State of Grace (Resurrection) (16 page)

‘Hang on a minute,’ I pleaded, not liking the direction this conversation was taking. ‘You can’t be serious about this. I mean, I don’t know anything, not for sure. Wild guess, that’s all.’

My babbling stopped as Viktor raised one hand and,
without looking at me, staring intently at Roman, said, ‘You have my word you will not be harmed, either by me or Roman.’

My knees gave way and I collapsed to the floor. I desperately needed the bathroom, I was cold and hot in waves, nausea made my stomach roil and I was shivering uncontrollably.

‘But –’ Roman broke off, his voice like gravel.

‘I cannot explain, there is something…’ Viktor paused. ‘I don
’t believe she is a danger to us. There is no immediate need to enthral her, and if a need appears I will give you my word I will bind her to me. Anyway, she intrigues me,’ he added off-handedly.

‘Ah, so that is it. You are curious. Your curiosity could be a danger to us.’

‘And you aren’t?’ Viktor insisted. ‘A human who appears and disappears across the centuries. You would have to be quite young not to be intrigued. And neither of us is young.’

‘No one is allowed to live, knowing what we are,’ Roman protested. ‘Whether or not they are a panacea against boredom.’

‘She is too rare a jewel to destroy,’ Viktor argued. ‘Besides, who could she tell? She knows no one here, she has no family, no connections. There is only you and I. I trust you can keep control of her?’

‘She could return to
whence she came, or she could approach someone at the castle. We are not finished there, remember?’ Roman demanded, his voice rising.

‘Who will believe her?’ Viktor scoffed. ‘A woman with no connections, who, you must admit, speaks like she has lost her wits. And we have been careful. There have been no rumours in this part of the country for decades.’

Viktor was calm next to Roman’s increasing agitation. I sat motionless whilst my fate was being debated, watching the play of emotions across Roman’s usually robotic face. Finally he admitted, ‘I do not want to kill her either. My head tells me I should, but my heart says no.’

They had hearts? I made a strangled sound, still crumpled in a pathetic heap on the floor.

‘It is decided,’ Viktor said. ‘She lives. We take her with us.’

‘I had planned on that.
I, uh, found different attire for her.’

Viktor studied me, critically. ‘She looks like a serving wench,’ he said. He sounded as if he disapproved.

‘I will return Lady Sibyl’s gown. Grace could not be allowed to be seen in it. With these clothes she will remain unnoticed.’

‘Until some soldier desires a quick fumble,’ Viktor said dryly. ‘Somehow I think this one would fig
ht back. She is no maid or famer’s daughter,’ he cautioned.

‘I understand, but she cannot pass as
a lady either. Her hair for one.’ I touched said hair, wondering what was wrong with it. ‘She has nothing of the lady about her, the serving wench, neither,’ he continued. ‘There is no role I can think of she could possibly play.’

‘Viktor smiled, a slightly scary smile, but a smile, nevertheless. ‘She looks a little like a squire. Could she not be disguised as such? We could portray her as your apprentice.’

‘Hmmm,’ Roman considered this suggestion, then asked me, ‘Can you sing?’

‘What?’ I asked, faintly. This was becoming more surreal by the minute. Just a few moments ago the Brothers Grimm were discussing killing me, now they were asking me if I could sing. Either I was going insane or they were. I suspected the former.

‘No, I can’t.’ I was starting to get angry now the terror was abating.

‘It would not work,’ Viktor stated. ‘She does not speak French or British, nor even Latin, and she certainly would not be able to tell the tales and fables these humans so love.’

I stared between the two men, astonishment written all over my face. They smiled at my reaction. I couldn’t believe they had been joking. From death threats to jokes in the space of a few minutes. I felt sick.

‘Grace,’ Roman said calmly, and I started
when I heard my name. I was becoming used to being referred to as ‘she’, ‘her’ or ‘the woman.’ Good I thought, frantically trying to remember the advice given to hostages about trying to ensure that your captors see you as a person, and not an object: the more they empathise with you they are less likely they are to kill you. I had read that somewhere.

‘Grace,’ he repeated, holding out a hand. I took it, reluctantly, and he pulled me to my feet. Both men’s faces were impassive once again. ‘We will return to the castle. You will dress as a maid, indentured to me. I do not want you to speak, not even if spoken to. Pretend you have no voice, that you are a mute.’

