"You’re rubbing your chest. Why?"
"Your idea of creative plumbing, that’s why. Organic napalm has seared a path from my stomach to my esophagus. A fiery pool is forming around my heart as we speak."
The sizzle of the burning apple core added a nice touch to his comment.
"What a sucky attitude."
"Forget my agony for the moment. Just tell me what kind of mischief you’ve gotten up to?"
“This is clever, if I do say so myself.”
He hung his head and breathed deep, trying to stay calm.
"The pipe leads to a hole I ordered cut through the stone-”
“You cut a hole in my wall?”
She raised a warning finger. “Before you freak out, let me explain. The water drains down the outside of the wall. This way the servants only have to haul the water up. When you’re finished, whoosh, tub drained, garden watered. “Doubly efficient," she said with a victorious toss of her head.
He knelt to check the damage. "Rocky, if I find some huge gash in this wall, I swear I'm going to turn you over my knee."
"You must think I'm an idiot."
He bit back the answer rather than offend her without proof, which he’d certainly find. She might be the smartest lady lawyer in London, but he doubted she knew the difference between a plug and a washer. And, she cut a hole in his wall for God’s sake.
She huffed. "You think, oh, stupid female, cut a great hole in the wall so the north wind will blow through all winter. Without a man to guide me, how could I possibly have the ordinary sense to mortar around the pipe?"
The tirade earned her a grunt for an apology as his fingers found the tight seal where the pipe joined the wall. Satisfied, he stood. "Who made this?"
"The blacksmith." Still in a huff, she folded her arms and stuck an indignant chin in the air.
He ran his hand over the edge, noting the fine fit where the lip curved over the tub’s rim. "Nice work, what did Archie charge you?"
"Two marks, a bargain," she said, proud of herself judging from her expression.
"Two marks! Do you know how much that is?" He dared her to come up with the right answer.
"No. But I checked with Richard and he said you can afford it. It’s a fair price. After all, this was a rush job."
"I don't mind paying. I do mind getting swindled. For two marks that tub ought to sing and dance." He brushed past her and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?" she asked, hot on his heels.
"To have a chat with Archie," Alex said and jerked the door open.
His squire, Jared, stood in the corridor fist raised, ready to knock.
"Al...umm...Guy," she quickly corrected herself. She grabbed a handful of Alex’s sleeve and moved close, her mouth to his ear. "Don’t you dare yell at Archie. He’ll never work for me again."
Alex turned to Jared. "What is it? I have business to attend to with the smithy."
The squire showed no sign he interrupted a squabble between the lord and lady and delivered his message with stiff professionalism. "Milord, an envoy from the king has arrived and awaits you in the great hall."
"I'll be down momentarily." Alex closed the door. "Shit."
Chapter Twenty-One
Shakira paced a nervous grid pattern the length and width of the chamber. Whatever the king’s news, if it worried Alex, it was bound to make her nauseous.
A solemn Alex returned and went straight for the flagon of wine. He filled a goblet and handed it to her and then filled one to the brim for himself.
He took a deep swallow and said, "We have to go to court."
"We?” The blood drained from her head. “No, no, no, I can't possibly go," she said, stunned into dizzying denial. "There’ll be questions, all sorts of questions. How can I explain my sudden appearance, here?" She shook her head no and repeated her refusal. “There's no way, Alex. Your own people believe I'm weird. I hear their whispers when I pass. What will the king think?"
“I guess we’ll find out,” he said.
She’d be on display at court, like a circus animal chained in an iron cage, the new addition to the royal menagerie. She slumped into a nearby chair.
"Wait a minute." She sprang up. "You told me history can’t be changed. If that’s true, then you needn’t go. You didn’t the first time. You were in Wales. But if you go now, history is changed. You can’t have it both ways." She took a sip of the Bordeaux and sat again.
Checkmate.
"A meeting about tactics is a small occurrence.”
