by Tamara Leigh
“Look!” Harold held up a figure. “This one’s riding a horse, and his sword is metal.”
“Let me see.” John reached for it.
Harold hugged the worn, black figure to his chest. “I saw him first.”
Fulke prodded himself from the hearth that had surrendered its last ember hours earlier. “There are others,” he said.
John searched out one and thrust a white, horsed figure into the air as if it was the only prize to be had. “He looks most fierce, and his destrier as well.”
Fulke dropped to his haunches before the boys. “This one and Harold’s are knights, and fierce as you say.” Unexpected childhood memories rushed at him. “They were my favorites when I was your age.”
The disbelief that rose on the boys’ faces nearly made him laugh. “Aye, once I was also a child.”
“’Tis true.” Marion stepped from the bed. “Your uncle and I played out many battles on this very floor.”
“You?” John was surprisingly indignant for one so young. “A girl?”
Marion folded her arms over her chest. “One who did not always lose to a boy.”
Fulke nearly groaned. Making battle with his sister was something of which he would not have boasted. As his older half-brother had been occupied with his service to God, his younger brother, Richard, was removed by five years, and his mother had not allowed her children to play with those of ignoble blood, there had been only Marion. But the truth was that she, a year older than he, had been a wonderful companion.
Harold rose from the box. “Truly, these were yours, Uncle?”
“Aye. Now they belong to you and John. I trust you will take good care of them.”
“Ever so!” Harold wiped his runny nose on his sleeve.
John lifted the box and brought it with him to his feet. “We will be careful with them.”
Fulke ruffled his hair. “I am sure you will.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
“Aye, thank you,” Harold chimed.
Fulke stood. “Belowstairs with both of you. And no warfare until you have broken your fast.”
“May we first show our soldiers to Jeremy?” John asked.
They had missed their illegitimate half-brother, as Jeremy had missed them. Still, they should eat first. “After you are done at table.”
The boys groaned but didn’t argue. However, John paused at the door. “When may we see Sir Arthur?”
The warmth that had begun in Fulke’s chest turned chill. That man stood like a wall between him and his nephews. Was there no way over or around him? Through him?
Fulke shook his head. “Not this day, for he is not yet fully recovered.”
Disappointment fell from the boys’ faces.
“But he is going to be well,” John prompted.
Fulke knew the physician’s determination, that if the leg was not removed Crosley’s life would likely be forfeit, but that was not for children’s ears. “He is doing better. Now belowstairs with you.”
When the sound of their footfalls in the corridor was all that remained, he looked to Marion.
“Doing better?” she repeated. “You really do not believe it, do you?”
Fulke returned to the hearth and stared at the errant rushes between his feet. When he came around, Marion was waiting with hands on hips. “You would have me tell them the truth of Crosley?” he asked.
She advanced on him. “What truth? That you are wrong about him?”
“You know ‘tis his leg of which I speak.”
She halted before him. “The two are related, are they not? He has one because of the other.”
“Deservedly so.”
Anger suffused her cheeks. “I know it’s in there.” She poked his chest. “Let it out, Fulke.”
His heart again. First Nedy Plain, now his sister. But they were wrong. He stepped around her. “Do not go again to the tower room,” he called as he quit the chamber.
As he traversed the corridor, he heard her defiant “ha!” His sister was back and, as when they were children, she preferred to stumble and fall rather than bow to him.
“Bloody rood!” he grumbled as he descended the stairs. Was there no end to this tumult and turmoil? Would he never know peace? A vision of Nedy assailed him and caused his absent heart to pound. With her he had known peace, for their short time in the wood had been unfettered and more alive than he had ever felt.
Though he told himself it had all been false, when he reached the hall he was no nearer to ridding himself of unwanted feelings than he was of the woman who had sown them. So he denied them into the nooning hour that came and went with the arrival of Lady Jaspar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
She denied it, and so convincingly Fulke nearly believed her. He tried to pick the glimmer of a lie from Jaspar’s tear-swollen eyes, but if it was there, she was holding it too near to let it be seen.
