Waterfall

by Lisa T. Bergren

  “Mayhap,” I said, picking up on her word for perhaps. “I am in search of my mother, whom we have not heard from in some time.”

  “We?” she asked, looking over my shoulder, as if innocently expecting someone to appear. Man, I was glad women didn’t have to play dumb in the twenty-first century. Most of the time, anyway.

  Marcello cleared his throat. “She and her sister became separated and lost in the woods. She awakened to find herself in the midst of our battle and was nearly captured by a Paratore knight.”

  “How frightful,” Lady Rossi said, bringing a hand to her throat.

  “Quite,” I said with a little nod.

  “We will, of course,” the older man, Lord Forelli, said, “aid you in any way possible to reunite you with your family.” His mouth and eye drooped a bit on the left side, as if he had once suffered a stroke. My grandpa had had a stroke when I was little, and I remembered that aftereffect. Lord Forelli’s voice and eyes were so kind, I did a double take.

  “Thank you,” I said. I frowned, embarrassed by my sudden tears. Was it the man’s fatherly tone? Oh, Dad, I thought, longing for my father.

  More had gathered around us by this time. “Poor dear,” said a portly, middle-aged woman, whom I took to be a servant. “No doubt you’d like a good bath and a decent meal. You must be famished.”

  I straightened, shaking off my tears, when my stomach rumbled as if in response to the woman’s offer. I’m sure they all heard it. A couple of them turned away, but not before I saw their smiles. Lord Forelli, the servant, Lady Rossi, and Marcello kept straight faces.

  “Come then, m’lady,” the woman said, turning me around and ushering me across the clearing. “I’ll get you settled into a room for the night. All I have at this hour is a bit of bread and wine. But it’ll hold you until supper.”

  “Thank you.” I hesitated. Had she said her name?

  “My name’s Maria Mariani, but most call me Cook here in the castle.”

  “You cook for all?” I said. There had to have been more than fifty people milling about.

  She looked at me strangely for a moment, as if she didn’t quite understand me, then quickly regained her expression of deference. “I oversee all aspects of keeping the castle in order, and feeding everyone within its walls, with the help of others. Perhaps it is different in Normandy?”

  “At times,” I mumbled.

  We walked by an open doorway that led to one of the castle’s turrets, and I glimpsed a tall, thin man in a long, brown overcoat, staring at me. He said nothing, and Cook ignored him. I did too. But his unblinking eyes gave me the creeps. Thoughts of the Paratore knight asking me if I was a witch returned, and I grimaced at the memory of a research paper I’d written on the Salem Witch Trials. What did they do to supposed witches in the fourteenth century? When did the Inquisition happen? Yeah, I need to grab that nap and get the heck outta here.…

  The round woman led me down a long, narrow, stone hallway, lit by a torch at the end. Even though it was the middle of day, the place was as dark as the inside of an Etruscan tomb. We reached the end of the corridor, and Cook pulled a ring of keys from her waistband and slid one into the lock. “Good for you to have a locking door, m’lady, to protect your valuables.” She looked beyond me, as if expecting to see two footmen carrying my trunks, and then seemed to remember herself. “Oh, dear. You’ve arrived with naught but the clothes on your back?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I said, “and this is good for little else than traveling. Might you know of a tall lady from whom I might borrow a gown or two?” Their antiquated method of speech was coming easier now, like a language I’d forgotten, but had always known. Like when I’d read a Shakespearean play and have a hard time at first trying to understand it, but then, after a while, I’d be into it and get it.

  She studied me, and it was like she was considering a giant. An Amazon. I know, lady, I know. I’m tall. “Mayhap,” I said, trying to curb my irritation before I lost it, “someone my size up here?” I said, gesturing to my shoulders. “But with a longer skirt? You know, until we find my trunks.” Which will be, like, never. But she didn’t need to know that.

  “There’s nothing for it,” she said briskly. “The tallest lady in court is still a hand shorter than you.” She gave me a gentle smile. “You have the stance of a warrior queen, m’lady.”

