In the Time of Kings

by Sasson, N. Gemini

  “Of course,” she says. Smiling faintly, Beatrice gives me her hand. It takes me a few seconds to realize I’m supposed to kiss it, but I do. “When you’re done, I’d like to steal her back for a few hours. The boys have missed her sorely. She was such a good nursemaid to them when they were younger. She’ll make a wonderful mother to your own children one day soon.”

  After Beatrice and Mariota exchange a flurry of kisses, I find myself alone with Mariota. I don’t know what to say or where to begin. Apparently, neither does she. So I turn and start walking. We make our way through a short corridor which connects to the main hall. Malcolm is there, clutching a tankard like a sailor on furlough after six months at sea. Mariota raises a hand to him. He tips his head in acknowledgment, then eyes me scornfully. If he could shoot lasers with his eyes, I’d be reduced to a pile of smoking ash. I ball my fists defensively, expecting him to get up and storm at us. Thankfully, though, one of the men he’s with slaps him on the back and shares a joke, rescuing me.

  The outer doors are open and we walk outside into a light mist. It’s now the first of May and the day is warming gradually, if not drying out. As we walk slowly, the space between us widens.

  “You wished to speak with me?” she says.

  “Do I need a reason to be with you?” I say a little too tersely. She flinches. I can’t help myself. The hopelessness of my situation is beginning to wear on me. Realizing how snide that sounded, I try another approach. “It’s just that ... we haven’t been alone yet. I wanted to talk last night, but I couldn’t find you. It’s like you’re avoiding me. Like you’re more disappointed than glad to find me here. Are you?”

  The pungent smell of hay assaults my nostrils. We’re nearing the stables now. I expect to start sneezing and itching, but nothing happens. I inhale more deeply. Until now, I hadn’t realized how good that smell actually is.

  “Was I what?”

  “Avoiding me. Disappointed.” I hold out my hand and begin to count on my fingers. “Angry. Indifferent. Shocked. Disbelieving ... Take your pick.”

  Mariota puts a hand on my arm to halt me. But it’s only to keep me from plowing into a horse’s side as a groom leads it from one of the side stalls toward the smith’s shed. She starts forward again, but I quickly turn in front of her, blocking her path.

  Her mouth twists with unspoken words. Fine creases furrow her forehead. “You’re different, somehow.”

  Tell me about it. Seeing Roslin again may have been hard for her so far, but she has no idea what the past few days have been like for me. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember —”

  “I know. They told me. Still ... it’s as if I look into your eyes and I see someone else.”

  “Is that a good or bad thing?” I try to joke, but it falls flat. If anything, I’ve only confused her. Or put her off even more, if that’s even possible. “Look, whoever I was before, I get the feeling I wasn’t entirely good to you. That things between us were shaky, at best. Whatever it was I did, or didn’t do, I’m sorry. I’d like to start over, if that’s okay?”

  She blinks at me in confusion. Oh, I’ve just used a word, ‘okay’, that won’t be invented for several hundred more years. “I mean, can we put the past behind us, please? Maybe later, you can explain things to me and I’ll understand how I may have upset you. Until then, I desperately need someone to tell me who’s who, what’s going on, how I’m supposed to handle things with my father when we get to Blacklaw —”

  Her features darken at the mention.

  “You don’t like Blacklaw? Or is it my father?”

  She looks around, as if to avoid meeting my eyes. “It ...” Her gaze drops to the mud at her feet. Her shoes are caked with filth, yet she hasn’t complained. “It was supposed to be our home. Yet every day I waited for you, trying to fill the hours. As for Sir Henry ... we haven’t much to talk about beyond the weather and the crops. Even then my opinion is seldom valued.”

  She looks so vulnerable, so wounded. I brush her cheek with my thumb. So, I had abandoned her and left her alone with a disagreeable father-in-law? If I’d done that to Claire, she would have murdered me upon my return. Mariota, instead, has drawn into herself, suffered the solitude. I know what living with a person like that’s like. It’s worse than being alone. “Would you rather stay here with Beatrice?”

  “No!” She looks up suddenly, panic widening her eyes. Something, or someone, has made her change her mind about being in Lintalee since yesterday.

