Journey in Time (Knights in Time)

by Karlsen, Chris

  "I forgot. I was so grateful to see you all I could think of was getting out of there. Besides, you’d have killed him and probably gotten yourself in royal trouble."

  "Maybe not killed him outright, I know how much the king prefers to administer justice as he sees fit. However, I might’ve ridden closer to the river, tied Dankworth’s hands a bit looser. Even the king doesn’t expect anyone to wade into the Thames after a prisoner."

  Alex set the goblet down and dragged a chair around the table. He seated himself across from her, elbows on his thighs, and clasped both her hands between his. "We need to talk."

  Never in the course of history did the words "we need to talk" bode well. “I’m listening," she said, prepared for the worst.

  He took a deep breath. "Rocky, I've experienced few failures in my life--lives," Alex corrected. "I considered my good fortune a blessing until I failed you so profoundly. Never have I been at a loss for accurate words, but at the moment, they escape me. I can’t begin to adequately describe how gut-wrenching it is to see your bruises and welts and know I could've prevented this--begged off the hunt."

  Relieved, she relaxed. "Don’t torture yourself. This is Dankworth's doing and to a lesser extent the king's. If you hadn’t gone on the hunt, the king would’ve found another way to separate us."

  Alex’s unbound hair hung loose over his shoulders the way she loved. She tugged on the end of a long lock. "When I'd given up hope, you burst through the door. You were Sir Galahad, only better. You weren't the fictional knight of legend. You were my very real hero."

  "You honor me. Is there a man alive who doesn't want to be someone's hero?” He leaned over and skimmed her forehead with his lips. “The point is this can’t happen again. The best way to protect you is for us to marry."

  Marriage to Alex. She fantasized about the possibility but never because he acted out of guilt.

  "Will you--"

  "Do you love me?"

  "This isn't about love, Rocky."

  "It is to me. I want to be a cherished partner not an obligation." After her ordeal with Dankworth, she figured she wasn't in immediate danger from the king’s machinations. The danger now came from her rescuer. He hadn’t answered. Her heart teetered on a ledge that led to immense joy or soul-searing pain. "Do you love me? It's a simple question."

  The question forced Alex to analyze the jumble of emotions she stirred in him. In this world, he had numerous acquaintances but few friends. He counted Stephan and Simon as friends. His most personal thoughts he shared with no one other than Basil but he never considered himself lonely. Shakira’s presence added another element, another layer to his life. The new experience of having someone close each night to share the small things, the funny things, just the events of the day with, was an unexpected pleasure.

  The dark image rolled over him as Alex relived the moment he heard she’d gone to Dankworth's. The fury and frenzy that swept over him at the news was still fresh. The horrible fear he’d come too late seeing Dankworth’s mother in Shakira’s dress. If he’d discovered her murdered, no act of barbarism would've been beyond him.

  "Alex?"

  “Sorry."

  "If you have to think about it, then the answer is no. You don’t love me."

  An awkward pause followed. He needed to say something. Several responses came to him, none he managed to speak.

  She cleared her throat. "Well, that’s out of the way. We had quite an elephant in the room for a minute there," she said, her voice a trifle shaky as she gave him a graceful way out. "I’d rather the truth. I don't want you to do something you’ll regret because of a false sense of responsibility."

  He didn’t want a graceful way out. This time he wasn’t a shadowy figure, unable to act.

  "I'm not proposing because of a false sense of anything. I'm doing this to protect you, certainly, but it's also out of selfishness. I never want to go through a day or night like that again." Alex kissed her least bruised cheek. "Let me take care of you. Do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

  In the morning's sunlight her stormy eyes looked like cold steel. Flat. "I always thought when I married it would be because I’d be in love with a man who loved me in return."

  "What a novel concept for this age, how twenty-first century of you," he quipped, buying time. Her reluctance was making a muddle of things. He needed to think through the fix.

  Her statement hung in the air between them.

  In the past, a few women claimed they loved him. Shakira hadn’t expressed the same, but he wasn’t blind. He knew she cared for him. That, coupled with the circumstances, he expected her to accept his proposal without question. Love wasn’t required.