  A warrior queen? Well, that was something to cling to. I stood up a little straighter. “Anything you could do to aid me would be most appreciated.”

  “Of course. At the very least, I’ll send a seamstress over and add a length of cloth to the underdress you have on.”

  Two maids arrived, carrying heavy, sloshing buckets of water. A footman arrived behind them with a curved wooden tub bound together like a wine cask. He set it down, and the maids dumped their water inside, pulling them up, so the water arced gracefully into the basin below. Another arrived with a length of rough cloth—was that what they expected me to use for a towel?—and what appeared to be a cake of soap, and set it on my bed.

  For the first time, I glanced around. I was in a corner room, so there were two windows high above, covered with iron grates. They allowed fresh air and light into the room. The walls appeared to be covered in a thick, white plaster. The only decoration was a simple carved crucifix above the narrow bed.

  “When you’ve finished your bath, come back to the courtyard,” said Cook, the only one left in the room aside from me. “I’ll see you and escort you to the family. But take your leisure, m’lady. Supper’s not for hours yet.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I crossed the room and put a hand on the edge of the heavy door.

  “It’ll be all right, m’lady,” she said, looking up at me with compassion in her eyes. She gestured for me to turn and swiftly unhooked the buttons that Marcello had pulled together only a short while ago. “Mayhap it’s the Lord’s intention that you be here with us.”

  “Mayhap,” I mumbled, turning and forcing a smile to my face. I shut the door, set the latch, and then shed the dress, which was suddenly suffocating me, itchy and raw against my skin. I pulled off my cami and settled into the steaming water. I had to fold my long legs up close to my body, but at least it was deep enough to come almost to my shoulders. I took a breath and sank beneath the surface.

  Maybe when I come up, I’ll be back. Back at the apartment. Or back on site with Mom and Lia. Maybe this will be over.

  As interesting as the new place was, I wasn’t eager to stay. I wanted to be home. With people I loved. And who loved me.

  I rose up from the water and slowly willed my eyes to open.

  But all I saw was the big wooden door that separated me from a world of danger. I glanced over at the cross. “Was Cook right?” I whispered. “Did You summon me here?”

  Spending as much time in Italy as I had, I couldn’t escape the Man and the cross. He was everywhere. I had a hard time translating the lifeless figure on the cross as a deity capable of such madness. But then, I’d always thought the crucifixion itself was a severe form of insanity. I mean, God becoming man, dying to save man, returning to God resurrected? It was a leap of faith for sure.

  But then, I would’ve never believed that this, me being here, in another time, was possible. If God was crazy enough to die for His people, wasn’t it feasible that He was crazy enough to send a girl back in time for some reason? Was I supposed to change the course of history? Save the people? What?

  I wasn’t the faithful sort, by any means. My family went to church strictly on Christmas and Easter, and my parents treated it as more of a nod to culture and tradition than any personal profession of faith. My gramma had been big into the religion thing, when she was alive. She’d given me and Lia children’s Bibles, back when we were little.

  I closed my eyes, feeling pretty desperate. So, Big Guy. If You brought me here, how am I supposed
to figure out what You want from me? Are You going to give me a sign? Speak to me from a burning bush or something? Because it’s gotta be big, Lord. Big. Clear, like a text. Got that?

  I blinked my eyes open.

  No burning bush.

  No booming voice or even a still, small voice.

  No vibrating cell phone.

  Nothing at all, except me, naked in a tub older than my great-great-great-great-grandmother.

  CHAPTER 3

  The seamstress came and retrieved my underdress, frowning at my jeans and cami but saying nothing. In twenty minutes, she returned, a new six-inch band of lace sewn to the bottom of the underdress. I stared at it a moment, in awe, as it dangled above my feet, which were now properly in slippers of tapestry just big enough to cover my long toes. “This was hand-done, right?”

  She looked at me like I’d lost it, and I clamped my mouth shut. Stupid, Gabi. This was an age far before machinery intricate enough to generate lace on a loom. They’d only been doing that for, like, a hundred years.

