Falling For Henry (10 page)

When she came to her senses, she was sitting on a rocky knoll a few feet from the tunnel's opening. Shakily, she brushed the prickly dust from her ankles, then stood and stumbled into the same clearing she'd discovered yesterday. A hissing sound came from overhead and when she looked carefully, she saw a small gray and brown woodpecker perched on a branch, regarding her with beady eyes. The hissing sound came from its beak. The bird reminded her of an old woman trying to cast some kind of spell.

A wryneck, she thought with sudden assurance, surprised that she was able to identify it, for she'd never in her life seen one. Had she read about them? She wasn't sure.

“I'm not dreaming,” she said to the sharp-eyed bird, its shrewd gaze somehow familiar. “I'm not.”

As if in answer, the bird stopped its ruckus and cocked its head.

“That's better,” she announced. “For a minute, I thought you were trying to put a curse on me.” The bird stretched its wings and flew away.

What am I doing here?
thought Kate, trying to get her balance and inhaling the now familiar smell of mint. She wished she hadn't entered the tunnel a second time.
What was I thinking?
she asked herself. A law she remembered from physics class entered her thoughts:
Everything seeks the path of the most disorder.
But that wasn't true. She wanted order. She wanted desperately to explain things in a way that made sense, but here she was, with no more answers than before. Something caught her eye in the woods and, with immediate revulsion, she realized that a dead deer was hanging from a nearby branch, supported upside down with ropes around its pelvis.

It's there to age, she thought with unusual clarity, so that the meat grows more tender. How did she know this? No one she knew had ever hunted. The dizzy feeling returned. Suddenly, crackling branches caught her attention. Before she could step back to hide, a black horse plunged through the underbrush, its rider guiding it skillfully among the trees and, at the same time, leading a dappled gray pony. It was the same red-haired fellow she'd seen yesterday, only this time his gaze fell directly on her. She instinctively tried to duck behind some of the larger tree trunks, but her skirt caught in brambles and she was pinned like a butterfly until the rider approached.

“The game is up!” he said, slipping from the saddle to stand not more than a few inches away. “How you have changed, Katherine. Your hair—it is cut?”

“The game?” Kate repeated numbly, staring into his kingfisher blue eyes. She struggled to loosen the cloth of her skirt, overwhelmed with the sensation that she knew this person. Knew him well.

“Our little hide and seek. My party has now returned to the castle, and perhaps it is not too much to expect that you will tell me what you are doing here? I would warrant I deserve an answer.”

The formality of his speech startled Kate, and she stood staring, incapable of a response.

“Has the cat got your tongue?” he asked. “No, never mind. I only jest.”

Although his words were confusing, Kate interpreted the flashing in his blue eyes as teasing, not anger. His gleaming hair was combed straight down over his forehead, accentuating his striking eyes and strong features. He had what Gran would call a noble brow.

“We will ride back together. Are you able to mount?” he asked.

The gray pony had trotted alongside Kate and she automatically lifted herself into the sidesaddle, aware that this knowledge of practice was not—could not—be her own. Somehow in transit, perhaps in connection with that other girl, she had collected information that was now coming in handy.

“Your horse will follow mine, as always,” he said.

She did not respond, her head throbbing wildly with the inflated sense that she was more than one person.

“You have an unusual way of offering surprises,” he called back to her moments later. “I did not expect to see you return just yet.”

“I didn't—” Kate began, and then another, more formal voice took over in response to the young man's cadences: “Of course, I did not—” but here she stopped herself. A memory of riding hard through autumn fields snapped into her mind and she couldn't brush it away. As in the tunnel, when she thought of the black carriage, the shut door, and even in her skill at riding, foreign memories overpowered her.

“Of course you will have to tell me sooner or later, but if you prefer to wait, I must be patient,” he said, gracefully guiding his stallion through the trees. “Although the royal palace is close by, I do have one important errand before I return, and you will accompany me.”

The royal palace? Kate glimpsed a turret in the distance, as well as blue water, and then these images were obscured by branches as the horses moved ahead, her mount following his. What was this place?

