by Dakota Chase
“I clearly remember saying he would keep it with him.”
“You’re clearly out of your mind.” I gave him a little push, and he stumbled back a step. He had to juggle the platter of Michaelmas pudding to keep from dropping it.
He hissed at me. “Keep your voice down! Do you want somebody to hear us?”
“You started it!”
“Do you really want to do this right now? Or do you want to get the book and get the hell out of here?”
God, he was sexy when he was pissed. His eyes sparkled, and color flushed his cheeks. Even the tips of his ears got red.
I gave in. After all, I’d just wanted to wipe that arrogant look off his face. Mission accomplished. “Okay, okay. Fine, let’s go upstairs. By the way, what’s the plan for when we get there?”
“We give him the story about Meier sending the platter and see if we can spot the book. If we do, then one of us can distract him while the other one grabs it. If we’re not responsible for Irmla and Brida being arrested, then we’ll be home before he even realizes what’s happening.”
“And if not?”
“Then….”
I snorted at him. “Clobbering him with the platter and running like hell doesn’t sound so bad anymore, huh?”
It was my turn to smile smugly when he didn’t argue with me again.
We followed the hallway back to the main room where we’d seen the servants’ staircase. The same girl was still scrubbing the floor and once again glanced at us when we got there, then promptly ignored us.
The stairs creaked under my feet. They were dark, lit only by the weak light of a single candle, uncarpeted, and narrow. Grant had to hold the platter high so it didn’t scrape against the handrail and wall.
“Second floor, third door on the right. That’s where Marta said he’d be.” Grant stepped past the first and second doors and paused outside the third. “I guess we should knock, huh?”
“I suppose it’s better than busting into his bedroom unannounced. What if he’s using the toilet bowl?” I shuddered at a mental picture of von Schönenberg’s bare butt perched over a ceramic chamber pot. That was one thing I did not have to see. I raised my knuckles to the door and rapped them a few times against the wood.
“Come.”
The word was terse and sounded a lot more like a command than an invitation. I twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, then held it for Grant to walk inside while holding the tray. I followed him and closed the door behind us.
I was relieved more than I can say to see von Schönenberg was not using the chamber pot.
He was studying words written on a thin bone-colored piece of parchment and didn’t bother to look up when we entered the room. Why should he? He fully expected Marta or one of his servants bringing his breakfast tray, not two strangers bearing a covered platter.
“Put it on the bedside table and be quick about it. Tell Marta if my breakfast is late again, I’ll have a stripe whipped onto her back for every minute gone.” He took another scroll from the small pile on the bed beside him and carefully unrolled it.
It took him a minute to realize we hadn’t moved. I took advantage of his hesitation by frantically glancing around the room, looking for the book.
Grant spotted it first. He nudged me with his elbow and nodded toward a small table on the far side of von Schönenberg’s bed. Next to a gleaming brass bell, a metal mug, and a pitcher brimming with water, there was a hand-sized slender book. It looked like it was the same size as the copy of the Malleus Maleficarum von Schönenberg held in the courtroom.
I had no time to do anything except give Grant a nod. Von Schönenberg chose that moment to look up from his reading. He must’ve finally realized we hadn’t jumped to obey him when he’d ordered us to place his breakfast tray on the bedside table.
His eyes widened for a heartbeat or two but then narrowed. “Who are you? How dare you broach my private rooms unannounced? What business have you with me?”
Grant did the talking, keeping von Schönenberg’s attention on him. I began to edge toward the other side of the room, moving slowly in hopes von Schönenberg didn’t notice me. It worked too—for a while.
“Baron Meier sent us with a platter of Michaelmas pudding for you. He knows you like it.” Grant lifted the platter so von Schönenberg could see it.
Von Schönenberg didn’t look like he believed our story. “Why did you not leave it in the kitchen?”