  As the pause in their conversation dragged on, he reassessed his strategy. "Would you accept my troth if I told you, you’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted as my wife?”

  "Really—even when you were a young, dashing knight, the first time I mean?"

  "Past and present, you’re the only one."

  She didn’t answer right away and he worried she’d say no. He kissed the back of her knuckles. "Say yes, I promise you won’t regret it."

  "Troth, there’s a word I never thought I’d hear or use.” The uncut corner of her mouth lifted in a crooked smile. “Yes, I accept your troth.”

  “Good.” In case she had lingering doubts about her decision, he added, "After all, milady, this isn’t our time. It's not like we're really married."

  The sparkle he’d seen in her eyes when she said yes dulled as though snuffed out by unseen fingers. A pained expression flickered across her face, disappearing as fast as it came. She moved to the foot of the bed and stared out the window.

  “What hurts?” he asked, thinking one of her injuries suddenly pained her.

  She lifted her eyes to his and was silent for a long moment before she said, "Nothing that won’t heal eventually."

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Alex skipped breakfast and rushed through his morning routine. He planned on arriving in the great hall for Dankworth’s trial well ahead of Shakira. He welcomed the chance to get the hell out of their chamber. Ever since their conversation about marrying, she’d been moody. She wasn't bitchy, but eerily quiet, or dejected. Compliments left her cheerless. His attempts at humor fell flat more than they made her laugh. She acted satisfied with her case preparation and seemed to be recovering well from the trauma of the attack.

  He didn’t know what to make of her morose attitude. From her initial happiness when she accepted, his proposal pleased her. Why the subsequent emotional distance? The question ate at him and dominated his thoughts as he shaved. He wiped the soap from his knife and glanced over at her. She sat at the other mirror pinning her hair. It hurt to think she regretted saying yes. His lineage is a proud one. The Conqueror, himself, granted his ancestor the barony. Perhaps he should inform the future Mrs. Guiscard of the fair number of women who’d be delighted to be his wife. Male survival instinct debated the wisdom of that.

  Finished and dressed, he bent to kiss her goodbye and missed when she moved. He didn’t try a second time. In the open doorway, he paused and waited for her to say goodbye.

  Silent, she continued shaking her braid out.

  "You know, some women--"

  Shakira swiveled in the chair. "What? Some women, what?"

  Moodiness had morphed into testiness. She was in a major snit and brushing her hair out for the third or fourth time. He’d lost count. Every attempt to loop her hair around her ears ended with the braids flopped down at different lengths.

  "Nothing, it’s just that you’ve been so--"

  "If you're going to say frustrated--" she viciously whipped at her unbound hair, "You're right. Don't take this wrong, I appreciate your old self was a warrior and all, especially when you came to my rescue. But right now, I wish you'd been a warrior, slash," Shakira made a downward slicing motion, brush in hand, "hairdresser."

  With a strangle hold on the brush handle, she rested fisted hands on her hip
s. Her hair, now electrified into flying wisps stuck out in all directions.

  "Sorry I interrupted. Go on, some women what?"

  Dare he suggest she try to be happier? There was nothing unpleasant about the situation. If she had second thoughts about saying yes, he’d assured her it wasn’t like they were really married. That should’ve put her mind at ease. Confused, he shook his head.

  Perhaps her hormones were messed up. The time travel experience was the most plausible explanation if they were. Except the mood swings should’ve happened sooner. Maybe PMS was the cause. He didn’t know much about PMS, only that it could turn a good woman into the Werewolf of London.

  "Some women what?"

  "Nothing, I’ll see you in the hall." Alex shut the door hard behind him and almost bumped into Basil.

  "I was coming to get you,” Basil said. “You mentioned you wanted to arrive early for the trial. I thought we’d go together and have a bit of a chinwag on the way."

