Stardust of Yesterday

by Lynn Kurland

  She continued to struggle but his strength was, quite obviously, indeed superior to hers. Though she was tall and slender, there was something about her that made her seem very fragile. He frowned as he swung her up into his arms and stalked back to the house. More enchantments. She was doubtless as large as his horse and just that attractive without her black beguilements to cloak her in loveliness.

  The hall was just as empty as he had left it. Again, unbidden, a vision came to him. The hall was full of people, dressed so strangely that he stopped dead in his tracks. Men and women danced in the most ridiculous-looking clothes he had ever seen. Collars as wide as his hand, gowns that gave the women hips the width of trestle tables, coverings for the men that made their thighs look like fat mutton legs.

  Just as quickly, the memory was gone. He was left with a slight girl in his arms who wept. He hardened his heart, knowing it was her magic that made him want to be kind to her.

  Instantly he turned and headed toward the cellar steps. Two doors? Since when had there been two doors down to the cellar? He surely hadn’t noticed that when he came up. Shrugging, he chose the door further away. No one challenged him.

  He thumped down the steps, then looked about for somewhere to bind the witch. It would be foolish to leave her hands free. The saints only knew what sort of mischief she could conjure up that way. The rings on the walls were his first choice but her wrists were too slender for them to be of use. He espied a length of rope on the floor and picked it up. He dumped the witch to her feet near a pillar and bound her with her arms encircling it behind her.

  “Oh, Kendrick,” she pleaded, “please wake up!”

  “I am awake and none too soon,” he snapped. “Where is Richard? I vow I’ll see his head on a pike before midday!” He sheathed his sword, then folded his arms across his chest and glared down at her. “The truth, if you’re capable of it.”

  “Richard’s dead,” she said hoarsely. “So is Matilda. Kendrick, this is 1996. They all died hundreds of years ago.”

  “Lies,” he spat. “What Matilda paid you to use your powers against me was not worth it. I will find Richard and his whore and see them repaid for their sport. You will die, then I will call for my brothers and we will reduce this hall to rubble. Vision or no vision, I will not dwell in a place of evil.”

  “Kendrick, please,” the girl pleaded. “You’ve lost your memory—” She gasped. “You lost your memory? Kendrick, let me help you get it back! Just listen to me and try to understand my words.”

  Kendrick put his hands over his ears. By the saints, the wench wanted him to submit to her black art without a fight! She had to die and soon. But with what weapon? There had never been a witch in all his days at Artane, though he had heard of plenty of them being found in Scotland. How did one go about killing a sorceress? By fire?

  He shuddered. Even with the innumerable men he had slain crusading, there were some things he simply could not bring himself to do and burning a woman was one of them. Should he cut off her head? He looked at her. Even in the faint torchlight, her beauty was plain to the eye. Enchantment or no, she was a lovely creature to look upon. Nay, he could not decapitate her, nor could he slip his blade into her breast and end her life that way.

  He caught sight of the crossbow laying on the floor. Where Richard had dropped it. The bolt was not nocked, as it should have been had it been ready to be fired. He looked to the wall where he had been chained.

  “And what of Jonathan? Don’t you remember the painting he did of your family? It’s in your den upstairs, Kendrick, along with your television and the computer I gave you for Christmas. All you have to do is talk and the computer does what you want. Don’t you remember all the games I found to go with it? And don’t you remember all the Raiders games we watched on TV…”

  How odd that the arrow was there. As if it had been discharged from the bow.

  But wasn’t that exactly what had happened? He had looked Richard full in the face and watched him smile coldly. He had heard the noise of the arrow being released and felt blinding agony as it shattered bone and sinew. He had tasted sharp, metallic blood in his mouth.

  “And don’t you remember how impossible Nazir was being before we agreed to let him decorate his own room? All the hours we spent putting down markers for the furniture, only to find he’d rearranged them during the night in protest? And all those nights we spent together on the love seat in your den, curled together in front of the fire, talking of hopes and dreams, things we were sure could never come true? And my ring. Don’t you remember giving me my ring, Kendrick? You put it on me yourself…”

  Kendrick put his hand against the wall to steady himself. He had taken the bolt in the chest. Hadn’t he? Memories tormented him, like demons in a thick mist who appeared only long enough to make him start after them. He reached for one memory, only to have it elude him and leave him holding onto another. Who was Jonathan Buchanan?