  The woman seemed to gather herself. “Let me help you with your hair, m’lady.”

  Obediently, I sat on the corner of the bed as she wound it into what felt like a pretzel shape at the bottom of my scalp and swept a net over it, fastening it with pins to the small fabric piece just past the crown of my head.

  She stood back and gave me a curt nod of satisfaction. “The lord and other nobles will be gathering shortly in the dining hall. Would you like me to escort you, m’lady?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I…um…need a moment.”

  “Of course, m’lady.” She bowed a little and exited, as if half-hating to leave and half-eager to do so. Crazy woman, she’s probably thinking. She’s gone bonkers. Lost her marbles. I paced the floor, suddenly feeling on the border of insanity. Marbles? Did they have marbles yet? What games did they have? I again wished I had my phone with me. If I hadn’t left it in the car, there might have been some way to call home, even across time. Some weird portal. Or at the very least, games to play on it. Not that I’d have anywhere to plug it in once it died.…

  Over and over I glanced at the small windows high on my wall, well aware when golden clouds gave way to peach skies. It had to be seven or after.

  A gentle knock at my door made me jump. “Lady Betarrini?”

  Marcello. My hand went to my throat like that silly twit’s had. Maybe it wasn’t her fault. Maybe this guy inspired weak-kneed reactions in every girl.

  “Yes?” I said, forcing confidence into my voice.

  “It’s time to sup. Won’t you join us? I’ll escort you.”

  There was no way out of it. Cook, the seamstress, and now Marcello all seemed bent on my heading to dinner. I moved to the door, flipped the latch, and opened it. He stood there, a slight smile on his full lips, and glanced down at my dress. “They’ve fixed your gown, I see,” he said. “But they can’t quite tame your hair, can they?” A gentle, teasing smile touched his lips.

  I reached up and felt coils of my hair escaping the seamstress’s careful knot. Curse these curls! If only I had Lia’s silky, long, blonde, straight hair. “Oh,” I said in dismay.

  “No,” he said, looking suddenly remorseful. “I only meant to say…” He clamped his lips shut a moment, then, “It reminds me of how you looked when I found you. A nymph of the woods entrapped in a tomb, just waiting to be set free.”

  I tried to swallow but found it difficult under his warm, searching gaze. The guy was clearly intrigued. With me? Or just my weird story?

  “Shall we?” he asked.

  I stared back at him. “Shall we what? Oh. Head to dinner. Supper,” I corrected myself in a rush. “The meal. Food.” Shut up, Gabi! Stop! The less I said, the better.

  But he grinned and offered his arm. “Cook’s bread didn’t stave off your hunger?’

  “Nay, not quite,” I said, wrapping my hand around the crook of his elbow like some high school dance date.

  He smiled, more gently this time, and took my hand from his arm. “Here in Toscana, we proceed in this manner.” He put out his right arm, hand somewhat extended, then placed my left atop his forearm and wrist. “This way, we must walk in tandem. It’s far more elegant.”

  “Far more,” I said. Seriously. Who had time for such things? I’d have to really watch and try and get a grip on such things before he had to teach me anything else.

  We moved down the corridor, and he dropped my hand, softly, at the doorway, then after I came through to the courtyard, offered his arm again. With the long dress, my hair in a net, towers all around, and a couple of guards checking us out, I almost freaked out again, very aware of how far away home really was. But I managed to keep it together. Mostly.

  “You are the tallest woman I’ve met.”

  “I think I’m going to get that a lot.”

  “Get that?”

  “Hear that.”

  “Yes, well, I rather like it. It’s far easier to hold your arm than Lady Rossi’s.” He said her name in a mumble, as if realizing too late, that his compliment to me was a dig at his girl.

  We entered the Great Hall. There was a long table on a slightly elevated dais at the front of the room where Lord Forelli, Marcello’s knights, Lady Rossi, her peeps, that tall, thin man, and a few others were already seated. All the men rose to their feet, looking in my direction. Some sort of old-fashioned chivalry? I could feel the heat of a blush climb my neck and cheeks, as well as the piercing cold of Lady Rossi’s stare—along with the stares of girls who surrounded her, despite their genteel smiles. Below them, two tables stretched outward, each easily seating twenty. All the men at these tables also rose and looked my way.

