and me.

  Jules looked up at her. “Who are you?” The shock of English was slowing rolling over Jules, who I knew was just as exhausted as I was. Her eyes widened, and she mouthed, Did she just…?

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. Not now, I mouthed back. I was still processing it myself. To Marie, I said in English, “Yes, I’m a bit exhausted, translations are too much at the moment.”

  Becket looked at her and barked some kind of demand, to which Marie only smiled and curtsied. She introduced herself, but that was as far as my middle English skills went. She and Becket chatted, exchanging fluent words that I couldn’t even begin to define. One stuck out to me, a word that had changed little in the history of English’s evolution—dead. Marie’s eyes went wide, and she glanced at the bed, where the queen was still clinging to the prince’s lifeless hand.

  “He says the prince is dead,” she translated in English.

  “I know,” I told her.

  She nodded to Becket, who was still talking, and our eyes met again. “He also asked who you are and says you are a healer.”

  “Sir Guillaume,” I said, and pointed to Jules. “My sister, Lady Julia.”

  Becket rattled on. “He wants to know how you ended up at Chateau de Guillaume,” she translated.

  Jules stared at me, biting her bottom lip. I racked my brain for what we had decided was our story. “I was escorting her to a convent. In England,” I added.

  “A bride of Christ?” Marie said to me. I nodded. She frowned and translated to Becket, who also apparently disapproved.

  “What is it?” Jules said.

  “I don’t know,” I told her. I looked at Marie.

  She sighed. “She’s too old,” she said, dipping her head close to mine. “Women are married to Christ or their husband when they reach womanhood. Your sister is clearly ten years too late.”

  Shit. Fuck. Curses steamed through my head like racing cars. She was right, and I knew it. I scrambled for an excuse, a term, something to explain her old age of twenty-two.

  “I am beguine,” Jules told them.

  Marie and Becket stared at her. Becket was silent, his mouth open.

  “What is that?” I said, unfamiliar with the term.

  “Widow,” Marie said, “Devoted to Christ instead of remarrying.”

  Becket uttered one word, which Marie asked of Jules. “Children?”

  I saw Jules suppress a smile, whisking it away quickly. She shook her head and said, “Non.”

  I pursed my lips to prevent my own smile. My big sister was tricky, but she also might have just saved our lives. I wanted to hug her, or slap her, or something. Becket was staring at me.

  Marie translated: “He asks why you are not wearing a knight’s attire.”

  “I didn’t want to draw attention near a battle,” I said quickly to Marie, my mind flying furiously into our pretend back story. “When we reached the chapel, my sister felt a sudden need to pray for the soldiers, and she insisted we stop so she could offer her vows to God.”

  Jules was glaring at me, but I couldn’t tell her this was for the best. Everyone in this time was deeply religious, and my sister was an atheist. Fortunately, she knew how to keep her mouth shut more than I did.

  Marie translated, and I watched her, her eyes flitting about the room as she addresses Becket. I turned and looked at the bedside where the queen watched us intently. I couldn’t tell if she studied Marie or my sister. When I locked eyes with her, she never wavered but watched us quietly and carefully.

  Becket’s face was still twisted in a nasty frown, his eyes narrowed and disbelief outlined on his face. He muttered something that Marie had to lean in to catch.

  “He wonders why you bear a close resemblance to Prince Henry.” Marie’s voice flat.

  I paused. I couldn’t think of a single reason, other than Jules and I had decided he was clearly some kind of ancestor on our mother’s side. The truth dawned on me like a fucking angel chorus, and I remembered Jules’ phone conversation what seemed like a century ago: He lived to be two hundred years old? Ah, fuck it, I thought – how would they even know? History was rewriting itself as we spoke. We were destroying the fabric of time.

  Calm the fuck down, my inner voice spoke up. You’re Gill, the smooth mother fucker. You got this, bro.

  The truth is often closer to a lie, my brain said.