He rose from the lord’s chair and strode past Sir Leonel who sat at the far end of the table with his head in his hand. The knight’s own denials had been even more convincingly told than Jaspar’s.
Fulke paced the hall. Who had hired Moriel to set upon Lady Lark? Cardell in hopes of making it appear Fulke was responsible for the death of Edward’s illegitimate issue? What gain? Fulke’s imprisonment or hanging that would see John and Harold once more in need of a protector? That protector being Baron Cardell?
Ignoring his mother’s questioning gaze where she sat at the hearth with Marion and Lady Lark, Fulke strode back the way he had come.
What of Alice Perrers? According to Lady Lark, the king’s mistress had despised the woman Edward flaunted as her rival. It was not beyond Alice to remove that threat.
“Fulke,” Jaspar implored from where she stood on the raised dais, “you must believe me.”
Then there was Sir Arthur and Nedy Plain. Had the attack on Lady Lark been but a means to assure the knight’s abduction of John and Harold? Why pretend to be Lady Lark? More diversion? Possible, but not as believable as it being Lady Jaspar who had ordered the attack, with or without Sir Leonel’s aid. A husband Jaspar wanted, and the arrival of Lady Lark as the king’s chosen one was to have laid to rest the possibility she might one day sit at Fulke’s side.
It might also have been someone not heretofore considered. What of the two-headed wyvern? If it was true what Nedy Plain told. The device was from Edward’s paternal side, that much Fulke knew, but there his knowledge waned. Thus, before Lady Jaspar’s arrival this noon, Fulke had sent one of the king’s men to London to search out the giver of such medallions.
Lady Lark rose from her chair before the hearth. “My lord, I have grown weary. I bid you good eve.” She turned to Fulke’s mother. “My lady.”
The older woman lifted an eyebrow. Two days gone now and she liked Lark no better.
“I apologize for distressing you so, Lady Lark,” Fulke said. “Good eve.”
Lark stared at him and searched for a response to this man her father would have her wed. It was there, a curious attraction that might grow if she allowed it, but she would not. She had made a vow and would keep it. Bride to Christ, never to man.
Though she tried to ignore the presence of the one she had disregarded throughout Lady Jaspar’s pleadings, she glanced at Fulke’s brother, Richard, who stood near an alcove. His arms were propped over his chest and legs spread, emphasizing the arrogance on which he seemed erected. Strange, though he had yet to speak a word to her, she was stirred each time their eyes met. If he was the one she was to wed, could she so easily refuse?
Aye, her place was at the convent, and to the convent she would go. Pretending she felt no regret for the keeping of her vow, she looked to Lady Marion.
The woman smiled. “Good eve, Lady Lark.”
Lark started toward the stairway. Odd though Marion was at times, especially in the presence of her mother when she turned quiet and passive, Lark liked her. In her mother’s absence, she was talkative, especially on the subject of Sir Arthur and Nedy P
lain, both of whom Marion had visited twice this day.
Lark ascended the stairs. As she neared the chamber occupied by John and Harold, she heard a sound. Were the boys well? She pushed the door inward. The light within came from the hearth where a fire leapt and crackled. Before it sat John and Harold amid the carved wooden soldiers their uncle had presented this morning. So intent were they on their playthings, they didn’t notice her.
She was tempted to slip away and allow them these stolen hours, but it was late and they needed their rest. Crossing the threshold, she winced as the rushes underfoot cracked and popped in time with the logs in the fire. They ought to be replaced. They were too dry and lacked the scent of strewn herbs that only fresh rushes could impart. Her heart tugged. These boys needed a mother to care for them and see to those things a village woman with her own children would care nothing of. But not me, Lark reminded herself. Fulke Wynland would have to find another mother for them.
“Boys, you ought to be abed.”