  "A bit of a chinwag," Alex repeated with a grunt. "I suppose you want to talk about my upcoming nuptials?" He anticipated Basil’s disapproval. As the Earl of Ashenwyck, Basil was never given to impetuous behavior or impulsive decisions that might affect one’s social rank or family prestige. Alex expected an earful of cautionary advice two days ago when he’d announced the betrothal.

  Basil fell in step with Alex. "I see you intend on going through with this foolish plan. I hoped you’d recovered your wits if you had a day or two to think on it."

  "My wits were never lost. This is not a rash decision. We will wed at my family's chapel upon our immediate return."

  "Why? Do not say this is the only way to protect her. It is not, as well you know. I doubt the king will meddle further in her life, not after he saw her face and damage Dankworth caused."

  Alex didn’t answer and didn’t break stride. Like a dog with a bone, Basil wouldn’t leave the matter alone.

  "Think of your future. Please the king. Marry Blanche Holland. Whether you keep Shakira as your mistress or not, you need only to make it known you are her protector and she’ll be safe. The incident does not warrant making her your wife."

  “It does to me.”

  Basil pulled Alex into an alcove and lowered his voice. "You will never be more than a baron if you wed Shakira. Because of the circumstances, the king won’t force his choice of bride on you. However, he won’t reward such open disregard for protocol. One does not marry one’s mistress. Have a thought for the future of your heirs."

  My heirs. Alex ached seeing the concern and sincerity in Basil’s eyes. There will be no heirs, not for Guy, not for you my friend, only a grave of cold French mud. Some things no man should know. He pushed the burden of knowledge from his mind.

  "If all I am destined to be is a baron, then so be it," Alex said, wishing he could explain Basil worried for nothing.

  More than his best friend, Basil was the brother Alex never had. As close as they were, he couldn't share the truth. Basil’s rigid view of the world didn't allow for time anomalies.

  Not that Alex had any clue how to broach the subject. Perhaps, "Oh by the way, my friends call me Alex now, not Guy. I have a rollicking good life going for me in the future which I am trying to get back to with Shakira." There’s a good opener, he thought dryly. Then, as a closer, "And, F.Y.I., in about six hundred years, you'll be a lot more open-minded."

  "She’s bedazzled you. Why you should be so smitten is beyond me, 'tis only one more conquest, albeit a lovely one." Basil's brows raised high, "You have never been one to dance to any wench’s tune."

  "Shakira is not a wench. She is a lady and my betrothed."

  Basil inclined his head in apology. "I meant no insult. I am sure she is a fine woman, but we have never been less than honest with each other. If my words are harsh, it is because they are the truth."

  "I know, and I appreciate your concern, but I won’t give her up. Bear in mind the king has not approached me regarding marriage to anyone. All this speculation stems from gossip alone. For the sake of argument, say it’s true. If I were to marry the king’s choice, let’s assume Blanche, she’d harangue me daily to send Shakira away. She’d make my life a misery."

  "Don’t be ridiculous," Basil choked out over a laugh. "She might try, all women try. It’s their nature. You’re her lord and master. You can take whomever you wish for a mistress. Blanche has no say. What complaint can be made? The wife gains the title, runs the household, and receives the best jewelry. Besides, competing with a mistress gives her something to moan about with the other wives when she comes to court.”

  “Enough of this, I’m going.” Alex stepped away.

  They re-entered the corridor as a striking brunette walked by and eyed Basil hard.

  "Did you see the beauty we passed? She certainly took a serious accounting of your attributes," Alex said with a smirk, happy to change the subject. "I’ve not seen her before."

  Basil glanced over his shoulder. "Cecily de Havilland, Percival’s daughter, she’s new to court."

  "From appearances, she’d like to make your acquaintance."

  Basil harrumphed the way he always did when someone or something didn’t meet his approval. "Then, she’s bound to be disappointed. I understand she’s a virgin. You know I’ve never had an interest in virgins. Dreary creatures. It takes forever to get them to lift their skirts. Once inside, you have to tiptoe around, and the smallest utterance of flattery afterward is taken as a declaration of love."

  They entered the hall. The king hadn’t appeared yet, but was en route. Courtiers were already lined up three deep along the walls. Word had spread the mistress would present her case at the trial.

