Journey in Time (Knights in Time) (25 page)

Bodies litter the fallen ramparts and the field where the gates of his family home once stood. Blood’s iron odor mixes with the putrid air of eviscerated men and stamps itself on his senses. All battles smell the same.

Deep within the holding, children run from pen to pen and servants run from stall to stall in the barns freeing livestock as the wooden structures ignite. Bleating sheep crowd the narrow rear gates, separated lambs stand rooted, crying in hopes their mothers will find them and lead them to safety. Stable boys struggle with the knight’s destriers. Even the highly trained mounts revert to instinctive animal fear of fire.

He glances over his shoulder at the deafening noise from behind him. The archway housing the portcullis has fallen.

Time has come. He makes his way to the Keep to confirm his family made their escape. He passes the barn closest to the round tower and sees her, one of his Guiscard descendents generations removed. She presses a finger to her lips, "shh," she whispers to a little girl and races inside with the child. The young mother has draped her brown cloak over her daughter and moves from one shadowed space to the next until she reaches the ladder. She bends and lifts the child, speaking instructions in her ear. Blonde ringlets bounce against dimpled cheeks as the little girl smiles, excited by the adventure.
 

The mother makes herself small as possible, wedging her body into the far corner of the hayloft. The wide-eyed toddler squirms, suddenly frightened by the new round of shrieks from people and animals from the bailey.

He steps from the shadows to warn her. “Run...they’ll burn this building too.” She doesn’t see or hear him. No one does.

Two enemy soldiers saw the mother creep into the barn and
order her out. She ignores their commands and shields the child beneath her. She frantically pulls clumps of hay over them as fast as she can.

The smirking soldiers torch the barn turning it into an inferno within minutes. Mother and child climb down, crawling along the dirt floor through the rear door.

He can do nothing.

The back of his hand banged the table as he struck out. Alex jerked awake, his feet hitting the floor with a thud. Sharp pain radiated into his wrist where he hit the table's edge. He sat up and alternately flexed and shook his left hand until the pain dissipated.

The misery the nightmare always brought hovered on the perimeter of his consciousness as he joined Shakira in bed. Propped on his elbow, he smoothed the hair from her battered face. The fate of a mother and child from centuries gone couldn't sway him from a path he never thought to take.

But, what if?

He refused to give in to the grim emotions. The fate of the woman next to him was all that mattered.

Chapter Thirty

     
Shakira shook off the shock of the unusual decision and started a mental laundry list of facts to present.

"I just heard," Alex said, closing the chamber door. "The king’s consented to let you, a woman," he jiggled his brows, "question Dankworth in front of the whole court."

“I know. John Holland came by after you left and told me to prepare. The case goes before the king in three days. He said the prince suggested I be allowed to question Dankworth.”

“Ah,” Alex said, connecting the dots, “knowing Edward, he finds the idea amusing.”

“I suppose princes must get their laughs where they can,” she said, a little less impressed with the decision now.

Alex poured two goblets of wine and handed her one. "Here's to you, darling. You're about to give the Middle Ages a taste of enlightenment.” He raised his cup in toast.

“I welcome the decision for a public trial. At last, I’ll be in an arena where I have expertise. I’m not following you around like a puppy.” She sipped her wine and for clarification added, “You realize I’m not interested in altering the medieval mindset. It isn’t about bringing enlightenment to the fourteenth century.”

“I was teasing. I know you’re not. You’re not the crusader type. That said maybe one mind will be expanded.”

“I am a little nervous about putting a foot wrong, not being familiar with the nuances of the Plantagenet legal system.”

“I’ve every confidence you’ll do great.”

He drank another mouthful and said in a more serious tone, "The bruises on your ribs are worse this morning. You should’ve told me how badly he kicked you."

"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.