Journey in Time (Knights in Time)

by Karlsen, Chris

  "God’s teeth, Guy, where is your head? The stag made good his escape while you failed to even raise your bow."

  The prince reined in his horse, halting the excited animal in front of Alex and Thor. "He was a fine one too. At least a twelve-pointer, I’d say. Gone now," he said with disgust.

  "Sorry, my mind was elsewhere," Alex said. "I’m concerned about the weather. The temperature has dropped. I believe the storm," he tipped his head to the east, "is headed our way. Perhaps, we should return to the palace."

  Edward looked skyward at the black clouds and off toward the distant rain. "You may have the right of it." He turned to Alex and took a pull of wine from a leather flask. "I would’ve preferred returning with a fresh kill," he said and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  Alex made no further apology and the prince let the matter go. The rest of their party gathered together. "The weather conspires against us. We’ll return to the palace."

  The group wheeled their mounts around and headed towards Westminster.

  "Ride next to me, Guy." The prince let the rest of the party gain several strides on them before following. "The French rain is a constant plague to our troops. You know this from our time fighting at Crecy.” Edward stuck the wine into a saddle bag and continued, "No better way for a man to earn his spurs than on a victorious field of blood and mud."

  "I recall the terrible damp," Alex replied, curious at the direction of the conversation.

  "We’ll suffer more of the same on my campaign. Let us hope your sensitivity to the cold and wet has been banished by then."

  Offended by the insinuation, Alex checked his temper and said, "If you must know, it is not the inclement weather that troubles me as worry about milady. She is a stranger, alone, in a strange place, while I am away."

  "Ah, I thought there was more to your distraction. She is fine, I’m sure. What harm could befall her at the palace?"

  ***

  Shakira wanted to rip the chemise from her body. The coarse weave of the shabby muslin rubbed her nipples raw. How many hours passed since Marguerite threw the scratchy garment at her and left? What time was it? From the gloomy grey outside, she guessed late afternoon, uncertain if the dwindling light resulted from the weather or the hour. The corners of the room were already dark.

  She sat hunched on the floor by the tiny window, hugging her knees. The draft from the outside was a taste of freedom and she drank in what little fresh air came through. Freedom. She closed her eyes and pressed her nose to the gap in the boards and inhaled deeply. The air was cool now, heavy with the damp of the coming storm. She breathed deep again, but a shift in the wind brought corruption. The malodorous scent of sewage, human and animal, and all the rotted flotsam and jetsam wafted in from the nearby river. With a low grunt, she buried her nose in the fleshy crook of her elbow.

  The shadow of someone’s feet appeared in the corridor outside her chamber. Keys jingled in the lock and the door creaked open. The man who’d help wrestle her to the floor stepped inside. She blinked and held her hand over her eyes as torchlight lit the room.

  "The master wants you." The man jerked her up by the elbow.

  She snatched her arm away and straightened so she stood tall, taller than the servant. "Don’t touch me." Her voice never wavered in spite of her consummate fear.

  The man spit at her feet and grabbed her again. He dug his fingers into her upper arm, the nails biting painfully into her as he pulled her along.

  One flight down he stopped and tapped on the door with a couple of cursory knocks. Without waiting for a permission to enter, he opened it, shoved her into Dankworth's chamber, then left, shutting the door.

  The pungent smell of onion and mutton filled her nostrils. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled in natural response. Her last meal was dinner with the prince and Alex. Regardless of her sense’s physical reaction, she felt no hunger.

  She remained just to the inside of the doorway and scanned the room for anything useable as a weapon. No food sat on the table. Dankworth must’ve finished the meal prior to her arrival and put away his eating dagger. Nothing sharp or heavy lay anywhere handy. The iron poker for the fire was the best tool that could be wielded as a weapon. Unfortunately, the hearth was closer to Dankworth than her. He’d reach it first. Still, she kept the possibility of getting her hands on the poker in the back of her mind.

