Time Enough for Love (7 page)

But was she really? If Adelaide prevailed and Gwen could somehow force Willa to reveal her secrets, would round trips be as easy as hopping on a jet for a vacation? Could she live here with Alberto and still visit her family and friends?

No, that’s crazy.
Gwen’s spirits sank and, almost without thinking, she tugged her earlobe. The old Carol Burnett gesture, something her family loved to do, felt comforting, but incomplete. She wished she could let everyone know she was okay. She fought tears, tears for the anguish she knew they felt. Her thoughts turned to her mother. She worried about her the most.

“Mom.” Her whisper was soft, imperceptible to those around her.

She looked up at the cold, clear sky. The gulf between them was vast, as distant as the stars. But then, a new hope stole into her thoughts: she could find a way to send a message through time, something her mother, her entire family, would recognize and understand. But how…?

“Ladies, we have reached a safe distance,” Memmo broke into her thoughts, the faintness of his tone forcing her to listen to what he was saying. “You may speak now, if you keep your voices very low.”

Gwen stirred. Her plan, whatever it turned out to be, would have to wait. For now, she needed to take care of Adelaide.

She was aware of the queen moving beside her.

“Thank you, good sir.” Adelaide’s voice trembled. She turned to Gwen. “My heart is heavy. Forgive me. We have been liberated from that dreadful prison, but I cannot forget what happened to Stefano.”

Gwen was silent for a moment, seeing Stefano as he looked standing before the tourists in Santa Lucia, his golden hair back-lit, dazzling. It was just before she had learned he was her cousin. Just before they were wrenched back through time in an earthquake. Had Willa caused the earthquake, too? “I can’t forget, either. I hope Willa pays for what she did to him.”

“Yes, she will pay. Berengar, too,” Adelaide said, her expression hard to read in the dark, yet her voice stronger now and filled with determination.

Gwen gazed out over the water, realizing Adelaide actually knew Stefano much better than she, having spent so many days with him on the run. The queen must be devastated.

“Pray, what did you wish to tell me before?” Adelaide asked.

“I’m not sure this is the time.”

“I hear the pain in your voice, Gwen. You must not carry such a burden alone. God willing, I may be able to help you, or at the very least share your burden. Please, my friend, tell me what troubles you so.”

Still reluctant, Gwen nevertheless divulged what had happened in Willa’s garden, telling the queen everything except the time travel.

“Merciful Lord,” Adelaide moaned, “she summoned you from Britannia through a witch-basin? My God, and poor Stefano, to be poisoned by her dark arts and forced to spend his last days in that hell. At least you are safe. I pray God he died swiftly, for he suffered terribly before the end.” She looked at La Rocca and crossed herself. “As to Willa’s scheming, its true purpose baffles me. Did she say why she tortured Stefano?”

“No, I don’t know why,” Gwen said.

“Alas, we may never learn the truth. Somehow, I believe Stefano is here with us. Yes, and he is free now. He has found his peace. It is beautiful here, isn’t it, despite the horror Willa and Berengar have brought upon this place.”

Gwen nodded. “The wine dark sea.”

“Do you quote Homer?”

“Yes,” Gwen responded quietly. The gentle rise and fall of the oars, the soft sound as they broke the surface, made her reflective. “After everything I’ve experienced,” she continued, “and now, being on the water like this, I feel a bond with Odysseus.”

“Yes, to be far from hearth and home, unable to return for so long, no matter our efforts or desire.” Adelaide turned to Memmo. “Sir,” she asked, “what month are we? I fear I have lost all track of time.”

“August,” Memmo replied.

“
Ante Diem XVII Kalends,
”
Father Warinus added.

Gwen did a quick calculation of the Latin date in her head: August sixteenth.

Adelaide’s hands went to her face and she leaned in, whispering to Gwen, “I am stunned! To have passed so much time, I… My poor daughter, to have been without her mother for so long. I pray she remains safe, wherever she is. And I have missed the Feast of the Assumption by a day. God forgive me, I shall make my prayers of thanksgiving this eve. There is much to be thankful for, after all, for my freedom has been gained, my life spared, praise God and your determined labors. I shall always mark it from the day after Our Lady’s feast day.”

As silence returned, Gwen again became aware of the steady beat of the oars, her heart seeming to match the slow pace, her mind drifting, embracing the calm.

