She gasped when Sir Ayjay suddenly flipped forward, his feet the last thing she saw as he disappeared under the surface.
Marion rushed to the edge, stopped and paced impotently as ripples extended in widening circles where Sir Ayjay had disappeared. What could be taking him so long?
“Lady Marion,” Hugo said, coming close and resting a gentle bear paw of a hand over her forearm. “The people must be told Sir Ayjay shall not remain with us for long.”
“I know, my friend… I do not know what came over me.” Shame flushed her cheeks.
Hugo squeezed her arm then shook his head when a few bubbles broke the surface where Sir Ayjay had dived in. “As much as I distrust the foreign devil, seeing him give Lord Matheus a good whip of the tongue felt—”
Sir Ayjay’s head broke the surface. He panted hard as he swam back for the shore. Hugo offered his hand when the other man emerged from the water but Sir Ayjay ignored it as he grabbed the clothes from Marion’s arm and angrily wrestled them back on.
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
He stopped, stared at her hard then barked a quick, mirthless laugh. “You’re just going to keep playing the game, aren’t you?” he demanded, buttoning his undertunic and drawing near. Water beaded on his chest and neck. “I have had just about enough of you and your employees’ stupid games. There’s probably a plane down in that lake with two dead men in it and all you can think about is your damn show. Well, I’m not playing anymore.”
It dawned on her the strange grooves could perhaps be signs of a carriage going off into the lake. Good Lord.
“Was it your carriage you were looking for? Why did you not say anything?”
“A carriage? Christ, woman, get real. I didn’t come here in a carriage but in a plane. A plane. That game is getting old fast.”
“What do you mean? What game?”
“This whole place!” he replied, throwing his hands up. “This whole fucking place! You’re just…Christ, you’re making me want to kick something.” He hooked his overtunic over an arm, looked down, took a deep breath and leveled his gaze once more on her. It cut right through her heart. The scorn was palpable.
“I’m leaving this place if I have to walk to the next town or village or whatever the hell is close by. I’m not waiting for the rescuers to find me. I’ll be nuts by the time they do. So either you help me get back to civilization or you get the fuck out of my way!”
Hugo put a large hand over Sir Ayjay’s shoulder and whirled him around. His meaty fist connected with her guest’s chin and rocked him back slightly. She was shocked to see what little effect Hugo’s usually devastating strength had on Sir Ayjay.
“Hugo, stop it!”
His eyes pits of black flames, Sir Ayjay dropped his garment and punched Hugo in the belly, effectively bent him in half. He seemed as shocked as her captain.
“Would you two stop this nonsense!” she yelled, pushing one away then the other.
“He is disrespectful to you, Lady Marion. He needed it!”
“Fuck off, Conan! You just bought yourself a place on the list of you jackasses I’m about to sue.”
“I do not know what you mean,” Marion tried with calmness she didn’t feel. “Why do you think we are lying to you? What game? I have answered every question truthfully, tried my best to help you in any way I could—”
“Yeah, any way you could, right,” he replied with a mean toss of his chin. “It still doesn’t convince me you’re all as oblivious as you’d want me to think.”
“Oblivious?” By her side, she saw Hugo’s triumphant smile cleave his beard. He knew what was coming.
“Oblivious?” she demanded again, stabbing an accusing finger into Sir Ayjay’s chest. “How dare you…you stubborn mule, you anvil-headed, obstinate… I have half a mind to have Hugo throw you in the dungeon for speaking to me this way—after all we have done for you! Ingrate, foul-mouthed coxcomb!”
Clearly fuming, he yanked his hose closed, fisted the undertunic inside and pulled up the tiny plate that locked the front of the garment. After he roughly shoved his feet into the strange little stockings, followed by his shoes, he retrieved his overtunic from the ground—looking highly disgusted with the whole affair. Sir Ayjay leaned into her, his face hard, his expression glacial. Had Hugo not been present and looking ready to draw his sword, she would have taken a step back under the stranger’s fierce appearance. The mountain lion had revealed his claws.
