Powerful Magic (13 page)

          
She shuddered, remembering the witchcraft trials of Salem in her own country.
 
And Joan of Arc - wasn't that somewhere around this time?
 
No, maybe that had been in the fourteen hundreds or something.
 
For the first time ever, she wished she'd paid more attention to history when in college, instead of focusing on socializing.
 
All the sororities in Texas couldn't help her now.

          
Unless she could perform a miracle and come up with a formula to help her pass through time.

          
Maybe witchcraft wasn't such a ridiculous idea after all.

          
Kenric spoke, drawing her attention back to the tableau in the clearing.
 
"Take your wounded and go.
 
I want no trouble."

          
"Nor us either, Kenric of Blackstone."
 
Sheathing his sword, the tall man moved carefully to the body of his fallen comrade.
 
The shorter, stocky man seemed frozen, undecided.
 

          
"Come on."
 
The leader barked.
 

          
Still the other man hesitated.
 

          
"If you want to stay and fight, go ahead.
 
But mark this, no man faces down Thunder and lives."

          
Puzzled, Megan frowned.
 
Why did he speak like Kenric's sword would do the fighting for him?
 
Did he believe it to be magical, like the King Arthur's sword in that old legend?

          
Whatever it was, she couldn't help but be impressed.
 
This Kenric was brave and apparently skilled.
 
She couldn't have found a better man to help her, despite his earlier vow to not kill.
 
How then, she wondered, would he defend himself in a fight to the death?
 
Would he have let them kill him, rather than take another life?
 
And her, what of her?
 
Would he have watched while they ran her through with one of those shiny, oh-so-sharp-looking swords?
 
Somehow, she doubted it.

          
The shorter man made up his mind, hurrying over to help the injured man stand.
 
Somehow they got him on his horse and they all took off, the hurt rider hunched low over the horse's neck.

          
Leaving Kenric, who looked not even winded, and his horse,
Lancelot
she reminded herself.
 
Crawling out of her damp hiding place, Megan brushed snow and dead leaves off her tunic.
 

          
"That worked out well."
 
She said to Kenric's broad back.
 
           
Ignoring her, he stared off in the distance as if trying to make out the men riding away.
 
When he turned, she was shocked to see the raw emotion on his face; whether fury or anguish she could not tell, though she suspected it was a combination of both.

          
"You fought them off, drove them away."
 
She enthused, heart racing, trying desperately to pretend she noticed nothing, saw nothing.
 
"And you didn't even have to kill to do it."

          
He gave a grunt, then strode to where Lancelot munched a bit of dead grass poking through the trampled snow.
 

          
"Come on."
 
Without looking at her, he held out his hand.
 
"We must reach the next village before nightfall.
 
Mayhap we will find your Roger there."

CHAPTER FIVE

          
Once they were mounted and moving at a brisk pace through the packed snow, Kenric ignored her.
 
She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his thick cloak, glad of the warmth. The landscape all seemed the same, more rolling hills, mist, trees, and of course, snow.
 

          
Finally, Megan decided to give in to her curiosity.
 
           
"Why did they talk about your sword like it’s magical?"
 

          
His only noticeable reaction was a slight stiffening in his carriage.
 

          
"Those men, they all seemed afraid of it."
 
She pushed bravely on.
 

          
A muscle worked in Kenric's jaw.
 
He shook his head, telling her without speaking that he didn't want to talk about it.
 
Typically masculine.
 
Incredibly frustrating.

          
"I need to know.
 
Seriously."
 
Stubbornness was one of her worst faults, according to Roger.
 
She reminded herself that Roger's opinion no longer mattered to her.
 
"If it’s so dangerous that it frightens grown men into running, don't you think I should know why?"

          
He laughed at this, a harsh bark of sound that seemed to absorb instantly into the heavy fog.
 

          
"Some call my sword magic."
 
He told her.
 
"And, as I told you, its name in Welsh is another word for Thunder."

          
In Welsh?
 