Another battle won. Another victory, this time significant. Despite their terrible ordeal, all the heartache and loss, Adelaide was free.

Gwen glanced back at the glittering stars, wondering where Alberto was at this very moment, wishing she could tell him what they had achieved this day.

She closed her eyes.
Alberto. My Alberto. When will I see you again?

She held out hope it would be soon.

*

The boat pulled into a sheltered cove on the western shore of Lake Garda. The sky was pearly gray, the clouds edged in palest lavender. Dawn approached. Gwen waited in the skiff as Memmo and Father Warinus helped the queen to shore.

“Most Gracious Queen, Lady Gwendolyn,” the fisherman said, “I have a change of clothing for both of you, should you wish. My son fishes with me most days, and we always carry spare clothes and caps under the seat.”

Gwen felt around and pulled out the first thing she touched: her leather sack, the one containing her things, including Stefano’s wristwatch and her own. She sighed in relief, because they were all she had from her old life, her most precious belongings. Putting the sack aside, she groped again, found two tightly bound bundles, and started to untie the leather laces securing one of them.

“Here, Gwen, give them here,” Father Warinus said, motioning for the bundles as Memmo returned to assist her off the boat. Their landing site was isolated, the sandy bank giving way to a thick forest, a good place to take cover.

Memmo opened one of the bundles. “My queen, I believe my son’s clothes will fit you. My lady Gwendolyn, mine should work well enough for you.”

“Leggings?” Adelaide whispered to Gwen. “I cannot imagine – it would be unseemly to expose our legs with such attire.”

“Forgive me,” Gwen said, “but we must be practical. We don’t know how long we’ll have to hide out. Skirts might give us away.”

Adelaide sighed and took the garments. “Father Warinus, what must you be thinking now? Are you appalled?”

“No.” The priest chuckled and glanced at Gwen. “God help me, but I’ve grown used to seeing a woman in monk’s garb. A queen dressed as a lad shall not bother me in the least.”

Smiling, Gwen enjoyed hearing Adelaide’s light, easy laughter.

The women went off in search of a private spot where they might bathe and change. After helping the queen take off her tattered gown, Gwen removed her cowl and then tentatively placed her foot in the water. It was very cold.

How much good will it do against the disgusting hole I just came through?
she wondered. She found herself wishing for a scrub brush and a big bucket of anti-bacterial soap.

“Do you really believe these disguises will work?” Adelaide asked as she gingerly stepped into the water.

“Yes. I was obliged to dress as a monk for a very long time. That cowl protected me as much as anything could,” Gwen said, her teeth chattering in the chill morning air. “I think I’ll miss it, although it would be nice to put on a dress and feel like a woman again.” Bracing herself, Gwen plunged into the lake. Rising to the surface, gasping, she took several strokes, then stood. She rubbed hard over goose bumps and filth, trying to erase the last vestiges of captivity.

More reluctant, the queen stood knee-deep in water, scrubbing her head. “We two are a fine pair, with our men’s clothes and shorn locks.”

Together, Gwen and Adelaide waded back to shore, dried themselves off, and then hurriedly put on their new clothing. Gwen grinned at the petite queen. With her tussled hairstyle, tunic and leggings, she looked ready to play the part of Peter Pan.

Adelaide took her cap and rammed the thing on her head. “You must don your own hat, good sir. We must be practical, as you said, and that means taking no shame in our bald pates, for we have survived, and, for a time, we must be men!”

Gwen ran her hand through her damp hair, now much longer than she’d worn it in years. “I rather like mine short. It is much easier to take care of.”

“Yes, for now it is fine. And, one day it will grow back. But rest assured, Gwendolyn, we
shall
wear gowns before long. And I shall make certain yours are of the most exquisite fabric and form. You have earned all of that and so much more. I pray I shall be back at court soon, my daughter in my arms, and you by my side.”

“Queen Adelaide?” Memmo called from a distance. “Please, I must go.”

“We’re coming,” the queen answered, then more quietly repeated, “yes, we’re coming back… you and me – to court!” She winked at Gwen, smiling, and mouthed
soon
.

They returned to the waiting men. Father Warinus had bedrolls for each of them, a few bags, and a fishing pole, courtesy of Memmo. Gwen took up her sack and another bag containing food, and the queen was given two large skeins to sling over her back.

In awkward silence, the threesome stood before the fisherman. A simple thank you would never suffice. How could they possibly show their gratitude?