They yelped and jerked back, causing the rushes to scatter. Not that they hadn’t already made a fine mess of them. The rushes would have to be cleared from the hearth once the boys were abed.
“L-lady Lark.” John sheepishly cast his face down. “We were just looking at our soldiers—could not sleep for thinking of them.”
She lowered to her knees and lifted a soldier to firelight. “And fine they are, John.”
“That one is Sir Arthur,” Harold said.
“I do note a certain resemblance.” Lark smiled. “Now, ‘tis time you and your brother were asleep.”
Harold groaned. “One more minute, my lady. Please?”
As he was still somewhat weepy-eyed from the sickness that had laid him abed at Farfallow, it appeared he was near tears. She swept the hair back from his brow. “The sooner you sleep, the sooner you shall awaken and take up your soldiers once more. Now to bed.”
Harold thrust his lower lip forward, but John began picking the soldiers from the rushes and settling them in their wooden box.
“May we sleep with them?” Harold asked.
Lark rose. “You will not play with them?”
“Nay, my lady, we shall just hold them.”
She smoothed John’s hair. “Very well.”
Shortly, the boys were snugged deep beneath the blankets.
“Will you stay a while, my lady?” John peered through the shadows at where Lark stood alongside the bed.
“Just until we sleep,” Harold said.
“Well—”
“Sir Arthur always sat beside us until we slept,” John said.
It seemed nearly all conversations with the boys began and ended with the knight. If only he could be here for them. “You miss Sir Arthur.”
Their heads bobbed.
“When can we see him?” Harold asked.
Lark knew she should not speak for Fulke Wynland, but the boys needed reassurance. “When Sir Arthur is recovered, your uncle will bring you to him.”
“When will that be?” John asked.
“I do not know. A sennight, mayhap a fortnight.” She smiled large. “Now hug your soldiers tight and close your eyes that the morrow will come all the sooner.”
“You will sit with us?” Harold pressed.
Five minutes, Lark told herself. “I will.” She pulled the chair behind nearer and lowered into it. “Close your eyes.”
They complied, but not a minute passed before John’s hand crept from beneath the blanket and his small fingers slid over hers.
Poor little soul. Lark laid her head on the mattress. Not that she would be able to sleep draped over the bed, but if the boys thought she did, perhaps they would also go adrift.
John turned onto his side and bent his head near hers. “Good eve, my lady.” His sweet, warm breath fanned her brow, making her awkward perch suddenly comfortable.
“Nay!”
The shout tore through Kennedy’s dream of flying. “Mac?” She sat up and searched the darkness that was broken by an orange glow.
“Not my boys!” His tormented cry hauled her regard to where he stood before one of the narrow windows that faced the keep. Through it and two others, the orange light entered the room, accompanied by smoke.
Kennedy stumbled to her feet. As she neared Mac, she heard shouts in the bailey below. Dear Lord, not this. But it was. She knew it without seeing past Mac. Her hand trembled as she reached to him. “Come away.”
His head snapped around, the tears in his eyes reflecting flames. “John and Harold cry for me. Can you hear them?”
Not over the roar and hiss of fire, the gabble of those in the bailey. And neither could he. Kennedy put an arm around him and tried to draw him away.
He wrenched free and reached through the window as if to pull the boys from the flames.
A tear slid down Kennedy’s jaw. She swallowed and crossed to the window to the left of the one through which Mac was trying to squeeze himself.
The left front corner of the keep was ablaze, flames shooting from the upper windows, smoke billowing from the rooftop. As the building was made of stone, it would hold, but those within would perish.
She pressed herself back against the wall. Real or not, this terrible night was long ago written and there was no stopping the madman who had once more seen it to its heinous end.
And Fulke? Where was he? Not with the boys—unless that had changed as so many other things had done. No, he was all right. She had to believe it. But what torment the deaths of John and Harold would bring him. Never would he forgive himself. She slumped down the wall.