“You’ve no idea what will result from the meeting.”
“I realize there’s a risk,” Alex said.
“There’s an understatement.”
His narrow view of which actions were worth taking a risk for drove her mad. She’d given a lot of thought to why the time shift brought them to this place and year. She was convinced he wasn’t seeing the whole picture.
“What if the king orders you to stay? I’ve got a bad feeling that’s what will happen and then you’ll absolutely end up in the battle.”
“You’re overreacting. It’s just a tactical meeting.”
“These ‘small occurrences’ which do disturb the past are serving some purpose. Has it occurred to you the choices of what chances you’ll risk taking are leading to a much bigger one? There’s a specific reason why we wound up here, right now.”
“And, you think you know the reason?”
“Yes, I do. Our first day here, you said given a choice, you’d choose not to remember your existence after Poitiers.”
“So?”
“Perhaps this entity we call fate is offering you a second chance, a means to undo those centuries, by not repeating the mistake of riding to Basil. If you—”
“Stop,” he said and set his wine down. “Yes, my going to Abergavenny and London may have some effect. But those acts aren’t as significant as the battle. Poitiers was a major event, attending this meeting doesn’t compare. You are asking me—again,” his voice iron hard as he stressed again, “--to alter my participation in the battle.”
"You’re—"
"I’m not finished." Arms crossed over his chest, he leaned his butt against the table edge and assumed his casual but adversarial posture. “In answer to your first question, yes, it’s occurred to me there could be a grand design behind our presence here. Could be, being the operative phrase.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re pissed with me for presenting a distinct possibility, a valid theory,” Shakira said.
“Which makes you what in this theory, collateral damage?”
“So it appears, but at least I’m trying to be objective.”
“And I’m trying to keep us alive.”
She opened her mouth to plead her case. Alex interrupted.
"Maybe history can be altered, maybe not. I don’t know. I’m not bloody Stephen Hawking. I’ll tell you once more, and let this be the end of it.” He slammed his palm on the table, the surface of his wine rippling with the vibration. “The end of it. I won’t refuse to aid a comrade. I won’t jeopardize my family. Most importantly, I won’t leave you deserted. I will find a solution to our predicament. In the meantime, we must comply with the king’s demand."
His words might as well have been carved in stone. He might as well be carved in stone.
"Why is my attendance required? I’m of no importance to him." she asked in a quiet voice.
Alex’s anger passed and he said, "Fulke’s men no doubt told Edward about my mistress. He’ll want to meet you. He's always interested in his noble’s activities and who they’re consorting with. Trust isn’t the strong suit of any monarch." With a heavy sigh of resignation, Alex sank into the chair next to her. "We'll need a plausible story for how we met."
In the firelight, his face showed his weariness. The feathery lines that touched the corners of his eyes when they’d met had deepened. Faint, but new lines creased the area between his brows. Worry had taken its toll on him.
"You ha
ve enough on your mind. Let me come up with a logical story." She stroked his cheek and temples unsure what else to do.
Alex covered her hand with his warm, firm one. Rough in some places, smooth in others, not unlike the man himself, the strong fingers laced with hers. "Think of the upside," he said, "you'll get to meet Edward the Third."
"Don't forget the Black Prince. I assume he'll be there too," she said with false optimism.
He groaned. "Oh yes." Alex brushed her fingers with his lips. "Be careful around him. There's nothing Edward of Woodstock loves more than a new conquest with a pretty face."
"As opposed to a boot faced one?" They shared a smile over the small jest.
The comment raised disturbing questions. Was Alex worried about protecting her if she caught the prince’s eye? Would Edward use his position to take advantage of a woman over her objections? The grim answer was obvious. Princes get perks.
"You said my status as your mistress is known."
"True, which makes you an even bigger challenge."