  Bits and pieces of conversation reached Alex. Whether the speakers intended for him to hear or whether their voices carried by accident, it didn't matter. The general reaction was either one of condemnation or disgruntlement. The men did not approve of a foreigner having a say in the trial of an Englishman. However, to Alex's surprise, the women had the cruelest things to say. Instead of seeing the decision as an opportunity for females, a chance to expose the mistreatment they often suffer, the act of granting Shakira the freedom to question the accused was reviled.

  "Base born" and "without pride" and "imported whore," were the worst and most common terms used to define Shakira...his Shakira. He resisted the urge to tell them, “She's ten times more a lady than the lot of you bitches.”

  He moved toward the worst offenders, prepared to confront them. A hand pulled him back by the tunic sleeve. "They are not worth your anger. If you create a disturbance, you’ll hurt her cause. The king may choose not to let Shakira speak."

  Basil was right. The best Alex could do at the moment was stare the harpies into silence. He noted each shrew in the group. To his disgust, he recognized many of his former lovers.

  Dankworth's case was announced. "Where’s Shakira? She should be here by now." Alex’s alarmed attention moved over the room. "God in his heaven, not again," he uttered, low.

  "Calm yourself. No one is so big a fool as to harm her at court, not under the watchful eye of the king’s men."

  “True,” Alex acknowledged, but his hand crept to the hilt of his sword and rested there as he watched and waited.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Shakira checked her face for the tenth time in the poor excuse for a mirror and wondered how bad she really looked. The bruises were wonderful prima facie evidence of her ordeal, but vanity and pride demanded she make as dignified an impression as possible. Her appearance might generate sympathy. While being useful, sympathy is easily swayed. Superior credibility over Dankworth was her best weapon and an absolute necessity.

  In her own time, appearing before court never worried her. There, she acted as someone else’s advocate. Here, self-doubt suddenly gripped her. She was an outsider making allegations against the queen’s favorite merchant. Although technically, she wasn’t the defendant in this matter, anyone with half a brain understood she was on trial as much as D
ankworth.

  For the last three days, she’d managed to keep her fears suppressed. They poured from her now as another frightening scenario picked at her frayed nerves with its disturbing underpinning. If Edward found in Dankworth’s favor, would it in essence, indicate she perjured herself? If so, would he pursue a case against her? What was the royal punishment for perjury? Would she suffer through an allegedly fair trial and then be found guilty? Would he send her to the Tower? Banish her? Or, order her burned at the stake?

  A rush of panic adrenaline shot through her. She sucked in large gulps of air but still couldn’t manage a breath that reached her lungs. Light-headed, she gripped a chair back to steady herself.

  On top of those hairy questions, add her ignorance regarding the rules of evidence. What if she wasn’t allowed to present evidence beyond her appearance? Without an independent witness to the attack or physical corroboration to contradict any lies Dankworth told to justify his actions, the case boiled down to he said/she said.

  Alex couldn’t offer useful insight. Apologetic, he said the only cases he'd heard in his barony were disputes between locals, over a pig, or payment for a service. Evidence was often dodgy, or in the case with farm animals, ingested.

  She forced the negative imaginings from her mind and composed herself. On this battlefield, she was a formidable opponent and damned ready to fight the bastard again. Determined not to show a hint of weakness, she left for the hall.

  ***

  The center of everyone’s morbid interest, Alex made his way to the front of the crowd. All stepped aside to allow him a better view of the proceedings. There was a collective gasp and the throng surged forward as the prisoner was brought forth.

  Dankworth looked like he'd been hit by a runaway beer cart. His broken nose sat at an odd angle to his mouth. Both eyes were swollen and shared a variety of unnatural colors. A plum colored bruise ran the length of his jaw on one side, and blue-green skin covered a misshapen cheekbone. He wore the same blood stained clothes from the night he was brought to the palace. Alex ignored the buzz of the crowd and pointed stares of the courtiers who looked first to the prisoner, then to him.