  "Remove your garment and come here." The candlelight cast long shadows over the bed and onto the floor. It illuminated enough of the already half undressed Dankworth to reveal his aroused state.

  She didn't move. "Like a lamb to the slaughter? I don't think so." She readied for the fight of her life. She wasn’t weak. She worked out. A kick with guts behind it should put a crimp in his rape plans. All she needed was a bit of luck.

  His face darkened with rage and he covered the distance between them in three strides. She flinched as he stopped within inches. He didn’t touch her, but barred the door. She cursed her hesitation as he moved to the bed, out of reach.

  "I will not tell you again. Come here," he said, removing the rest of his clothing. Spittle sprayed out and for a fraction of a second hung, suspended in the candle glow, then fell.

  “Come and get me.”

  He’d come for her. When he did, she’d drive his nuts up to his ears. She missed one opportunity. A mistake she wouldn’t repeat.

  Dankworth lunged, knocking her backward, pinning her against the wall. She'd kicked but missed the mark and connected with his thigh instead. He grabbed the front of the chemise and yanked her onto her toes. She flailed and tried to knee him in the balls, failing as sharp pain surged through her cheek and behind her eye.

  She struggled to bring a hand up to ward off another strike. She saw the flash of his raised fist and ducked her face away from the blow. He was faster. This one found her mouth and spotted his knuckles with her blood. She’d suspected earlier he intended to kill her. Now she knew he would whether he raped her first or not.

  She wrenched out of his grasp and swept her foot around his ankle, tripping him. He seized her arm and took her to the floor too. Savage hands tore at her hair and finding a handful, he banged her head against the hard wood. She twisted against him. The sting from a clump of hair ripped out by the roots gave her false hope she’d escaped his hold.

  Instead, he gripped the tender flesh of her neck. Unable to swallow, saliva gathered in the back of her throat, choking her. She tried to breathe through her nose but couldn’t get enough air. Nothing found its way to her lungs. Her ability to differentiate colors waned. Shades of grey tinged the edges of her peripheral vision. A thousand pinpricks of light danced before her as she bucked beneath him.

  His fingers tightened on her windpipe. She scratched his cheeks and clawed at his eyes. He released her throat and attempted to seize her wrists as she tried to ram the heel of her hand into his nose.

  They battled until a blunt force blow dazed her. The side of her face from jaw to eye pounded from his backhand. Her left ear ached with a dull whir like the ocean’s roar through a conch shell.

  Dankworth only needed a moment to completely overpower her. He attempted to straddle her, opening himself up for a split second. Shakira jammed her knee into his testicles with all the force adrenaline can produce. His eyes rolled upward until only the whites showed as he held himself, cursing and panting.

  Unable to open one eye, aching, she managed to clamber up the wall, stagger to the door and lift the bar. Pulled away by her hair, she was hurled several feet. Her ribs caught the side of a table and something from the top crashed by her head as it tipped over. Dankworth spat an epithet she couldn’t understand through the muffled ringing in her ear. Then, he kicked her in the ribs and drew his foot back to kick her again.

  She clutched her side and rolled onto her stomach. Panicked he’d kick her to death she pushed up from the floor. With her forearm tucked tight to her ribcage, she used her free arm to drag herself. The rough plank floor scraped raw spots on her k
nees and elbows as she crawled, desperate to be out of his reach, desperate to escape the punishing blows. Dankworth's heavy foot landed on the small of her back. She shifted her weight and twisted to the side, trying to see what he was doing.

  He loomed above her, half doubled over, a string of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. He stretched to pick up the riding crop that had spilled from the table.

  "No whore denies me." He ripped the chemise almost in two. "Whether you suffer me cock or my whip, it matters not to me."

  The boniness of his cheeks lost their distinction. The angular outline of other facial features blurred. Through vision clouded by a fog of pain, she squinted and tipped her chin high.