She rested her head against the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. "I really, really wish I didn't have to go. I have a horrible premonition this will be a bigger nightmare than getting caught in a time warp."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Shakira’s mood spiraled downward after their latest failure. The trip to court was inevitable. On the road to London, Alex talked about the different people she’d meet and tried to give funny anecdotes about them in an attempt to keep her spirits up. Sometimes the stories worked, sometimes they didn’t, but she appreciated the effort.
Shakira, Alex, Stephen, Simon, and Jared, had traveled for three days when Westminster Palace came into view. At the initial shock of the alien sight, her worries about the visit were forgotten. She halted Eclipse seeing the building that now held the Houses of Parliament without the trappings of modern London. No Big Ben, no double-decker red buses, no tour guides with microphones, only the magnificent abbey and St. Margaret’s Church kept the palace company.
She hadn’t visited the popular tourist site in years. The first time was with Miranda in their grade school days. The class came for the opening of Parliament. The building’s stern docent had partnered the children off two-by-two. He’d made them hold hands lest they get separated and admonished the group to stay together. "Once inside, a labyrinth of passages totaling over three kilometers connects the rooms. It would take us hours to find a child."
She and Miranda whispered the way little girls do. Neither knew what a kilometer meant, but they knew labyrinths were filled with dragons and other magical creatures. Their noisy chatter got them relegated to the back of the line and under the teacher’s watchful eye.
This visit to Westminster carried none of the whimsy as the one from her school days. Two-legged dragons roamed the halls now, their bite very real and very lethal.
Once they entered the great hall, she stayed glued to Alex's side. She spoke only when necessary and gave silent “thanks” when the maid showed them to a well appointed chamber.
"What now?" Shakira asked, sitting on the bed.
In a perfect world, she’d hide in their chamber for the duration of the visit. Numerous courtiers saw her and could report Alex dutifully brought her. Once the king finalized his campaign plans, they’d return to Elysian Fields, none the worse for the mandatory appearance.
"Stay here for now. If anyone invites you someplace, it’s perfectly acceptable to decline. Use me as an excuse. Just say I ordered you to remain here until I return. A lady is expected to obey her master." Alex kept a straight face. However, his lower lip twitched, and his shoulders shook, as he found something of great interest under his fingernails.
"How convenient for the master."
"Not everything about the middle ages was bad." He kissed her nose before she could retort. "I’ll be back soon. This initial meeting won’t last too long," he said. "Tonight’s banquet will be the worst. You’re the new face at court. Bored, gossipy courtiers are a curious lot. I don’t know if Basil’s arrived. If he has, you remember what I said? Don’t stare."
He’d filled her in on the details of the ‘happily married’ couple he’d referred to when telling the story of his past. Ian was Basil’s promised new chance at life. A secret Miranda should’ve shared with Shakira. Prior to her time travel experience would she have believed her friend? Probably not, but none the less, Miranda should’ve told her.
"Yes, my lord, I know. I’m not an idiot."
"Sorry. I don’t mean to insult your intelligence. This visit is bad enough without the Basil-Ian thing too. You’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine," he said and left.
Shakira spent her time alone trying on different dresses. There’d be no escape from the catty beehive of females or the prying questions disguised as polite conversation. For Alex’s sake, and though she was loath to admit it, her ego’s sake, she wanted to make an impression on the ladies of court, but not too much of an impression on either Edward...king or prince. Who knew what the "royal prerogative" might entail with those two?
She settled on a dress of ruby velvet with floor length sleeves lined in a red and cream tapestry. The jewel tone favored her complexion, jewel colors always had. Her stick-straight hair presented a new problem. Twice, she attempted to loop braids around her ears. The latest fashion, from the women she’d seen in the hall. She didn’t have the knack required to make her hair behave and the braids refused to stay. She left it loose under a circlet of gold wire interwoven with red ribbon.
Alex returned as she finished arranging the delicate headpiece. “Don’t you look enchanting?” he said. “Stand-up, let me see.” A low whistle accompanied his perusal of her as she stood and twirled like a ballerina. “I'll be the envy of every man at court."