“Baron Meier insisted we deliver it to you personally. He, um…. He feared the servants might eat it instead of serving it to you.” Grant didn’t look like he believed what he was saying any more than von Schönenberg did.
“Nonsense! My servants wouldn’t dare steal from me. They would lose their souls as well as their hands for such an offense against the Church.”
I took another tiny step toward the other side of von Schönenberg’s bed.
“Perhaps Baron Meier’s servants aren’t as trustworthy as yours.” Grant must’ve realized what he was saying, because he hastily amended it. “Not us, I mean. We’re trustworthy. I meant the others. Some of the others. A few. A couple. Maybe one.”
“You prattle on like a child. Put the tray down and take your leave before I call my manservant and have you whipped.”
Seemed to me von Schönenberg was overly fond of whipping people. It occurred to me that he might just like it too much. He was a sadist masquerading as a priest. That pissed me off even more. I took another step.
It was one step too many. “You, boy! What are you about?” Von Schönenberg hissed through bared teeth, his face reddening with an angry flush. “Get away from here!”
It was now or never. I took a deep breath and dashed the last three steps toward the wall. Von Schönenberg realized what I was trying to do a moment too late. I grabbed the book from his bedside table an instant before he reached for it. His hands closed on empty air while I clutched the Malleus Maleficarum in mine. “So you have revealed your true nature! Who else but a witch would risk stealing the instrument of their destruction from the very hands of the one who wields it?”
I ignored him and froze with my eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the familiar wave of dizziness to hit me and the darkness to fall. It’s what always happened when Merlin’s magic whisked us back home. Now that I had my hands on the item we’d been sent back to retrieve, our visit to the past should be over.
Nothing happened. I cracked my eyes open and saw von Schönenberg’s face, crimson with fury, staring at me as if shocked I could ever be so bold, so stupid as to steal from him right in front of his own eyes.
Oh no. We had interfered with the past and caused Irmla and Brida to be arrested for witchcraft! If we didn’t put things right, to the way they’d been before Merlin sent us back in time, we’d never get home.
Von Schönenberg recovered before I did. “Gunther!” His voice was louder than I expected it to be, and I jumped. “Gunther, come at once!” He reached for the brass bell and began shaking it, adding its strident clanging to the noise he was making.
Grant jumped into action. He stepped forward and swung the tray, catching von Schönenberg on the side of the head with the platter of Michaelmas pudding. Von Schönenberg yelped and dropped the bell, grabbing his head with his hands. He bent over at the waist, moaning.
The door burst open, and a very large man ran into the room. He was dressed in the rough brown robes of a monk, but they didn’t disguise the wide width of his shoulders or the sinewy muscles of his forearms. The dude was huge and built like a linebacker. I figured he must be Gunther and now knew why von Schönenberg had called for him. He looked like he could snap us in two without breaking a sweat.
He grabbed Grant, who was closer to the door, and wrapped one ham-sized fist around Grant’s upper arm. Grant struggled, but it was no use. Gunther was twice Grant’s size and weight.
“Ash! Run!”
I shook my head. “No! I’m not leaving you!”
“Don’t be stupid! You h
ave to go. You know what you have to do!”
He was right, of course. I did know. I had to take the book and find a way to get Irmla and Brida—and now probably Grant, as well—out of prison. If Gunther got his hands on me too, he’d take the book and we’d all be royally screwed. I hated to do it, but it was the only way we’d ever be able to get home. I jumped on the bed, hopped over von Schönenberg, who was still holding his head and moaning, and ran out the door. Gunther made a grab for me, but what I lacked in size and weight, I made up for in speed, and I eluded him easily.
I hated leaving Grant behind. It was one of the hardest things I’d had to do in a long time, and I swore to myself I’d come back, and that I’d get him, Irmla, and Brida out of the dungeon and to safety even if it killed me.
I refused to consider it might not be an exaggeration that if I failed, we might all be judged witches and sentenced to death. The memory of seeing those greasy, smoldering black lumps tied to the stakes in the square when we’d first arrived popped into my head, and a cold chill followed me outside the rectory to the street.