“I’ll sue your organization for everything they’re worth. You included.” He threw an exasperated look at Hugo and cursed foully. “You can put the pointy stick away, man, I’m not the kind of guy who’d touch a woman that way.”
In German, she told Hugo to leave the sword in its sheath. He did so reluctantly, muttering things about “cursed Italians” under his breath though both knew their visitor wasn’t one.
Sir Ayjay turned his back on them, marched to his horse and fumbled with the reins as he tried to mount it while simultaneously keeping the overtunic from touching the beast. But the horse must have sensed his anger for it kept moving out of the way, forcing him to skip on one foot while his other was in the stirrup. After a few rotations, with the poor man nearly falling over several times, he pulled himself onto his mount and looked back at her. Gone was the wicked but friendly smirk, the easy teasing.
The ride back to the castle proved a silent, tense affair. Sir Ayjay rode in front, stiff in his saddle and bearing. His still-wet hair was raked back on his skull and gleamed with the smooth depth of obsidian. As soon as they traversed the courtyard, he swung a long leg over his horse and slid to the ground with slightly more grace than his first time. Smoothing his undertunic down, he didn’t wait for her as he charged into the doorway leading to the main hall. She heard his shoes clacking on the slate floor.
“I shall speak to him,” she said, dismounting and rushing after him.
“Lady Marion.” Hugo drew near and leaned into her so none of the men gathering the reins to the horses would hear. He pointed to his temple. “He was obviously attacked on the road and I gather he was injured in the head. I cannot blame him for being out of sorts but I beg you to be careful around him.”
“I know. It pains me to know there would be such people in our region. I wish I could get my hands on the ruffians who did this to him!” She shook her head. Poor man. “I shall show him the archives, the charts, anything to put his mind to rest until he feels better. Surely he shall see the truth there.”
“My lady,” said one of Hugo’s guards. He rushed to meet them, a grin on his face. “Thomas has arrived, my lady, shortly after you departed. I put him in your study and had food and drink brought up to him.”
Thank the Lord! Even Hugo beamed.
The men’s grins proved infectious and she found herself smiling as well. Thomas would be able to convince a Greek to part with his gold so he would be perfect to prove to Sir Ayjay her words were true, that she was who she claimed to be. Sir Ayjay would have no choice but to believe her words. Although she did wonder why the man would doubt her. Where did he think he was, if not Sargans? Perhaps he remembered nothing preceding the attack, nor his reason for leaving his homeland.
Marion’s spirits soared at the thought of conversing with the clever, lively Thomas. The wandering minstrel—as bad at the lute as he was with a flute but imbued with a wit that could cut through armor—could quote writers and poets in a variety of languages. Her long-time friend hadn’t visited Sargans in several seasons.
Hopeful she could salvage the situation, she caught up to Sir Ayjay and placed a hand over his elbow. He stopped, turned purposefully to face her. His eyes narrowed as he looked at her hand. She hurriedly snatched it away.
“There is a man you must meet. He has just arrived and waits in my study.”
“What would I want with him? If he’s not a pilot with a phone and a plane, I don’t want to see him.”
She struggled with the foreign words and under the man’s gla
re. “Thomas is extremely well traveled and learned, if a bit odd, but he knows many things from many lands. Please, Sir Ayjay, come meet him. And I shall show your our archives and charts and let you judge the sincerity of my words for yourself.”
While he weighed her words, his gaze went from her eyes to her mouth and heat wafted out of her dress collar. As much as she wanted to slap his face, the memory of his lips on hers did wonders to her resolve.
“Fine,” he snapped, breaking the spell.
Hardly able to keep up with his long legs, she escorted him to her study, opened the door and felt a wave of warmth and relief course through her as Thomas, looking unchanged and in full health, rose from his chair to greet her. His pale eyes flared to the size of coins when he spotted her companion.
“So this is the man who tossed ‘Lord Asshole’ out onto his ugly head? Please, let me embrace you. It was a long time coming.”
Still as gangly as ever, Thomas crossed the room, his wispy blond hair floating around his head like spiderwebs, and wrapped both arms around a clearly stunned Sir Ayjay.