  “We hail from the south of France,” I said, and it was the truth, even if in a different time. “I heard stories that my mother’s family was related to the true king of England.” I leaned forward with my hands clasped between my knees. “Yet we were hidden to protect our lives from those that wished to hurt us.”

  Jules covered her mouth, and I didn’t know if she was holding in laughter or shock. She knew I was telling the truth about our modern lives, but I didn’t know if they would accept it. Becket was still frowning as Marie translated.

  Behind me, I heard the rustle of skirts as the queen stood and approached us. She addressed Becket in French, and I could understand her, at least.

  “The knight and his sister have indeed saved the prince from a fate in purgatory,” she said softly. “For this, we owe our lives.”

  Marie was staring at her, shocked by her interruption.

  Becket’s face softened, and he skirted my chair to take the queen’s hands in his own. He patted them, and Marie translated: “His soul has gone to God, and we have this knight to thank for it.”

  The queen smiled slowly, sadly, and collapsed into Becket’s arms.

  I jumped to my feet to catch her, the priest’s small frame no match for even this slight woman. I threw my arm under her knees and lifted her as her head rolled into my shoulder. Becket motioned to a lounge set against the far wall beside the bed, and I gently laid her down, adjusting her head. Jules stood beside me, smoothing out her skirts and folding her arms over her chest. I touched my fingers to the queen’s neck, which was clammy and cool, but her pulse was steady.

  We turned to see Becket was on his knees in front of the fire; robes spread around him in an elegant display. His eyes were shut tight, and his hands pressed together. They lifted toward the sky, and his eyes fluttered open. He reached out his heavy-ringed hand to me, and I helped him to the chair where I was sitting before the queen fainted. Jules, Marie, and I stood in front of the fire, waiting for his response. After a few minutes, he began to address us.

  “She is overcome by the death of her husband,” Marie translated for Becket. “Sir Knight, there is an agreement that God has given me if you will sit.”

  Jules sat back down. My sister looked eager, but I was cautious. This had gone from bad to worse, and now an agreement? What did that mean? I tried to remain cool and collected, leaning against the side of the mantle and crossing my arms. Although my James Dean coolness was likely to be lost in translation, I eyed the priest. “What kind of agreement?”

  Marie translated: “I traveled here many days and nights to escort the prince to London.”

  “Why London?” I asked.

  “To be crowned king.”

  I just nodded, and my brain spewed a rambling of sorts. I motioned to Marie not to translate. “Of course! It all makes sense, the timeline, the old ruler, his dates of death were confused …”

  Jules was at the risk of losing it. “What does he mean?” she asked, her voice full of near-panic.

  “Jules, we’ve changed the future.”

  “What?”

  I tapped my forehead. “You forget history is my specialty,” I tried to smile at her. “It’s still October, yes?”

  “Gill, it’s barely October,” she said. “What happens in October?”

  I thought about it for a second and started pacing in front of the fire.
Marie stepped to stand beside Becket. I motioned for her not to translate for a moment. “Henry—we know him as Henry the first,” I said to Jules, “was—shit, is—his grandfather,” I nodded toward the prince’s body in the bed. “The current King, Stephen, will die in October. I don’t remember the exact date. But it’s clear we have arrived after his death. Henry, specifically Henry the second and Eleanor of Aquitaine, will be crowned in December. The fourteenth, if I remember.” I glanced back at the sleeping queen, her chest rising and falling slowly.

  “And…?” she said, sitting forward.

  “England has only been united for ninety years,” I said.

  The realization dawned on her. “And if Henry isn’t crowned?”

  “It might fall, disband, be taken by the French, whatever.”

  “Oh, shit,” Jules said, repeating me from earlier: “We’ve changed the goddamn future.”

  Becket interrupted, then. Marie was nodding at me. “He says, ‘England needs a king.’”

  Becket rattled on so quickly that Marie had trouble keeping up.

  “What did he say?” I stopped pacing and stood in front of Becket. “What did he say!” I nearly yelled at Marie.