Though he'd mentioned the name earlier, he hadn't said the origins of it.
 
Why would his sword have a Welsh name?
 
He had made it plain that he despised the Welsh.
 

          
Struggling to understand, Megan nodded.
 
"So it’s both you and your sword they’re afraid of?"

          
With an arrogant smile, he inclined his head once in a curt nod.

          
Feeling brave, Megan pushed on.
 
"Your sword... it seemed to glow."
 
She felt foolish even saying it, but she knew what she had seen.
 

          
The only sound was the muffled sound of Lancelot's hoofbeats and the fierce pounding of her heart.
 
She swallowed, waited, but as they skirted the trees and rode down another slope, then straight up yet another, she realized Kenric had no intention of answering this particular question.

          
"I saw it."
 
She lifted her chin, leaning around his right to try and peer up into the harsh plains of his face.
 
"It

glowed, with a faintly silver light."
 

          
Now was the time for him to tell her she was crazy, that the head injury he suspected of happening had addled her brains.
 

          
"Some call it magic."
 
He repeated instead, dragging the words out in a way that forbade any further questions.
 
His expression might have been carved out of stone.

          
Megan knew enough to quit while she was ahead.
 
Normally, she wouldn't have believed him, or believed in his vague explanation of magic.
 
Magic was tricks and mirrors, illusions and smoke.
 
But something, some force, had sent her to this place, to this time, and if it wasn't magic then she didn't know what else it could be.

          
The wind picked up again, frozen gusts of it blowing snow flurries and the cold, wet fog in swirling eddies around them.
 
Despite herself, Megan shivered.
 
Would she never be warm again?

          
Kenric felt it.
 
"Wrap the cloak tight around you."

          
She did as he asked, wishing she had a knitted cap, some thermal underwear, and a good pair of waterproof, fully-lined, boots.
 

          
Soon they could not see.
 
It seemed another full-fledged blizzard was in progress. Still, Kenric urged Lancelot on.
 
Megan wondered how the horse found his way, because it was near impossible to see more than five feet in front of them.
 
Unable to tell if it was day or night, she lost track of time.
 
The cold snaked into her bones and consumed her, until even her teeth chattered and her jaw ached from trying to hold in her shivering.

          
But even if she begged Kenric to stop, Megan could see no place to take shelter.
 
How she longed now for the small cave and the warmth of the smoky, sputtering fire.

          
"Tis dangerous."
 
Kenric muttered, his voice muffled by his heavy cloak.
 
"I know not where we ride.
 
I have to trust the horse to find a safe place to walk."

          
"Lancelot."
 
She blurted without thinking, her voice trembling with her shivering.

          
Kenric turned to look at her while Lancelot kept plodding forward, head down.
 
"What?"

          
"The horse."
 
She wondered if the poor animal was as frozen as she.
 
"His name is Lancelot."

          
Obviously thinking her deranged, Kenric shook his head.
 
"My war horse has no name."

          
Glad of at least one coherent thought to cling to, to push away the cold, Megan snorted.
 
"He does now.
 
I've named him Lancelot."

          
"Why?"

          
She wondered if the Arthurian legend was known in 1072. "Lancelot was a brave knight."

          
"Nay.
 
He betrayed a king."

          
Ah, so he did know the story.
 
And while yes, it was technically true that Lancelot had stolen the king's wife, all she could think of was Richard Gere, handsome and charming, in that role in the movie
First Knight
.
 

          
Kenric watched her, his eyes glittering shards of ice.
 
Like her hands and feet and, heck the rest of her body was

beginning to feel.
 

          
"He's a horse, for God's sake."
 
Frustration and cold made her want to weep.
 
"You don't have to take the name so literally."

          
He shook his head, the movement sending some of the snow that coated his dark mane flying.
 

          
"Are you all right?"
 
He asked, the concern in his voice warring with the steely expression on his face.

          
She didn't know what to make of him.
 
Right now she didn't much care.
 
All she wanted was to find a place where she could get warm.