  "Go to hell."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Shakira drifted in and out of sleep. The cold of the floor seeped into her bones. She shivered and vaguely remembered flashes of bright light as she was dragged away. Pain induced hallucinations saw them as headlights from cars. Cars from the modern world that signaled hope this was a nightmare. Then a kernel of rationality prevailed, and she remembered they were torches.

  How many times had he whipped her? A dozen? More? The leather knot at the end of the lash had stung while the tiny spike tore her skin.

  A deep, sharp pain pierced her side as she tried to sit up. She sucked in breath and slapped her hand against the floor until the agony subsided. She released the air in a slow stream over her swollen and bruised lips and collapsed back down. One place didn’t hurt. One place hadn’t been violated. The smile that knowledge brought hurt her mouth, but she relished the torment. The beast hadn’t been able to rape her.

  Outside, rain fell in steady taps on the windowsill. She let the rhythm lull her. They reminded her of a morning she and Alex made love to the sound of a soft shower. Alex.

  She cried. She cried until exhaustion and sleep took over again.

  ***

  Alex entered the chamber unsure of his greeting after his poor behavior.

  "Rocky?" She wasn’t by the window watching for him or attending to her appearance as he expected. He checked behind the screen that shielded the chamber pot. "Rocky?"

  She had to be on the grounds. She wouldn’t venture far. He walked the corridors stopping anyone who might’ve seen her. He questioned the kitchen servants. None that day served her meals. No one had seen her since the previous night’s banquet.

  Philippa and her ladies crossed his path as he searched the chapel. They told the same story, "last night."

  Alex returned to their chamber afraid something terrible happened. Worse, he had no idea who else to ask. A chill breeze blew through the window and whipped at his cloak. Shakira wouldn’t leave the window open in this weather. Wherever she disappeared to, she left in a hurry. As he crossed the room to close the window, he noticed her clothing trunk was missing. She didn’t disappear on her own. Someone knew what happened. He rushed from the room determined to get the answer.

  He stalked the halls searching for Enid, the maid. She almost collided with him as she exited another chamber.

  He hooked her by the elbow as she attempted to re-enter the chamber. “I want answers, now.”

  The maid’s eyes darted back and forth, from one wall to the other, under his intense interrogation. She admitted the king ordered her to deliver Shakira’s trunk to the council chamber. She mentioned the gentleman present. The skittish servant swore she didn’t know his name and tried to go. Alex blocked her escape and demanded more information. She pointed out the manservant who escorted Shakira to the king.

  The servant, who was busy lighting torches glanced over in time to see Alex’s brisk approach and dashed down the corridor.

  "Where is she?" Alex caught up and spun him around by the shoulder.

  "Who, sir? I know nothing of the comings and goings of guests,” he said, looking everywhere but at Alex.

  "You’re lying. Where’s Lady Shakira?"

  "I do not know."

  He C-clamped the man’s throat and drove him into the wall. "Where is she? Say I don’t know again and I’ll snap your neck."

  "The home of the queen’s wool merchant."

  "Where does he live?"

  "I swear, I do not know," he said, raspy voiced. "Sir John, ask Sir John."

  Alex found Stephen and Simon on their way to the great hall. "Find Basil and tell him to meet us in the stables. Saddle our horses. I’ll explain on the way."

  John Holland relaxed at his desk. Imperturbable as his sister Blanche was lovely, he never blinked when Alex’s stormy presence filled the doorframe.

  "You have been in the Welsh Marches too long, Guy. Here, in England, we still knock before entering someone’s chamber."

  "Apologies, but this is urgent. The wool merchant...where does he live?"

  "Dankworth--" Holland’s lip curled in disgust, "--dreadful man. Is this about your lady?"

  Alex nodded.

  "I saw them leave together hours ago."

  "Not by her choice."

  "No. The king ordered it, but you did not hear that from me. You will find Dankworth on Bouverie Street, near the river. You cannot miss his house, ‘tis the finest on the block."