Clearing his throat, Memmo gathered up the stinking, discarded clothing. He bowed first to the queen, then to Gwen and Warinus. “Queen Adelaide, I have been most honored––”

“Oh no, kind sir!” Adelaide hugged the man, causing him to blush. “It is I who am honored to know you. I shall never forget your good deeds. Someday, you shall be rewarded for your bravery, I promise.”

Father Warinus made the sign of the cross over Memmo. The fisherman bowed once more to Gwen and the queen.

Adelaide took Gwen’s hand, and together they watched Memmo return to his boat and row away.

“Come, my lads,” the priest said, a twinkle in his eye. “We must depart. Memmo told me of a spot south of here, a good place for hiding out and catching fish. Then we shall see if a journey to Canossa is in the offing.”

*

Memmo rowed out into the deep, then stopped and let the water settle about him. The queen, Gwendolyn, and Father Warinus were long gone, the distant swath of sand where he had let them off now bathed in the rosy glow of sunrise.

Perchance, it was a good omen.

He grabbed the cowl and gown and pushed them into the water, holding them down until every bit of fabric was saturated and the bubbles had dissipated. Letting go, he watched as the clothes swirled away, sinking out of sight.

Grimly, he looked over his shoulder. La Rocca loomed above the eastern shore. He grasped his oars and rowed toward home.

Alberto Uzzo, lord of Canossa, pondered the wooded hills flanking either side of the path, then glanced at the men who rode nearby. He felt frustrated. They had been mere hours behind Berengar when they’d left the shores of Lake Garda, but while his enemy had ridden directly north, Alberto had been forced to wait for the bulk of his army to gather around him.

Now, after rejoining the pursuit and expending days in fruitless tracking, they’d finally found Berengar’s trail. Alberto had pushed his men hard to close the distance, but, by most estimations, Berengar’s lead on him was still three days.

Countless times, Alberto’s thoughts took him back to Gwendolyn. To the moment she’d taken off the monk’s cowl and he’d realized she was a woman… their first kiss… the feel of her… how she touched him.

Removing his helmet, he swept his hand over his sweaty brow. He looked at the man nearest him and realized for the first time how hard it must be for a soldier to ride into danger if he loved his woman, leaving his home, hearth, and family, everything he held most dear.

Alberto frowned.
Prangilda. How fares my little daughter?
He’d seen so little of her in the last year, it was hard to recall her looks, and he felt an unwelcome stab of guilt. In truth, Alberto admitted, he’d seen very little of her since the day she was born. He pursed his lips, knowing Gwendolyn would be furious with him, if she ever learned of his failings.

Determined to make amends with Gilda, he sat straighter in his saddle and smiled.
Yes, we shall all spend hours together, once this business is over, once I bring Gwendolyn home.
Love. Home. The words, the realization of how deeply he felt about Gwen, suddenly struck, and he was amazed, but without doubt. Canossa was her home now, too, would always be. He knew it with certainty.
And Gilda shall have a new mother. There. Perfect!

“My lord?” A lieutenant, Stavo, rode up.

Startled out of his musings, Alberto turned.

“My lord, scouts have just come in and warn of a contingent of Berengar’s men riding south. They are well-armed and look ready for battle. It is assumed they were dispatched to thwart our advance.”

“How many?” Alberto asked as he replaced his helmet.

“The numbers vary. One scout has them at one hundred men. Two others count them nearer fifty. Do you wish to speak with the scouts directly?”

“No need, but assume one hundred until you learn otherwise,” Alberto said. “And keep a keen eye on the hillside paths, as well as the direct routes.”

His lieutenant rode off, just as a pair of men approached on horseback, eyes downcast. One had a bow slung over his back, the other a bandaged head.

A cold dread spread over Alberto as Ranulf and Barca reined in. Fearing the worst, he opened his mouth to speak, but the words strangled in his throat when the pair slid from their horses and went down on their knees.

“My lord, we…” Barca faltered, putting out a hand to steady himself.

“We did our utmost, my lord,” Ranulf interjected. “We––”

“Christ, where are they?” Alberto bellowed. “Where is Gwendolyn? The queen?”

“They are safe and out of Berengar’s keep,” Barca said hurriedly, “free and safely away with Father Warinus. We had to leave them in order––”

A
whooshing
sound cut off his words, and a look of surprise swept over his features. Barca slumped to the ground, an arrow through the base of his throat.