I stared at him, my own face expressionless. ‘It will be safer for you,’ Roman continued. ‘And you will need to do as we tell you. If we tell you to stay somewhere, you must stay. If you are told to fetch wine or food, you must do so.’

‘Ok, ok, I get it,’ I muttered. ‘Don’t bark, stay, fetch.’
He didn’t like my comment. I had managed to make him frown – yay!

‘Do you understand,’ he insisted. ‘I may not be able to keep you safe
if you do not obey.’

‘I think it is you who I need to be kept safe fr
om,’ I retorted, belligerently.

‘No, we will not harm you. It is decided.
You have our word. But I cannot say the same for others.’ He drew me closer and I read the truth in his eyes. ‘You are too different. They will not accept you. You have no husband, no family, no patron, no status. You look like a young housekarl, yet you are a woman; you do not know how to speak, act, dress.’ I recalled how Roman had to help me and my eyes narrowed in annoyance. He went on, ‘You claim you are a pilot and you talk of cats. Do you know what they will think you are?’

I shrugged. I had no idea.

‘A witch.’

I burst out laughing
. ‘Warts and all,’ I spluttered, hysteria close to the surface. This time I made him do more than frown. He grabbed the tops of my arms, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh and he shook me.

‘Listen!’ he demanded. ‘
This is not a matter for laughter. Witches are feared and hated. And burned!’

That sobered me up quite nicely. Burned! Oh dear God! I gingerly touched my neck where he
had bitten me, feeling the wounds with the pads of my fingers. They were still there. And, more importantly, they had been there when I was in the real world, too. I was astonished I hadn’t made the connection earlier. When I had ‘returned’ from the time in the wood, running from those men, the soles of my feet had been scratched and scraped. But it was only now I realised that. I
must
have noticed before, and deliberately hidden the knowledge from myself:  I vaguely remembered smearing some ointment on the cuts and grazes, but I had obviously not wanted to face what was abundantly clear to me now – what happens to me when I was experiencing a vision happens to me in my real life, too. I could not explain it (perhaps it was psychosomatic) but whatever it was, if I was hurt here, in this vision, then the pain and damage would occur in the real world. If I was burned here (I shuddered, revolted and terrified), I would burn there. If I died here…

C
hapter 7

The castle was alive with light and noise. I could see the glow when we were still some distance away, the only earthly source of light for miles around. I thought I could see other glowing spots out of the corner of my eye, but when I looked at them directly they vanished. Those lights were either faint or far away.

The heavens were a different matter entirely: they were full of stars.
I had never seen them so close. The air was bitterly cold and clear and there was no moon, so they shone and glittered like frost in sunshine, huge and alien. The only blemish in their uniform beauty was a dullness to the west, a line of darkness eating into them, and as I watched one by one their lights went out. Bad weather was coming, I could smell it. My mother used to laugh at me whenever I said I could smell snow.

By the time we reached the drawbridge (yes, a drawbridge, like a proper castle) I couldn’t feel
my feet, in spite of the sturdy and rather uncomfortable boots Roman had found from somewhere. I was shivering uncontrollably in my itchy brown dress and obligatory cloak. My breath was misting in the air, mingling with that of the horses. I rode on the stallion with Roman, nestling as close into his back as I could, seeking a warmth from him that I couldn’t find, my arms tight around his waist. Viktor rode the gelding.

I looked up at the portcullis when we passed underneath, cringing instinctively, expecting it to crash down and crush me the second I was below its massive iron workings.

Roman whispered, ‘I will find you some undergarments, and a shawl.’ I squeezed him gratefully, teeth chattering too hard to reply. I wondered if I had Stockholm Syndrome, where a hostage develops empathy and positive feelings towards their captors. I was certainly starting to feel more pleasantly disposed towards Roman than common sense indicated I should.