Mac was raging now, tearing around the room as if his injury did not pain him, and perhaps it didn’t, as gripped as he was by this new ache. He cursed, shouted, overturned, and threw the few items he could lay hands to.
Kennedy dragged herself upright. Sinuses stinging from the smoke, she went to where Mac was before the door clawing at the lock and shouting to be let out.
“Mac,” she spoke as evenly as her quavering voice allowed, “there’s nothing you can do.”
He slammed back against the door. “Then why am I here? Why are you?’ As when the wheelchair had been the recipient of his fists, the door shook with the anger he landed to it. “I refuse to believe it!”
Kennedy squeezed her emotions into her own fists. “It happened, Mac, just like the book said.”
He shoved off the door. “It can be changed. I’ve seen it, and so have you. It—” He grunted, reeled back, and grabbed his thigh.
Had he torn his stitches? “If you’re not careful, you’ll—”
“Let him take my leg! He can have both of them. All of me!”
It was time for some shrink talk, and the only place she could think to start was with an acknowledgment of his feelings. Kennedy laid a hand on his shoulder. “You love them, don’t you? As if they were your own sons.”
He slowly lowered his lids over his pain. “They’re my second chance. I can’t lose them.”
But he had. Barring a miracle, John and Harold were gone as surely as his two sons taken from him by their mother.
“Mac—”
His eyes sprang open, and when he spoke, hope trembled from him. “You can make it right.”
His intensity made her step back.
“One last trip, Ken.”
She stared at his face that was partially lit by the orange glow. Time travel. Though the slip of reason that was all that remained of her sanity insisted it could not be real, her mad heart believed. “This is crazy.”
He gripped her shoulders. “You’ll do it?”
She looked down, watched her hands clasp and unclasp. Go on, stop trying to make sense of it. Accepting what her heart had known for some time now, she felt a surge of elation, a shower of hope, a soaring in her breast. A second chance. A new start. She had only to let it in.
“Will you do it?”
She focused on his deeply shadowed face. “Yes, providing I haven’t. . .” Why was it so hard to say? She kne
w it, accepted it. Didn’t she? Still, it stuck in her throat. She cleared it. “Providing I haven’t died.” Just because he had felt the final pull didn’t mean she would.
He sighed.
So she would make the journey. When—if—the pull came, she wouldn’t fight it. But what if she couldn’t make it back? She would never see Fulke again, would die with only a memory that would blow out like a candle with her last breath. “I could die before I reach the level of deprivation needed to return me. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know. How many hours does it take you?”
“Eighty-six the first time.”
His hands fell from her. “That’s all?”
She felt almost ashamed. “I’m no stranger to insomnia, but I’m not conditioned to the level you are—were.”
“Do you think you can do it in less?”
“On the second go-around, I got it down to seventy-two.”
“How?”
“By not sleeping after the first awakening. I knew I didn’t have much time to complete my research, so I started right into the next cycle.”
“I tried that but couldn’t do it.”
She wasn’t surprised he had made the attempt. “Two hundred plus hours is a far cry from eighty-six, Mac.”
He turned, stumbled, and fell against the door. “My leg. It’s. . .” He pressed a hand to it and showed her his crimson palm. “The stitches are torn.”
She eased him to the floor. “I’ll send for the physician.”
“Nothing can be done for me.”
She sat back. “If I can change John and Harold’s fate, maybe I can change yours and make it so this never happened.” How, she didn’t know, but if she made it back to the twenty-first century she would have several days to work it out.
“Not that far back, Ken. This is the night you need to return to. Put yourself in the keep before the fire and bring the boys out.”
“But what about your leg?”
His jaw shifted. “What matters is John and Harold. I have lived. It’s their turn.”
Though she had no intention of leaving him out in the cold, now was not the time to argue. “All right, but don’t you think it’s cutting it close to return to this night? There’s no room for error.”