“To arms! To arms!” Alberto shouted. Sharply reigning Heracles, the great horse rose on his hind legs, neighing loudly. The air filled with arrows, and Alberto heard more men screaming in pain.

He galloped to face down the attack, his men falling into formation around him. “You there,” he commanded to one of them, “tell Marco to keep watch on our flanks and our rear!”

The man peeled off to convey the orders. Alberto drew out his sword just as the assailants broke free from their woodland cover and poured down the slope.

They were at least fifty, he judged. Berengar wasn’t trying to kill them, just pester and slow their advance. Alberto dropped his reins, directing Heracles with weight and muscles alone. His sword arm swept up, then sharply down. An enemy cried out and fell from his horse. Then, as he had been trained, Heracles struck and stomped on the man as Alberto continued to find new targets. Working as a team, the horse bit and used his hooves, Alberto his sword.

Over and over, Alberto repeated his parries and thrusts. His men fought bravely all around him. Blood, bodies, entrails were everywhere, and the horses had trouble staying on their feet in the gore.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alberto saw a big, roan charger surge up beside him, its rider Alberto’s second-in-command. A sword flashed beside his head and he ducked, realizing the soldier had just blocked a blow coming from his blind side, directed at his neck.

Alberto rode on, stabbing, wounding, killing. A yell went up behind him, and he turned to see someone pointing toward a hill at their rear. More of Berengar’s men swept toward the melee. Now he knew why the numbers his scouts brought in had varied so widely. The force had obviously split to attack from separate directions, different times. Berengar was cunning, but Alberto’s men were ready, and Stavo gathered his troop and raced to meet the new onslaught.

Switching his focus, glancing about, Alberto saw three of the enemy bearing down on one of his own men, and urged Heracles forward. Taking out a dagger, he rammed his horse against the flank of the other, throwing the beast off stride, stabbing its rider in the side. With his other arm, Alberto slashed down on the shoulder of the second assailant, and his arm was badly jarred with the impact against chain mail, but his momentum continued, separating limb from man.

In the next instant, Heracles reared up again, this time off balance. Alberto tried to hold on, tried to shift his weight and help the beast, but it was too late. Heracles crashed to the ground, taking Alberto with him. The battle raged on around them as he tried to free his pinned leg, but the pain was too great, the motionless horse too heavy.

Hooves trampled the ground, flying blood and dirt filled the air. Alberto knew his men fought to protect him and he tried to shield himself, but there was little he could do when a steed leapt over him, dragging a hoof, knocking him solidly in the back of the head.

*

“My lord? Wake up!”

The light was dim, his vision blurry, as Alberto tried to make sense of his surroundings.

“Thank God, he is awake at last,” someone said.

Alberto managed to focus on Stavo’s face. He looked grave.

“What – what news?” Alberto croaked, trying to rise, but collapsing back in agony. “How many of our men were killed? Heracles––?”

“Twenty dead, my lord. Your horse also took a fatal blow.”

Alberto felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. “God’s blood, I knew it. That bastard Berengar!”

“My lord, the healer says your right leg was badly twisted, but not broken. It may be several weeks before you can walk without pain. He also said but for your helmet, your head would be broken, not merely bruised. As to Berengar’s forces, my lord, we have sent packing what few remained. But we have much to consider and cannot stay here. I have seen to the burial of the dead,” he paused, “including your horse. Our wounded… My lord, I ordered them removed to the rear.”

“Barca?”

The man bowed his head and crossed himself. “One of the dead, my lord.”

Alberto closed his eyes. “Ranulf?”

“He stands at your feet.”

Alberto tried to sit up again and grimaced, realizing his leg was encased in a splint and heavily wrapped. Ranulf stood rigidly at the end of the cot, his eyes fixed somewhere just over Alberto’s head.

“Jesus God, man!” Alberto barely recognized his own voice, for it was raw, devastated. “Why did you not bring Gwen and the queen here?”

“My lord, please, with your permission, let me explain.”

Alberto realized everyone was staring at him. Breathing deeply, he forced a more measured response. “Speak, Ranulf. Tell me what happened.”

“My lord,” Ranulf began, “we were able to free the queen, and the lady Gwendolyn, who had been captured.”

Alberto’s control evaporated. “What?” he shouted. “Gwen was captured?”

Ranulf’s eyes widened. “Yes, briefly, but all’s well, my lord.” He explained the escape, the separation, and the decoy ruse.