A young lad of about seven or eight danced up to us, chattering excitedly as he took the stallion’s reins. Viktor dismounted first and was obliged to help me down from the back of the grey: I was so cold my feet refused to work properly. He lifted me off the horse with ease, and, so briefly that I might have imagined it, held me close and inhaled, before Roman dropped to the ground and said,
‘I’ve got her,’ and snaked an arm around my waist to steady me. He threw a coin to the still-chattering boy, and was about to draw me into a badly-lit recessed door when he stopped, his attention caught by something the boy had said. He questioned the lad intently, the boy delighted to find any adult who would listen to him, his grimy urchin face full of his news, his gaze flickering back and forth between Roman and Viktor. Me, he totally ignored, after a quick appraisal, not considering me worth any effort at all. I had to agree with him, dressed as I was in my drab brown clothes, work boots and earth coloured rough woollen cloak, with a plain wimple covering my hair. I reached up to push it back, hopping from foot to foot to bring some feeling back in to my numbed toes, when Roman slapped my hand away from my head.

‘Keep it on,’ he growled. ‘You must not let anyone see your hair.’

He pushed me through the door ahead of him, and then took the lead, dragging me down the corridor with Viktor bringing up the rear.

‘Why?’ I wanted to know. ‘What’s wrong with my hair?’

‘It’s too short. Women do not have shorn heads.’

‘They do where I come from,’ I retorted, stung. ‘Besides it’s not shorn, it’s short.’

He stopped suddenly and I fetched up hard against him. He spun round and pushed me against the wall, my breath leaving my lungs in a startled whoosh.

‘I don’t care where you come from,’ he hissed, his face scant inches away from mine. My eyes darted to Viktor who was watching
the corridor and pretending I wasn’t being pushed around by a man twice my size and considerably stronger.

‘You are here,’ he continued, ‘and whilst you are I
will
keep you safe. I have given my word,’ he promised grimly, ‘and I don’t want to kill to have to keep it.’

Shocked at his words my eyes flashed to his. He meant what he said.

‘I can take care of myself,’ I muttered rebelliously, and even to my own ears I sounded like a petulant child. Roman raised one arched eyebrow. I had to look away, and my bottom lip slid out in a pout. I hated when it did that, so I bit it to bring it under control.

Roman sighed. ‘No woman has hair that short,’ he explained, ‘unless she has been unfait
hful, or has done something to severely displease her husband, or she has escaped from a convent! I will have enough trouble explaining your presence without answering awkward questions about your hair.’

Having finish
ed, he turned to Viktor and backed away from me, giving me room to breathe.

‘I
heard,’ Viktor said and I knew he wasn’t referring to my recent conversation with Roman. ‘Bernard may prove difficult. Should we move on?’

‘Hear
d what?’ I could help asking.

Roman sighed again and turned back to me. ‘Lady Nest has gone.’

‘Lady…? Oh, yes, I remember – the one covered in blood last night.’ I grimaced at the memory. ‘Gone where?’

‘If what the boy says is true, then my lady has fled Sir Bernard. She has gone to Henry
. Lord Brychan returned before evensong and discovered her absence.’

I searched his face for clues. I was none the wiser. A flicker of annoyance flickered across his face. Oh boy, I was getting to him again. Goody.

‘Lady Nest has been unfaithful. Her son, Bernard’s son, mutilated and killer her lover. Bernard is her husband. I doubt he is best pleased at either her actions, or that of his man, William. He is doubly betrayed. Nest has sought the protection of the king, Henry. Perhaps she hopes he will intercede on her behalf. Lord Brychan would be well within his rights to put her aside, or worse.’

‘Really?’
I felt I was in a medieval version of Eastenders. So this is what passed for gossip and scandal in the twelfth century.

‘Really,’ Roman repeated, dryly. ‘Unless the boy is lying or has embellished his story.’

‘And that’s not good for us, because?’

The pair
of them looked blankly at me. They obviously thought I was stupid as well as insane. ‘I mean, I know why it is not good, but how does it affect you – us?’

‘You really do not understand, do you?’ Roman was astounded, disbelief in his tone. ‘Is it so different in your world?’

‘Yes,’ I answered shortly.

‘I hoped you could not be so simple,’ he admitted. ‘I am glad I am correct.’

Was that an insult? I opened my mouth indignantly but he continued before I could come up with a suitable response.

‘Lord Brychan is a very powerful man. His
word is law. He rules the lands here and answers only to King Henry. If he is vexed then all around him need to be cautious. And he is certain to be more than vexed.’