***
"Guy, join us." The king indicated empty seats at the dais.
The boost of courage Alex's compliment gave Shakira nosedived at warp speed. She expected they’d sit at one of the perimeter tables with Alex’s men and not at the king’s.
A small group of women clustered at the far end of the long head table. They reminded her of a flock of magpies huddled together on a blustery day. God awful birds. God awful women. In unison, they lifted their heads and studied her from head to toe, evaluating. One female did not.
A petite blonde of about twenty, shot a cursory glance at Shakira but stared unabashedly at Alex. Shakira pretended not to notice but from the corner of her eye snuck a peek at the blonde. It was enough to see the woman defined the word stunning. She was a cameo come to life with her big eyes, oval face, and pink and white complexion.
When the blonde turned to talk to one of the magpies, Shakira took a better look. Strands of pearls were woven into her golden hair which wound around her ears in flawless braids. Cameo Face wore a dress of palest blue, trimmed with ribbons of gold and silver lace. A wide, embroidered band fit snug over the middle of the dress and emphasized a waist small enough for a man Alex’s size to span with his hands. As far as Shakira was concerned, a waist that tiny was unnatural. Probably indicative of her miniscule brain, like a man’s hands are indicative of certain endowments.
Shakira refused to be intimidated by the bold scrutiny and whispers of the magpies. She answered their interest with cool detachment. Instead, she turned her attention on the royal party. Queen Philippa chatted with a woman seated next to her. The two wore cylindrical headpieces, pointy on the ends, which were idiotic on display in museums. On a person, they looked worse, like someone had plunked a birdcage on their heads.
“Your Highnesses,” Alex bowed to the royal couple.
Shakira followed his lead and repeated the greeting with a curtsy. The queen smiled and the king acknowledged with a single nod and Shakira and Alex continued on.
Shakira scanned the table in vain for a chair that put the greatest distance between her, and both, the prince and the king. She tried to take the empty seat two places removed from Prince Edward so Alex provided a buffer
between her and the Edwards.
“Lady Shakira, do me the honor,” the prince said and tugged her down into the spot next to him.
“Certainly, my prince,” she said, plastering a smile on her face.
Between his parents, the prince bore a stronger resemblance to his mother. His brown hair was several shades darker than his father’s and only slightly lighter than Philippa’s. He had neither the king’s substantial nose, nor his heavy jaw and wide cheekbones. By contrast, the square-jawed prince's high cheekbones were fine boned, like the queen’s, and his narrow nose less prominent. The heir's patrician features exuded noble genetic stock before those attributes were lost to inbreeding in later generations. The aristocratic Edward of Woodstock was the fairy tale prince little girls envisioned.
The prince nibbled a gravy soaked morsel of meat on an etched, gold handled knife. “I understand this is your first trip to London. Such a winsome lady, ‘tis a pity we’ve not made your acquaintance sooner, a loss for our Court.”
Clear blue eyes, the color of a cloudless summer sky fixed hawkishly on her. Merry eyes at first inspection, a few minutes of conversation had her re-evaluating. For beyond the amused glint, lay a sang-froid quality, analytical, and dispassionate.
“Try the mutton. It’s quite good.” The prince stabbed a chunk and held the piece out to her on his knife tip.
Shakira had tasted quality lamb in different dishes and disliked it every time. She’d never eaten mutton and never wanted to but didn’t have a choice.
“Thank you.” She bit into the meat.
“You’re not English,” the prince said.
She shook her head and made a half-hearted effort to chew the tough mutton before washing it down with a swallow of wine.
All the while, his eyes moved over her face, taking in her darker complexion and more ethnic appearance. Who’d believe she was native to England? To them, her English was funny and she spoke with a strange accent. Not to mention, she was taller than every woman in the room and most of the men.
Journey in Time (Knights in Time) Page 11