“Lady Marion,” Thomas went on, relinquishing his hold on the stranger with obvious regret to give her an affectionate peck on each cheek. “Tell me all about it. I want every sordid detail.”
“It is so good to see you again, Thomas, please meet Sir Ayjay. He is from…” she turned to her guest, suddenly lost of words. She’d never heard of his homeland and couldn’t remember the name, though he’d already told her.
“Canada,” Sir Ayjay finished, eyeing Thomas with an eyebrow arched high. “I’m a lawyer and if that’s not scary enough for you, I’m a pissed-off lawyer who’s had no coffee for the last two days. So unless you can find me a phone, I suggest you keep the hugging to a minimum.”
Thomas’ expression changed from conviviality to confusion then to amusement. “He is certainly no Italian, Lady Marion, as I was told, but a full-blooded Norman. And here I thought they had pushed them all off into the sea.” He laughed.
A Norman, of course! That would explain the height and his muscular build. Why had she not guessed it sooner?
Sir Ayjay turned toward her and hooked his thumb at Thomas. “That’s the guy who can help me?”
Marion swallowed hard. Verbal sparring hadn’t been in her plan to enlist the minstrel’s help in convincing Sir Ayjay of the veracity of her claims.
“Thomas, please, Sir Ayjay’s party was attacked and is now missing his carriage,” she threw a quick peek at her guest and noted the fury rising again, “his vessel might be at the bottom of the lake, some of his friends drowned and he has been injured. Do not mock him, just answer his questions.” Her sudden desire to protect Sir Ayjay shocked and embarrassed her.
Thomas looked at her, at Sir Ayjay then back at her before nodding once. “Sir Ayjay, my humble mind is yours to pick. Ask what you shall.”
After a pronounced roll of eyes, Sir Ayjay sank dejectedly in a chair and crossed his legs. “Fine, but I warn you I’m adding your name to the suit that’s coming your way. You’ll be lucky if I leave you enough to take the train home.”
Thomas cocked his head and grinned. “He does speak rather curiously, does he not?” After a lethal glare from Marion, he patted the air in front of him and took another chair opposite her guest where he smoothed his green tunic and waited.
“Where are we?” Sir Ayjay asked. “Are there any cities close by?”
“Sargans and no. The closest ‘city’ is Turicum or Zurich as some call it.”
“Zurich, good, so we’re in Switzerland, as I thought. Where’s the closest town with electricity and phones?”
“I have no idea what you are talking about. Why do you need these things?”
“Jesus, man, to call for help. To tell people where I am so they can come get me. Why do you think I want a phone?”
“People have already ‘come get you’,” Thomas replied, giving Marion a “your guest is a curious fellow” look. “What other people do you want?”
“Real people, dammit. Not actors.”
A stitch of pain made Marion clutch her hands in front of her. Sir Ayjay’s cutting words were obviously not meant to hurt her but they did. “Real” people indeed.
“We are as real as you are, Sir Ayjay,” she replied with too much force to pretend she wasn’t affected.
He looked at the ceiling, muttered something then threw his hands up. “I know you are. I meant ‘real’ people, as in not from around here, you know, people who aren’t in on the big joke.”
He’d totally lost her.
“What do you think this is?” Thomas asked through a mocking grin. “A farce? A play? Are we all jesters to your eyes?”
“Of course it’s a play! What else is it supposed to be?”
Both Thomas and she exchanged a look. His pale eyes reflected her concerns. Her guest had knocked his head quite badly.
“You think we are all in a play, none of what you see now is real? I am not real?” she demanded. “After we…after everything my people did for you, treated you as an honored guest?”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, would you stop acting like ‘Lady Marion’? What’s your real name anyway? ‘Lady Marion’ wouldn’t sound very serious on a subpoena.”
“Marion Werdenberg-Sargans is my real name, for the love of God!” Her fists were firmly on her hips by the time Sir Ayjay was standing.
Thomas stood as well and stepped protectively in front of her. “Why do you think Lady Marion is pretending to be someone else?”