Chapter Thirteen
I SHOVED the Malleus Maleficarum into the pouch tied to my waist as I ran down the street away from the rectory. It flapped and bumped against my thigh with every step, a constant reminder of what was at stake—no pun intended.
I had no destination in mind but ran without purpose, taking turns randomly. Where should I go? Not back to Meier’s manor—no one there would help me. In fact, I couldn’t think of single person in Trier who would risk their necks for a couple of strangers and a pair of peasant women accused of witchcraft. Nobody except….
Wilhelm! Of course! Wilhelm would help me save them, right? Irmla and Brida were his wife and daughter, after all, and he would know what fate they faced if von Schönenberg found them guilty of witchcraft, which I had no doubt he would do.
The problem was I had no idea where Wilhelm was at the moment. Had he gone back to the farm? He did have four young children out there by themselves, after all. He may have ridden back to make sure they were okay. But what if he’d decided to stay in town for the trial? How was I supposed to find him?
I figured the best place to start was the last place I’d seen Wilhelm, which would be the stable at the edge of town near the bridge, the one owned by the man with the walrus mustache. Schmidt. That was his name.
There was a narrow alley on my left, and I ducked into it, making my way deep between the two buildings into the darker shadows. When I was sure I was hidden, I pressed my back against the wall and slid down to rest on my heels, breathing hard.
Von Schönenberg would send men out looking for me. I was sure of it. I had stolen something valuable from him, and he didn’t seem like the sort of guy to let a thief get away, especially one who’d had the nerve to bust into his bedroom and take it right out from under his nose. I’d insulted him, and he would want revenge.
My first order of business was to get a change of clothes. I’d need a disguise if I was going to make it clear across town to the bridge without getting caught by von Schönenberg’s men. I remembered the field Grant and I found where people in town did their wash and spread their clothes out to dry in the sun. It was still my best bet for snatching something to wear.
The field was located on the edge of town near the river, which, if I remembered correctly, was to my right. I headed in that direction, careful to keep my head down and stay in the shadows as often as possible. I spotted men running down a cross street once and nearly wet myself. It was me they were looking for, I was sure. A solid five minutes passed as I hunkered down in an alley, petrified they would find me. When nobody grabbed me and tried to haul me back to the rectory, I crept out of my hidey-hole and started moving again.
It was early afternoon before I found my way back to the laundry field. Once again it was full of people scrubbing clothing in the big communal washtub or hanging wet clothes on bushes or spreading them on the green grass to dry. A few others were picking up various articles and placing them in baskets to carry home.
I hovered at the edge of the field, hidden by the shadow of the last building before the grass began. There’d be no sense in trying to run out and grab clothing. If I was seen, there’d only be more people out looking for me. I looked at the few items within reach. There wasn’t much to choose from—a bonnet, a pair of leggings, and a cloak.
The cloak was hooded and dark red, embroidered with a wide trim of flowers and vines. It was obviously a woman’s cape, which actually, when I thought about it, was perfect. The voluminous material would cover me head to toe, and with luck, anyone seeing me would never mistake me for the thief who stole von Schönenberg’s book.
I risked another peek around the corner of the building, scanning the field. No one seemed to be looking in my direction. I scampered out and snatched the cloak, then hightailed it back around the side of the building. My heart was pounding, but nobody was shouting about a thief taking a cloak from the field, so I figured the coast was clear.
The cloak just about swallowed me whole. Once I pulled the hood up, I was confident no one would be able to see my face. To anyone looking at me, I was just another woman going about her business in Trier.
I only hoped Grant would never find out, not after how I busted his chops for dressing like a girl when we first got to town. He’d never let me live it down.
The streets were busier than I remembered them being on the way into town. It must’ve been the Michaelmas feast that brought so many people to Trier. Most of them were servants; I figured the rich folk who traveled to Trier for Michaelmas must’ve brought their staff with them.