  She fingered the parchment in her hand, and I could see she was shaking. “He said, ‘God has sent you to reclaim the throne of England.’”

  “No, no,” Jules whispered. “It can’t be.”

  “I can’t,” I said, barking at Marie, her face ashen now, “I’m barely related.”

  Marie translated. Becket shook his head and took Marie’s hand; his face lifted toward her. He sounded as if he was pleading.

  “No one has to know,” Marie said, looking only at Becket, translating, “no one has to know Prince Henry has died. He is the only heir of his Grandfather, and you must take his place.”

  On the last line, he turned slowly to look at me.

  I ran my hands through my hair and stared into the fire. Me? King? What the actual fuck? I couldn’t be king. I didn’t know the first thing about ... I’m a twenty-year-old college student, my whole life ahead of me! I was going to graduate, go to grad school, get my teaching degree. Maybe moonlight as a paramedic, because the money was great. That’s all I ever wanted.

  King? Oh, fuck that.

  “Gill?” Jules was eyeing me. “Gill, what is it?”

  “I don’t know how to be a king,” I murmured.

  “You don’t need to,” Marie said. Becket had been silent, watching us, so it was her own opinion this time. “The queen needs a husband to rule, as she has ruled France until her annulment.”

  I glanced at the lounge in the corner. This meek and mild queen was a leader? Of course, my brain said, connecting the French history in my head, Eleanor, wife of King Louis until 1150 or something, when she married Henry. One of the most revered women in French history. How had I not known that until just now? This was AP history all over again.

  In my defense, the last twenty-four hours had been beyond fucked up.

  “Gill, don’t …” Jules began to protest.

  I looked at her and shook my head. Later, I mouthed. I turned from the fireplace; my nervous hand caught in my hair again. I felt like an awkward seventh-grader all over again. “I’ll do it,” I said. To Jules, I whispered, “We can’t change history.”

  Her mouth dropped open, and she closed her eyes. “Gill, no.”

  Marie translated to Becket, who clasped the huge cross around his neck and kissed it. “God will be pleased, my son,” Marie explained to him. He got to his feet and talked rapidly.

  “We will wait until darkness,” Marie said, looking from Becket to me. “Dispose of the prince’s body. You must pretend weakness for a few days, and the wound … ah … we must plan. But no one should know the prince has died.” He whipped his robes around him as he strode to the door. “Stay here. I will send up the servants and swear them to secrecy on penalty of their immortal soul.”

  “My lord?” Marie said and rattled something off in his language.

  Becket paused in the archway, looked over his shoulder and said something back.

  “What was that?” I asked her when he had disappeared.

  “He said I am to stay close,” her shoulders drooped, and she took a seat by the fire. “And prepare myself to travel to London, as your, uh, what is the word for language?”

  “Translator,” I supplied.

  “You haven’t told us how you know English.” Jules glanced at the queen, making sure she was unable to hear us.

  “We all have secrets,” she said and smiled at me. She pulled herself to her feet. “But the fact remains that I have kept yours, and you shall keep mine.”

  “But we don’t know—” I started.

  “It makes no matter if you want this plan to succeed,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare to be ripped from my homeland.” The smile she flashed at me was neither warm nor welcome, but sarcastic and a bit sad. She floated out of the room, her skirts a quiet echo that she was ever here.

  Alone in the room with a dead body and an unconscious queen, Jules glared at me. “This is a shitty mess. What are we going to do now?” She crossed her arms.

  I scratched my head, ruffled my hair. I felt the stubble on my chin and realized I hadn’t had a shave in a couple of days. Well, now was a good a time as any to make something of it. Didn’t women love beards in the middle ages, anyway? Maybe I could bring the goatee into style a few years before its time.

  “There’s only one thing left to do,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You need to run me through with a sword.”

  “What the actual fuck, Gill?”

  I sighed. “So I can take the prince’s place, duh.”