  "Thanks." Alex raced out the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Alex’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the upper floor. Unlike the main floor, where Simon and Stephen watched over Dankworth and his mother, few torches lit this level. He took one from its holder and searched from room to room. He threw the door of the last one open. If she wasn’t here, he’d flay Dankworth alive until the bastard revealed her whereabouts.

  A fat wharf rat scurried along the baseboard under the window as Alex waved the torch back and forth. He hated the filthy things. A low, scratchy noise came from the shadowed corner the rat left. The nest. He readied to stomp on the vermin home when the torch flame flickered on what appeared to be a bit of pale shoulder poking through a bundle of rags.

  He moved with care and held the light high to illuminate the area better. "Shakira!” He shoved the torch into Basil’s hand and dropped to his knees.

  Curled in a fetal position, lash marks marred her arms and legs, her matted and mussed hair shielded her face. He gently rolled her over and her hair fell away, exposing her injured face. He ran his fingers down her icy cheeks and along her cold lips then felt her neck for a pulse. "She is alive. Shakira..." he said, touching his palm to a swollen cheek.

  One eyelid fluttered open. Her hand patted the air. "Alex?" A violent tremor passed through her body, as she tried to rise, and failed.

  "I’m here, darling," he whispered.

  She patted the air again as though verifying his existence. "Alex?" Her hand found his chest and she grasped onto his tunic with chipped and broken fingernails.

  "I’m here.” He took her hand in his to reassure her. The fingers of his free hand flexed with unspent anger as he examined the welts on her skin from the knuckles to the wrist. Defensive wounds.

  “Alex,” she said and tried to rise again.

  "Don't move. I have you." He slid his hands under her knees and arms, nestling her against him as he lifted her.

  "She calls you by a strange name," Basil said.

  "I will explain later. Right now, I need more light."

  Basil raised the torch. "God in his heaven."

  The flame cast eerie shadows on the ghostly pallor of her face, the blues and purples of the bruises an intense contrast. Dried blood crusted where the upper lip was split and part of her mouth was puffed to almost twice the normal size.

  The two friends exchanged a brief knowing look.

  "Once we are downstairs, I will take her," Basil said.

  Simon kept watch over Dankworth while Alex and Basil had searched the house. Stephen watched over Cybill, who continued her loud protests to their presence in her son’s home. The neutral, if somewhat bored, expressions worn by the two knights transformed to grim accusation at the sight of Shakira’s face.

  Cybill screamed and lun
ged. Clawlike fingers swiped at Alex who dodged the strike as Stephen jerked her back.

  Alex settled Shakira in Basil’s arms. He removed his cloak and covered her. The damp cape offered some warmth to her clammy coldness. He thought her only half conscious when she opened her eyes, getting her first glimpse of Basil.

  "Bloody hell," she croaked. Speckles of fresh blood appeared on her cut lip. Two tentative fingers dabbed at the split skin. "Ow."

  Basil’s brows arched high at the outburst of raw language. His shocked gaze darted from Shakira to Alex.

  Time stood still for Alex. In her traumatized state, Shakira might think Basil was Ian. Alex wasn’t sure what she’d do. He mumbled a curse and prayed she didn't blurt out something awkward he'd be forced to explain away. He already needed to explain why she called him by a name other than Guy.

  "Shakira--"

  She waved him off. A crooked smile played at the uninjured edge of her mouth and she said, "Thank you, Sir Basil."

  "Clever girl," Alex said and then turned merciless eyes to Dankworth.

  Shakira laid a hand on his bicep. "He's not worth it. The king can judge him. You came. That’s all that matters. You came." She squeezed his arm with weak fingers. "Take me home."

  A flicker of hope danced across Dankworth's face then evaporated seeing Alex’s malevolent expression. Alex turned back to Shakira. This was his lady to avenge. In this time, in this world, he was strong, a man to be reckoned with and not an impotent observer.

  "Justice is an iffy thing my darling. I’m making certain at least some gets meted out." He brushed her temple with a kiss, then whispered, "I told you, I can get very medieval protecting what is mine."