  “All right, then.” I stroke her hair, trying to reassure her. “We’re supposed to leave for Blacklaw tomorrow. I’ll try to make up for lost time.”

  She looks away. “It will take you more than a day to do that.”

  “Then I’ll take as long as is needed.” I’m not sure why I’ve made her those promises, but for now it seems the right thing to do. As long as I’m stuck in the fourteenth century, I might as well make the best of it.

  “Now, tell me about my brother William, will you?” I offer her my elbow.

  Tentative, she slips a hand around my arm. The yard is crowding with people: soldiers carrying supplies on their shoulders, grooms tending to horses, women scurrying about in small groups with baskets of laundry and food, children trailing at their skirts.

  “Perhaps we could speak more privately somewhere?” Her gaze sweeps around the compound. She points. “There, in the granary.”

  I’m not entirely sure what a granary is, so I let her guide me. We begin toward a building that looks vaguely like a barn.

  “He left a son behind,” she says.

  “William did? How old is he now? And where is he?”

  “Four, I believe. He was an infant when you and your brother left. The boy is in Orkney with his mother’s family.” She guides me in the direction of a wagon piled with sacks of grain. “This way.”

  A few nobles pass us and raise a hand in greeting; I smile at them, even though I have no idea who they are. Mariota whispers their names to me: John Thomas, Patrick Graham, Robert Gordon, John le Fitzwilliam ... I catch a couple of earls in there, but by the time we reach the granary, I’ve already forgotten who’s who. When she starts to tell me how they’re all related, I wave my hands at her.

  “One more and my head is going to explode.” I press my fingertips to my temples.

  Laughter trickles from her throat. She clamps a hand over her mouth, trying to quell it, but it spills out, light as duck down. We’re standing between the cart and the granary. A trace of grain dust hangs in the air, despite the dampness from the previous night’s rain.

  “What’s so hilarious?” I ask. It’s the first I’ve seen her let her guard down. I like this side of her.

  Finally, she puts a hand on the cart’s bed to steady herself as she waits for her laughter to subside. “You always used to complain about keeping straight who held a grudge against whom. You believed most of it was posturing for favors or overblown misunderstanding. You found it aggravating and petty, yet you partook of your share of it yourself. This way, although you may find it frustrating to not be able to remember, everything is new to you. Old grievances are forgotten.” Her smile fades away. “If we could all forget, then maybe we could forgive more easily.”

  The echo of a long-ago voice, my mother’s, sounds inside my head:

  ‘Maybe someday you’ll even ... forgive him.’

  I turn away. No, it’s not that easy for me. It’s been years since I’ve spoken to my dad and I still can’t forgive him for the way he treated us. Even here, centuries removed, I still get riled up over it. Would it have been that hard for him to tell us he was sorry for the things he’d said? To make it up by showing Mom compassion when she’d needed it most? To have supported my aspirations in some way or maybe just once told me he was proud of me?

  Mariota touches my arm. “Roslin, is something troubling you?”

  “No. I’m fine.” She doesn’t need to know. It isn’t her problem. Turning back to her, I take her hand, holding it firmly as I try t
o anchor myself in this place and time. I’m about to ask her about William again when I see someone striding toward us: Alan Stewart.

  “Sir Roslin!” he shouts.

  Too bad I didn’t see him first.

  When he reaches us, he steals Mariota’s hand from my grip and places a kiss on her knuckles — a tender, lingering kiss. Even as he looks up at her, his hold on her goes on uncomfortably long. Mariota doesn’t pull away or even glance away coyly, but meets his gaze with a degree of coldness I didn’t know was in her. He tilts his head as he takes her in, his words softening to a husky murmur. “And the lovely Lady Mariota.”

  Heat flares at the back of my neck and spreads around to my chest. If he hadn’t finally let go of her hand, I might have punched him. Then again, who am I kidding? I’ve never hit anyone in my life. Instead, I bury my feelings. I hate conflict. Hate the yelling. Hate how it never solves anything.