‘Oh,’ I breathed. ‘I think I get it.’

A quick, low sound from Viktor alerted Roman. He rapidly checked me over, adjusting my wimple, squashing the headband firmly on to my forehead to keep it in place.

‘Walk behind us,’ he instructed. I did as I was tol
d, moving to one side to let the two men pass. A soldier clumped into view, heading towards the door behind us. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously before he recognised Roman and Viktor and then he nodded. They nodded back, expressions blank. I wasn’t even noticed.

Suddenly my mouth flooded with saliva as the smell of cooking hit me. My stomach gurgled, startlingly loud, causing Viktor to glance back at me. I shrugged and grimaced. I was so hungry I would seriously consider eating chicken’s feet (long story involving a Philippine friend and the things she considered to be normal cuisine).

And coffee. I really, desperately wanted coffee. And I had the most horrible feeling I wasn’t going to get it. If this really was 1120 then it wouldn’t have been discovered yet. I almost wailed.

A final
corner in the corridor opened up into the kitchens. I breathed deeply, the aroma of roasting meat mingling irresistibly with that of baking bread, almost succeeding in covering the unwashed body odour which permeated the castle. The noise was deafening and people scurried everywhere, carrying and fetching.

Large wooden
tables were covered in plates, pots and pans – and food. Lots of food. I grimaced at the pig’s head, but genuinely thought about giving it a go until I spotted a plate of rolls. They’ll do, I thought hungrily. All of them.

The air was thick with smoke and steam and lit by candles and torches. It was like a scene from the sorcerer’s apprentice! The room was low and long, separated into sections by ar
ches, each section containing a fire place. Women, sleeves rolled up, sweated and shouted over the din, and children darted in between them with buckets and knives, wood and plates, and whatever else was needed.

It all seemed to come together on the tables nearest to me, where platters had been placed filled with meats, breads, and pastries, and there were bowls of nuts and apples and things I couldn’t even begin to recognise. Two teenage boys hefted a huge cauldron between them and staggered towards a door to my right. Steam rose from the bowl, enticing and rich.

I looked at Roman and Viktor for guidance and froze in surprise: it was as if a switch had been thrown. Both men were animated in a way I hadn’t seen before. The blankness in their faces was gone, the marble statue impression was gone, the feeling of ‘otherness’ was gone (ok, not totally: it was still there, but subdued). They were acting human. I was struck by a thought: I
knew
what they were. They were
aliens
! It was like the Invasion of the Body Snatchers meets Robin Hood: Men in Tights. To the casual observer they were merely two men trying to cadge a bit of supper, but I could see through the façade of the humanity they wore.

As Roman loped up to a middle-aged plump woman, whose greasy grey hair wa
s escaping from a dirty cap which may have been white in a previous life, I saw him stare into her eyes and lightly touch her arm. I saw how she simpered and preened at his attention. What I didn’t see was any reaction to the clearly visible (to me), though suppressed, violence and menace he radiated. Why couldn’t anyone else see it? He made the hair on my neck stand on end in warning. Both men made me feel like a deer between two lions; they weren’t hunting me at the moment but there was always the knowledge they could turn on me at any moment and rip me apart. The fear I felt when I was near either of them might be low grade, but it
was
there and it was constant. I had no doubt that this pair were predators. I just needed to find out if I was the prey.

Greasy-cap was towing Roman to a table in the corner and he sat down on the bench, signalling Viktor to join him. I followed behind, careful where I placed my feet. There were reeds on the floor (I was enough of m
y father’s daughter to know the dried stems were much too thick for straw or silage, and they were all lying in the same direction) and I swear that there were things living in it. Greasy-cap ignored me, except for a quick once-over. I had a feeling I was going to have to get used to it: female plus no status equalled invisible in this world, I surmised.

She called out to a passing boy
laden with a platter on which were large chunks of grey-brown bread. He detoured towards us and Greasy-cap took three pieces and thrust them at Roman. He took them from her and gave her a dazzling smile. Good God! the woman actually blushed. I stared at him, closely, and underneath the movie star good looks and winsome expression, I could see the darkness, and I could certainly see the teeth, Hollywood white with pointed canines; a direct contrast to the yellowing stumps and holes in many of the mouths I could see around me.