  I’d never seen such a dining room, except for at my cousin’s wedding, where she insisted on doing the whole nine yards in a sixteenth-century theme. She and her husband had met as actors in an annual Renaissance faire in California. My parents loved it, of course, even though it was the cheesiest of historical honors. My sister and I thought they were whacked, and spent the evening making fun of them from behind our fat turkey drumsticks.

  But there I was, living what could only be my cousin’s biggest fantasy, as Marcello led me to the front of the room. Fat yellow candles adorned the tables in hand-carved candelabras. On the walls were candleholders with more candles, spaced evenly between massive tapestries like those I’d seen in a Venetian museum, imported from Denmark. Above us, wider candles cast light from a wrought-iron ring hanging from a chain that was wound down from the corner of the room on a winch. Food sat on wide wooden platters—something I heard Luca refer to as a “trencher”—in the middle of each group of six or so. A couple of roasted hens; grilled apples; a bowl of what looked like oatmeal; round, brown loaves of bread. Goblets held red wine, and judging by the boisterous talk behind us, I wondered how long these people had been drinking as they’d waited on my arrival.

  Lady Rossi looked up at me sweetly as I took a seat across from her. “Lady Betarrini, I trust you are refreshed?” She glanced left and right, all wide-eyed and innocent. Innocent as a streetwalker. “We feared you had taken sick when you did not appear to sup.” Her glance moved to Marcello, who was watching the exchange with interest, and held there. Yeah, right. You mean you hoped I’d gotten sick enough to die. You’re not fooling me. Marcello had left my side and walked around the table, then stood behind his chair.

  “I am quite refreshed,” I said. “Forgive my tardiness.”

  Lord Forelli rose and gave me a smile. “Fret not over it, Lady Betarrini. You are here now.” The women all remained seated, and so I did too.

  Then the older Forelli bowed his head, and the rest did the same. “Lord God,” the old man said, “please bless this food. Thank You for Your provision and protection over our men this day. May Your will be forever done. Amen.”

  “Amen,”
repeated the men, loud enough to make me jump a little in my seat. I hoped everyone else had their eyes closed and missed it.

  She hadn’t, of course. Lady Rossi looked down, but her little smile didn’t escape me. She shared a little sideways glance with the girl to her right and I focused on my goblet. Nothing but wine to drink. No water. No milk. I’d have to be careful. Mom and Dad had let me taste some before, but I’d never had a whole glass. The last thing I needed was to get wasted and start yammering about modern medicine and space travel.

  I took a tentative sip, thinking about the girl across from me. I knew her. I mean, I didn’t know her–know her, but I knew her. She wasn’t the overtly mean girl, the pretty cheerleader with the aging cheerleader mom living her youth again through her kid. She was the smarter, more dastardly popular girl who was always nice to your face and ripped you apart in the shadows. She was the one who planned terrible Facebook assassination campaigns, but no one could ever pin them on her. The one who managed to steal your boyfriend before you even realized she was a threat.

  It was good that Lia wasn’t here. This kind of girl routinely destroyed my naive, artsy, trusting sis. But me? I’d dealt with it, seen it before. Of course, I didn’t want to take her on. There was no need. I’d be out of here soon enough. But if she thought she had me figured out, she had another thought coming. “So…Lady Rossi. Please, tell me about yourself. Where did you obtain such a fine, amazing gown?”

  Her friend smiled, obviously pleased by my compliments, and I sensed a bit of a thaw, but I didn’t get the same vibe from Miss Fancypants. She answered my question as Marcello carved a slice of chicken for each of us. But while words were emanating from her rosebud lips, her murky brown eyes were fastened on me, considering me, considering her next move. Like chess players. I suddenly had the desire to take her on at a chess table. Knights and queens and horses on a table before me while I was surrounded by real knights and princes and horses. How many people could say that?