  “Good morning, Sir Alan,” I say between clenched teeth. I place Mariota’s hand on my forearm, trying to make a point. “If you don’t mind —”

  “Did Lord Archibald tell you?” He grins smugly.

  “Tell me what?”

  “I am to accompany you to Blacklaw. He was concerned, given your condition, about your ability to oversee the organization of troops and the collection of supplies at Dunbar. He thought I should, perhaps ... how to put this ... replace you in that capacity, for the most part. I’ll keep you well informed, though.” He gives me a patronizing pat on the upper arm. “In the morning then. We depart an hour after sunrise.”

  As he strides arrogantly away, I glance at Mariota. Her mouth is set in a firm line, her fingernails digging into my flesh. If it’s possible, she looks even less pleased than I am.

  Before I can probe for details, Mariota has plucked up the hem of her skirt and begun back toward the great hall.

  “Where are you going?” I reach for her, but she’s already several steps away.

  “I’m late. Lady Beatrice is expecting me.”

  Somehow, I don’t think that’s true. Something about Alan unsettles her. Something she isn’t willing to share. At least not yet.

  22

  LONG, LONG AGO

  North of Lintalee, Scotland — 1333

  The day dawns in rare brilliance. A scattering of sunlight, bright as a welder’s torch, falls upon the forest floor surrounding Lintalee as our party heads out. The air is thick with the scent of pine needles being crushed beneath horses’ hooves.

  The road — if it can be called that, for it’s nothing but a beaten dirt path — curves around massive tree trunks and crosses gurgling streams. This is old forest, ancient trees soaring to scrape the heavens. The deeper we go into it, the more the earth below is so scant of light that very little grows underneath. Birds sing unseen from the lacework of branches and small creatures scatter at our passing.

  There are two dozen of us, most of them Alan’s men. Duncan leads at the front of the group with Alan, while Mariota and I ride side by side in the middle, surrounded by men who wear their armor as comfortably as their own skin. While the armor hasn’t proven to be nearly as hot or heavy as I expected, I still find it a far cry from a broken in pair of jeans and a well fitted T-shirt. Even if I’d been able to wear the clothes I’m used to, I wouldn’t have. The more I make an effort to fit in here, the fewer stares I’ll get.

  With every snapped twig, my eyes dart through the undergrowth. I listen intently, my ears keened for the twang of a bowstring. Whenever the wind rushes through the leaves, I glance behind us, thinking it’s the rising rumble of hooves from an English ambush party. Duncan has taken pains to warn me of the possibility we could come under attack and instructed me in how to defend the womenfolk if that comes to pass. I figure both my first and final objectives are: don’t die — or at least avoid being maimed. I’d signed up for a fencing class during my freshman year of college, but during the first session my impulse whenever my opponent thrust his rapier at me was to roll up in a ball on the floor and cover my head with my hands. I quickly switched to bowling class. Me landing in a century where carrying around a length of steel is commonplace is a joke. I’m more likely to accidentally cut myself than intentionally harm someone else.

  I hate to admit it, but when Archibald started to talk to me last night about collecting provisions and the organization of further raids into the north of England to gather cattle and sheep, I was thankful the task had been handed over to Alan. I want no part in planning for a war. I’m about as far from being militarily-minded as a guy can get. I’m a biologist. I’m constantly distracted by the range of flora and fauna around us, reciting genus and species in Latin in my head — Hyacinthoides non-scripta, Pinus sylvestris, Martes martes — whenever I’m not imagining enemy arrows whizzing through the air at my head.

  Mariota tugs her hood back. A long braid twists over her shoulder and down her front, the ends of wispy curls escaping at random intervals. Fair skin complements the golden red of her hair and beneath delicately arched brows, her green eyes take in the road ahead. It’s the same look Claire gets whenever she’s daydreaming. Mariota’s gaze sweeps from left to right as the road opens out into a meadow speckled with spring’s first wildflowers. Laying the reins across her lap, she lifts her face to the sky, closes her eyes and inhales. Her hands, palms up, drift out to her sides. Silk ribbons trail from her flared sleeves, which are hemmed with gold-embroidered knotwork. Breathtaking. It’s like something out of a Waterhouse painting.