Alberto’s dismay turned to amazement, mingled with unfamiliar measures of self-reproach and embarrassment. Moments passed before he said, “Thank you, Ranulf. Would that I could thank Barca.”

The scout acknowledged this with a nod. “Troops from Castle Garda gave us chase and did not desist. We were careful not to reveal your location, and finished our approach at night over the last few days.” He bowed his head. “I was sure we had lost them. I am sorry if it was our doing that brought the fight to you this day.”

“We have been tracking the men who attacked us for several days,” Stavo interjected. “They came from Berengar’s army, north of here, not from his keep away south.”

Ranulf nodded, relaxing just a bit.

“Have the graves of our dead been marked?” Alberto asked, glancing at Stavo.

“Yes, my lord,” he replied.

“Then we shall return, one day, and bring them home with honors,” Alberto said as he turned back to Ranulf. “Now, tell me of Warinus and the women. What was their plan after crossing the lake?”

“They were given provisions and were to make their way into your territory, to Mantua, if possible. The land is sparsely populated, so––”

“Except for bear and boar. No horses, but a priest and two women, and one of those a queen.” Alberto leaned back on his cot and looked at the sky peeking through the trees. “Were there ever three more ill-equipped travelers?”

Closing his eyes, Alberto fell silent, trying to resolve all of his concerns. Stavo and Ranulf eventually moved on, seeing to chores that demanded action. Lethargy cloaked Alberto’s mood, and for the first time in memory, he had trouble making a decision. His duties were many and apparent, but they did not coincide.

Sweet Jesus, where are they? How are they?
He rubbed his eyes.
Which way to turn?

The queen was free, but her safety far from assured. Pursuing Berengar and aligning himself with King Otto were important, but not as vital as making certain Adelaide survived and acted as regent for her daughter. And Gwen? Regardless of all else, rescuing her stood paramount in his heart.

“Ranulf! Stavo!” Alberto yelled.

The men hurried over. “Yes, my lord?”

“Stavo, provide for the escort of the wounded to Ardelica. Have Marco lead them, displaying my colors.”

“My lord?”

“A ruse, to keep Berengar’s scouts confused as to my whereabouts. And tell Marco to let rumors fly as he heads south. Have him say the queen has gained sanctuary in Verona, or some such place. Whatever he decides, make certain he makes no mention of Mantua or Reggio or even Canossa.”

Smiling, Stavo nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

“Once the wounded are in the hospital, Marco is to take his men to Reggio. Tell him I intend to find Queen Adelaide and escort her to Canossa, by way of Reggio. I will rendezvous with him there.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then, Stavo, take a handful of your best riders and find King Otto. Warn him I will not be able to support him in the north. Tell him of my plans. The rest of the men will ride with me, and swiftly. Go!”

Alberto turned to Ranulf. “Find yourself a fresh horse. You leave immediately to scout the queen’s location. Ride out ahead of us.” He shifted and sat up, then swung his injured leg off the cot, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Healer!”

The frantic man rushed over him, looking apprehensive. “Yes, my lord?”

“Bind my leg with something less cumbersome. I ride out in one hour.”

*

Berengar sat in his camp tent and awaited the announced arrival of three of his scouts. It was raining outside, and he was glad to be under cover, warm and dry. He took a sip of heated, honeyed wine and surveyed the interior of his tent for the hundredth time.

Bored, he put down his cup and gingerly touched the bridge of his nose, still tender from that whore Godwyn’s assault. She might have killed him but for the angle of the blow.

“Bitch,” he muttered.

He nibbled at a fingernail, watching his son rise and move toward the fire. The boy – for he still thought of his sixteen-year-old as a boy, a spoiled, willful boy – was obviously tense, and Berengar rolled his eyes.

Adalbert should be used to war by now. To living rough. To being separated from his mama, from women in general for extended periods, however fawning and pliable they might be.

When the guard signaled and opened the flap, a flash of irritation swept over Berengar as his son moved to stand beside him. The scouts came in, bowing, dripping, clothes sodden.

“Tito,” Berengar said, “you have been out the longest. What have you seen?”

“Sire,” he responded sharply, “Otto of Germany led his men out of the mountains via the Brenner Pass. They seemed much fatigued and made camp in a large vale near the Eisack River, to rest and graze their horses. They are several thousands strong, my lord, well-armed and provisioned.”