“Because none of this is real. Come on, living like knights in the twelfth century, the fucking Middle Ages? Please! Nobody lives like that anymore, nobody takes a shit down a hole in the ground and they sure as hell use toilet paper, if you know what I mean. And the clothes, who makes his own clothes for real? Who. Lives. Like. This?” He looked around at the humble study.
Marion couldn’t believe the man’s outrageous nonsense. Anger replaced hurt. And to say she’d lain with him, was trying to seduce him into staying. He’d appeared so different at first but he was a man, just as all the others. Proud, stubborn and apparently demented on top of things.
“Everything around you is real, Sir Ayjay,” Thomas began, seemed to be struggling with the expression on his face. It flickered between incredulity and amusement. “Why would you think it is not? Is this not real to you?” He tapped the floor with his foot.
Clearly seething, Sir Ayjay lowered his chin. “I’m not saying this place isn’t real, I’m saying you guys aren’t.”
Despite her frustration, a wave of sympathy engulfed Marion. The poor, confused man. A thought occurred to her. “How long ago have you left your home, Sir Ayjay? Do you remember leaving? Traveling?”
Sir Ayjay undid the first button on his undertunic. His lips were pale again, as the day before when he’d complained of a great headache. “I need to answer that? I left Wednesday from Toronto, it’s now…” He checked his bracelet, shook his head. “It’s now Saturday and I have yet to see a goddamn cell phone anywhere. And I thought everyone had them in two thousand and six.”
“Two thousand and six what?” Marion asked. He’d lost her again.
“Years.”
“Years…” Thomas put in, leaving the word hanging. “I fail to see the meaning of that particular number. Two thousand and six years.”
“It’s the year, for fuck’s sake!” Sir Ayjay snarled. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Here.” He showed her his bracelet, where tiny numerals glistened below a minute layer of glass.
Before Marion could comment, Thomas said, “Anno Nostrae Salutis eleven forty-eight.”
“Latin, eh? I can do Latin too. Memorandum and agenda. How about that!” Sir Ayjay spat a long string of what she believed were curses though she couldn’t recognize the language. The “fok” word resounded again. “Eleven forty-eight, right? Ha. What else? You live here for real too?”
“Sargans has been my home since the reign of his Eminence Pope Innocent the Second. Si
nce before the times of Gallus himself, I can trace my family back two centuries, something not even Lord Matheus can claim to and I shall not have some…some Norman come here and challenge my lineage in my home.”
Thomas stepped back, shaking his head. “I cannot abide the sight of blood, Lady Marion. Please kill him after I have left.” Turning to Sir Ayjay, he bowed. “You seem to think we would lie to you about time, as though anyone could. I do not know when you left your home—two days ago sounds like such a short time to be coming from so far away—but I can prove to you we are telling the truth. If you wish to see something very interesting, join me at the top of the tower tonight and I shall show you then. My Lady.”
When the door had closed over Thomas, Marion crossed her arms and stared at Sir Ayjay, who stared right back.
“You really believe we’re in the twelfth century?” he asked. His narrowed eyes bore into her. “Eleven forty something?”
“Forty-eight. We are.”
Not only did he not look convinced, an expression of sadness and pity flashed in his black eyes, as though he were feeling sorry for her, the poor, silly woman who didn’t mean to be so confused and who didn’t know the seasons. Anger flared. “Let me show you something.”
She marched across the study, yanked down a bunch of scrolls from the rack and sent most tumbling to the floor before grabbing the one she needed. Unrolling it onto the table, she hooking her index finger at Sir Ayjay then stabbed it on the parchment.
“What does it say, right here?” she demanded when he stood next to her, leaning slightly to follow her finger.
“I can’t read it. What’s that, Latin?”
“Do you not speak it? Are you not a lord?”
“Don’t give me attitude. I’m already well past my limit. I stink, I’m wrinkled, my hair’s a mess and I’d commit murder for a cup of coffee. I’m warning you, do not piss me off.”
“The year, Sir Ayjay. It is the year, as Thomas has said to you. See? One, one, four and eight. Can you understand those words? Do I speak loudly enough?” She tried to curb the mockery in her tone too late.
Timely Defense Page 7