  A dove coos from behind us, startling her. Her eyes fly wide and she suddenly realizes I’m staring at her.

  “What?” I say. “Can’t a man admire his wife?”

  A blush infusing her snowy skin, she looks away. She grabs the reins again, pinching them hard. That’s when I notice her gaze is fixed on something in the meadow. As I peer into the brightness, two shapes part from the far grove of trees.

  My heart seizes. For a moment, I stop breathing. Everything around me fades away. All I can see is them, unafraid and unwavering, as they gaze back at us. There are two of them, just like before.

  The majestic stag lifts his head higher, ears perked forward. The nostrils of his black nose flare as he lets out a snort. His antlers are tipped with six prongs on each side. The winter fur is thinning to a sleek reddish brown hide. Behind him, the doe sniffs the air, then goes to stand next to him, making the contrast in size between them more apparent. Her neckline is more elegant, her features more refined than his. She curves her neck around to rub her head against his shoulder.

  The edges of time blur. I am back there, with Claire, when we got lost in the Grampian Mountains and stopped by the side of the road. The doe gazes back at me and I swear I can feel her presence — Claire’s — surrounding me, filling my heart, coursing through my blood.

  Love never dies.

  The stag’s hide twitches. He steps back, his muscles rigid, ready. The doe’s head snaps up, dark eyes wide, ears alert.

  The rest of our party has halted. Beside Malcolm, one of the men has an arrow fitted to his bow. The string is taut, his elbow cocked back.

  Malcolm jabs a finger at the deer. “Now!”

  All I see is the flick of the bowstring and the feathered end of the shaft zipping past his fingers. It hisses across the open meadow and thwacks into the ground where the stag and doe had been standing only seconds ago.

  They’re already bounding back across the meadow on slender, powerful legs, propelled by fear.

  I kick my horse in the flanks and race toward Malcolm. The man who shot the arrow and two others are galloping across the meadow in pursuit.

  “Call them off!” My horse’s hooves slam into the ground as I jerk back on the reins. It wheels around one full turn before coming to a complete stop. Vertigo rushes over me. I grip the edge of my saddle until the world stops tilting.

  “Call them off?” Malcolm’s deep laughter rattles in my ears. “That’s our supper they’re going to bring down.”

  “They won’t
catch them.” They can’t. It’s not the deer’s time to die. I’m not sure how I know that. I just do.

  “I say they will.” Arching his back, he pats his stomach. “Ahhh, venison roasted over an open spit ...”

  If he keeps this up, I’m going to spew vomit all over him.

  “Sir Roslin is right.” Alan lays his reins over his mount’s withers and dismounts. “Sound the horn and call them back, Malcolm. We don’t need to lose any men over an impulsive hunt. We’re too close to the border for that sort of folly.”

  A grumble escapes Malcolm’s throat, but he complies. The horn blasts once, twice, and a minute later the three men are cantering back into the clearing.

  “Thank you,” I say to Alan.

  “For being sensible? Save your gratitude for more important things — such as the fact that I’ve been sent along to carry out a duty that should have been yours, but which you are presently incapable of doing.” Contempt bubbles beneath the surface of his words. He uncorks his flask and takes a drink. “We’ll stop here to eat, but not long. We need to reach the Teviot before nightfall.”

  If he’s expecting an argument, he won’t get one from me. I don’t want the duties he’s taken over. I don’t even want to be here.

  “Roslin?”

  Behind me stands Mariota, holding out bread and a flask. My stomach rumbles. If there’s one shining light in this backwards world, it’s her. I climb down from my saddle, glad to be on firm ground again. Beneath the broad boughs of an oak tree, we share our bland meal, barely saying a word. Oddly, I find the silence comfortable, the way it is with an old friend.

  A tingle of electricity sparks in my chest and I can sense her eyes upon me. We smile briefly at each other and then look away. Sitting in silence with her, I begin to understand her better. She’s not quiet because she’s shy or awkward. It’s more of a calmness that she exudes. Serenity. And right now, I need that, because so much around me is beyond my control.

  A half hour later, we’re riding again, the dense growth of the forest having given way to grassy hills.