Kate sat back as best she could and clutched the saddle, holding on more tightly as they found the path and the horses began to gallop. Her hands grew numb and she tried to relax her grip, but it was impossible under the circumstances. Her position on the horse was comfortable, but her mind was alert to danger, sure at any moment that she'd go tumbling to the ground. Soon they reached a clearing and the horses slowed and came to a halt, the young man sliding from the saddle and then lifting Kate down beside him. He was slightly taller than she, and muscular. He'd lifted her easily. Stepping back, she took full note of what he was wearing—a rich green tunic with brown leggings and narrow leather loafers. It was an odd sort of style that matched his formal way of speaking.

“Just a short stop,” he said, indicating a small thatched cottage encircled by a low hedge. “I've got some business here.” He tied the reins of both horses to a branch and then strode purposefully up to the house. Kate looked around. She remembered from class that Greenwich Park was quite large—seventy-four hectares, she thought—and home to a small herd of fallow deer. Hunting must be illegal, though. Was she in any danger because of what she had seen? Could he be afraid she'd turn him in as a poacher? A nasty smell hung about the yard, thick and poisonous, and Kate wrinkled her nose. She hesitated, not knowing where to turn. A puppy playing in the grass caught her attention and she took a few steps in its direction.

“MacQueen,” called the red-haired fellow authoritatively. “Show yourself.”

“You're welcome, sir,” came a raspy voice, and then a little man, much shorter than either of them, stepped out of the doorway into the yard, kicking aside two other puppies. He had bushy dark brows over bloodshot green eyes and a sneering expression of delight at seeing his visitors. Except for the pipe he held in the corner of his mouth, he strongly resembled the fellow she'd seen standing on the apple crate in the park. Was he one and the same? She couldn't decide.

She wrinkled her nose. There was a mound of gray skins beside the cottage, ragged and moldy. It looked as though they had been there for years. Behind them, Kate could see a refuse pile, topped with rotten pumpkins and squash, and more skins underneath. No wonder the place smelled rank.

“I've been vigilant but have not seen nary a one,” her companion went on. “Shall I let my father the King know that you have completed your task?”

“Indeed, every tenant within the bounds did confirm that the great grays are all gone,” whined MacQueen, shuffling a little as he spoke. He seemed to be one of those people who could never look you straight in the eye and so was always moving during a conversation, sidestepping, shifting about, his head tilting first to one side and then the other.
Like a rusty sign, swinging in the wind
, thought Kate. The creepy feeling of déjà vu intensified.

To hide her discomfort, she knelt down to stroke the puppy that was now nipping at the hem of her dress, all the while continuing to study the little man. There was something about MacQueen that looked menacing even though he seemed harmless enough. She wouldn't want to be alone with him.

“And none are left?” asked Kate's companion. His commanding voice made him seem older than his years, but Kate thought he was about her age or perhaps a little younger.

“I'd not say there was,” the man whined. “I'd best say they're all gone.”

“You're talking in riddles,” snapped the young man, lifting his hand as if to strike. “Either they are gone, or they are not!” Kate shivered at his demeanor, the pleasant gallantry of a few minutes ago replaced by fury.

“Well, in the fields and wild places of Scotland, there could be some small plenty of the great grays,” MacQueen snuffled, sidling a few steps toward the cottage. “But here, there are nae ones to assail you. I've made sure all are away.” He grinned, and repeated in the same whining tone as before: “All are away.”

Great grays
. Could they be talking about wolves? Was this man MacQueen helping to get rid of wolves? A smug feeling washed over Kate. So she really had seen wolves! And this certainly was the man she'd heard ranting in the park!

“You're hunting wolves,” Kate said dizzily, more as a statement than a question.

Her companion looked at her in horror, and MacQueen cried, “Whisht, besom, hush your blether! It's an ill thief that speaks sae bold!” He crossed himself and turned to face the young man as if for affirmation.

The puppy suddenly took a great tug at Kate's hem and she heard fabric ripping.