  “You’re fucking insane.”

  “Uh-uh. Try again." I flashed my rascal smile.

  She rolled her eyes at me. "You’re fucking insane, your majesty.”

  I nodded my approval. “That’s better.”

  “They don’t know what they’re getting themselves into,” she said, just loud enough for me to hear. She crossed her arms, and I feared she’d put me in a headlock or maybe even slap me. To my surprise, she held out her hands and said, “Let’s go find ourselves a fucking sword.”

  Chapter Four: Stabbings Hurt Like a B****

  “Stop being a goddamn pussy, Jules,” I shouted at my sister.

  “Gill, I just can’t—”

  “I can’t do it myself!” I threw my arms out to my side. “Come on!” I peeked at her with one eye, the other firmly shut. It had been three days since we had disposed of the prince’s body, and Becket had done a fair job of keeping everyone away. All we had to do was make sure I had a wound just like the prince so no one would question it. As I looked at my sister, holding a dagger in her hand, I realized this was going to be harder than we thought. This was our third try, but every time Jules chickened out, pulling away at the last minute before she could make the puncture wound.

  Jules turned and jogged to the massive hearth in what used to be the prince’s bedroom, which was my solitary confinement for the last three days. Becket had insisted, to present the air that I was recovering from my “wounds.” By God, I needed her to do this so that we could get it over with.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I yelled at her.

  I watched as she shoved the dagger in the blazing fire. “There could be germs on this, Gill, what if you get infected?”

  “Jules, we’ve been over this a million times,” I said, plopping on the edge of the bed behind me. “You’re the only one who can do it.” I threw a scratchy wool blanket over my shoulders. I was naked from the waist up, freezing, and already missing cotton pants of the future. These breeches scratched and poked me everywhere, and I hated it.

  The longer my sister waited to thrust a dagger in my side, the angrier I got.

  “Why do I have to do this again?” she asked, turning to look at me finally.

  “I told you, you’re the only one w
ho can get the cut clean enough to miss actually doing any serious harm. Not to mention stitch me up. Christ, hurry the fuck up and get it over with!”

  She turned with the dagger held upright in her hand. “I can’t …” She looked at it. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said.

  “You picked an excellent time to think about that,” I said, throwing off the blanket and striding toward her. “Besides, Marie went to a lot of trouble to find that tiny dagger so that it won’t leave much of a mark.”

  She shook her head.

  “Jules, come on!” I grabbed her wrist and pointed the tip of the blade against my side. “Just do it!”

  She pulled her hand away. “I can’t!”

  “Oh, Mother Mary and the Saints,” a familiar voice said behind her. “We’re all tired of this tirade. Let me do it.”

  Marie. I hadn’t heard her come in.

  Her hair was still hidden under that white wimple, but she was wearing an emerald dress today and her brown eyes, typically void of make-up, were ringed with black kohl. She reached out and grabbed the knife from Jules' hand.

  “Here?” she said as she stepped between us. She looked up at me, and I felt the hot dagger tip searing against my skin.

  She touched my bare chest, her hand soft and cold. I shook my head and moved her hand to the left, angled it up and away from my skin. I wrapped my hand over hers, intending to help her steady the blade to miss damaging a vital organ, or worse, my large intestine. That was nasty shit I didn’t want to deal with. I dropped my hand and puffed out my chest, inhaling sharply.

  I braced for what I knew was going to be agony but figured it would be like a band-aid, the quicker we did it, the quicker the pain would subside.

  Boy, was I dead wrong.

  The blade was no more than an inch wide, two and a half inches long. Smaller than a switchblade, and I’d had a few of those stabbing in my short career as a paramedic. It would be easy for Jules to stitch up, and I’d have a scar to tell a story.

  Nothing prepared me for how painful it was to get stabbed. I’d talked my victims through it, consoled them gently as I heard them cry, scream, and shout profanities. After a few minutes, they calmed down. A little stab wound wasn’t anything.