Servants never seemed to get a day off in medieval Germany. Or anywhere else during this time period, I guess. Sucks for them, and I felt kind of bad for taking the cloak. I realized somebody might get into trouble because I’d stolen it, and guilt came crashing down on my shoulders like a lead weight.
Just what I needed—a huge helping of anxiety with a healthy serving of guilt on the side. By the time I got back to Merlin’s classroom, I was going to have an ulcer.
Trying to elude the crowds, I ducked up one side street and down another until I found one with hardly anyone in sight. It was one of the poorer sections of Trier—you could tell by the dilapidated condition of the houses and the level of overall filth. By comparison, the streets near the square were practically pristine.
Still, I kept my head down, shielded by the cloak’s hood, and walked quickly, wanting to get to the stable at the bridge as soon as possible and without incident.
Wrong. As usual.
“Heller, Fraulien? Heller?” A gruff voice called to me from somewhere close to my left side.
I glanced over, looking for the source. I held my hood close to my cheek, hiding most of my face. There was a man standing in an alley between two buildings. He was half-hidden in shadow, but I could see his hand stretched out, palm up. He was asking for money, none of which I had, even if I wanted to give it to him. I shook my head and kept walking.
A hand closed on my arm and yanked hard, almost pulling me off my feet. I was dragged into the alley and found myself facing the man who’d been begging. He smiled a mouthful of yellowed, broken teeth at me. His breath was bad enough to singe my nose hair, but even that paled next to the potency of his body odor. I didn’t think the guy could’ve had more than a passing acquaintance with soap and water since birth.
My head recoiled instinctively from the foul odors, and I fought to shake his hand off my arm, but he was stronger than he looked. He pushed me against the side of the building so hard, I banged my head and had the breath knocked out of me for a minute. As I gasped for air, his other hand pushed under my cloak and began searching, probably for something of value. What he found was something of value only to me—so far, anyway—and the look of shock on his face when he found it was almost worth getting mugged.
I finally got my breath back and took advantage of the moment he froze in surprise with my
dick in his hand, and landed a nice, solid uppercut to his chin. When his head snapped back, his entire body went airborne for a second—or at least I thought it did. I could be wrong. Or slightly exaggerating. In either case, he landed hard on the ground, out like a snuffed candle.
“Teach you to assault a lady.” I shook my hand, trying to shake out some of the pain my knuckles were in. Punching somebody in the jaw was sort of like slugging a rock. It hurt. Plus, it was the same hand I’d cut when we first landed in medieval Germany, which wasn’t completely healed.
He began to come to but was still dazed, and I took full advantage of his condition by tearing out of the alley and down the street. I turned up and down streets at random and didn’t slow down until I was several blocks away.
The cut on my hand began seeping blood again. I was forced to tear a small strip of fabric from my shirt and tie it around my hand, praying I didn’t get an infection since Irmla wasn’t available to make her magic healing paste for me again.
Sweat rolled down along my spine and pooled under my arms. My mouth and throat felt like I’d been chewing cotton balls. The cloak was heavy and hot, and I’d been moving fast. There was nothing I wanted more than to throw the cape off and find something nice and cold to drink, but since I couldn’t risk being seen, and the chance of me stumbling across a medieval Coke machine was nil, I just kept trudging along.
The more I walked, the more I became aware of the conditions people lived in, and the more appreciative I became of the twenty-first century. Not that I was likely to admit it to anybody except maybe Grant, but I felt bad for these people. They didn’t know how bad they had it, either. For them, it was just the way things were.
Crap was everywhere. And I mean crap in the purest sense of the word. People took dumps wherever and whenever the mood struck them. They just squatted and left little stinking piles of poo all over. Same went for peeing, vomiting, spitting, and whatever other nasty bit of biological process they it felt necessary to engage in.