“Hey, stop that!” she said, trying to release the little teeth but instead gaining a scratch on the hand from the creature's eager claws.

“By St. George, a noble pup!” said her companion, striding over and carefully releasing the animal's paw from her skirt. “He is healthy, then?” he asked MacQueen. Kate wondered if he were trying to change the subject on purpose, to mask some kind of blunder on her part. Surely you were allowed to speak of wolves—there couldn't be a law against that! The world swayed around her and she put out a hand to steady herself.

“The whelps are all fine, your grace, an's their dam,” said MacQueen, indicating the mother dog who now lay suckling her other pups in a roughly made bed of straw beside the garden shed.

“Ah, this one's a brave lad, isn't he,” said the young man, scratching the puppy around its ears. “A fine son you have,” he called out to the mother as he picked up the pup and carried him to be with his siblings. His voice rang out among the trees and echoed back, lifting as if it held an important message. “May you have many strong sons.”

“And for yourself the same,” whined MacQueen.

“I thank you kindly, sir,” replied Kate's companion.

“What kind of dogs are these?” Kate asked in a high thin voice, her stomach lurching from the sweetish smell of decay.

The two stared at her incredulously. After a moment, MacQueen spoke in a sneering sort of way.

“Ho, they'll be His Highness's own wolfhounds, then, Princess Katherine,” he said. He looked over at the young man. “I am glad all is settled.”

“Nothing is settled unless I say it is so,” was the quick reply. Taking a pouch from around his waist, the young man threw it at MacQueen's feet.

Kate looked from one to the other.
MacQueen and the Duke of York, an unlikely pair. Yet Henry's father asked much of him in affairs of home and state. Being heir to the throne was more than just formality—it took a good deal of training.
Kate froze at these thoughts. Where had they come from? MacQueen broke the tension by picking up the pouch and removing one of the items—a dog collar, spiked with silver and gold.

“For the whelps.” He nodded at his own words and then added in an ingratiating manner, obviously intent on Henry's favor: “Very good, very good. I wish ye much joy of them.” Then he actually bowed before turning and shuffling back inside the cottage. Kate looked again at the skins with the sickening knowledge of their origin. Wolf pelts, oozing in the sun, the flies feasting on the aged, ill-cleaned hides.

Henry, if indeed that was his name, caught up the horses' reins. As he led the animals toward Kate, he carefully looked her over.

“Are you quite well?” he asked, stopping a few paces away.

“Yes. Yes, I'm fine,” she said.

“Very good. Because I wouldn't want to chance riding with you if the sweating sickness had returned.” He eyed her warily.

“I am quite well,” Kate heard herself saying in this other voice that was remarkably hers and yet not hers, a voice whose accents seemed foreign and strange. Was it possible that she could be herself, and yet someone else, at the same time?

He took her left hand and, turning it over, traced a finger along the palm where Kate's scar shone white in the sunlight.

“Yes, yes, very good,” Henry said, looking up as she glanced back toward the hut. “Don't let him bother you,” he went on, helping her to mount the gray horse. “Soon, Princess Katherine, he'll be returned to Scotland, for his job is nigh done.”
Princess Katherine.

“Oh, but I'm not—” She was about to deny the title when her horse stepped forward and she had to put all her effort into balancing and hanging on. She had ridden a few times before, back in the United States when she and her father drove to a stable for a few hours' ride, but she by no means was an experienced rider, and this saddle required that she sit twisted at the waist, with both legs hanging down on the same side. Yet somehow she adjusted, just as she had done earlier, and in a few minutes her body relaxed, the effort of co-ordinating the ride exchanged for practiced ease. In contrast to her riding stance, her mind burst with discomfort. How could she ride like this? Even without the sidesaddle, she recalled bouncing in all her previous riding attempts, nothing like what she was experiencing today.

I have ridden a great deal
, she thought, with the added consciousness of another's voice inside her head.
Practiced the equestrian arts ever since I was a child
. With this thought, she felt herself sliding from the saddle, and the next thing she knew, she was lying in the bushes.