  Matilda’s grandson. But how would he know that? He felt himself closed inside a prison, without the benefit of touch, taste or smell. He remembered roaming through the keep, seeing the rushes on the floor but not being able to reach down and feel them. The stables were filled with dirty men and horses, but there was no sharp tang of manure and sweat. There was food before him on the board but the smell did not waft upward. His hand encountered nothing when he tried to bring some of it to his mouth.

  “Cease!” he thundered, whirling around and gazing at the girl, who continued to babble nonsense. She was casting a spell on him. “Cease with your prattle and your magics!”

  “You love me,” she insisted. “Damn you, Kendrick de Piaget, this is our chance and you’re blowing it! Remember me, you jerk!”

  “The Devil is your master,” he hissed, “and I’ll hear no more of your lies.” He snatched up the arrow and fitted it to the crossbow.

  “Kendrick, think of the things you love,” she said quickly. “Your Jaguar. My red feety pajamas. Listening to Nazir tell you of the naughty hauntings he’s done.”

  “Call to your master, for you’ll join him soon,” Kendrick said coldly, as he cranked the metal cable back until it caught.

  “Oh, Kendrick,” she said softly. “Please remember. Remember that I love you more than life itself. I signed the papers, Kendrick. That’s why you came back, I know it! To have a second chance at life, the life Richard stole from you.”

  Kendrick straightened and took aim.

  Kendrick, your duty is to protect women and children.

  Not witches. This woman is a witch.

  Never sully your honor by hurting a woman to make yourself feel powerful, son. Kill a man when required, but never a woman. They are God’s most precious gifts to us.

  Father, stop!

  Kendrick, how proud I am of you and the man you’ve become. Remember that your father and I will be waiting for you when your time comes.

  Mother, what are you talking about? When what time comes? Kendrick put his hand to his forehead and pressed firmly. What sorcery was this that he should hear his mother’s voice speaking such strange words? He looked again at the witch. How full of sadness and regret was her face. What was that other emotion radiating out from her eyes?

  Love?

  Impossible. It was a spell. She had bewitched him as he stood there, as unsure of himself as a green squire. He again raised the crossbow and looked her in the face.

  “Have you any last words?” he asked hoarsely. “Any words of truth?”

  Ah, the sadness in her expression!

  “Here is truth,” she whispered. “I love you, my gallant ghost.”

  First there was nothing. All emotion and thought receded from his mind like water receding from the shoreline. Then memories crashed over him like a fierce wave. He drew his hand over his eyes, but still they came on. His vision would not clear. The bow clattered from his trembling fingers and he stumbled away, feeling dizzier than he ever had in his life, even after the most fierce and exhausting of battles. And still the
memories came.

  The birth of Richard and Matilda’s child. Watching Nazir stalk the pair and frighten them until they feared to leave their bedchamber. His mother joining him on the battlements, bidding him farewell. His father following soon after. Knowing that his parents were dead and feeling the agony of not being able to follow them.

  The mist continued to swirl inside his head. Jonathan Buchanan. The man who had befriended him. Watching Jonathan pass over into a bright light and feeling numb resignation, knowing he was not allowed to follow. Years of darkness, of bitterness, of hatred. Generation after generation of Buchanans passed before his mind’s eye. Lady Alice’s insistence on learning to play the harp to accompany herself, despite her complete inability to sing. Lady Helen’s continual beatings at the hand of her husband and the satisfaction of being able to drive the man daft, then watch him hang himself.

  Lady Agatha’s flight from the upper window after a particularly horrifying night. Kendrick winced. Had he truly appeared, holding his head under his arm and leaving blood spurting from his severed neck? What had he cared? Again, he felt the rush of all-consuming hatred against a family who had damned him.

  He rested against the wall, pressing his face against the cool stone. Cool stone. He could feel the damp coolness against his cheek. How long had it been since he had felt anything?

  Locked in a vacuum, deprived of the smell of flowers in the springtime, the taste of cold wine on a hot day, the feel of warm steel in his hand and the weight of mail on his back. He had been denied those things year after year, century after century. Until when?

  Until Genevieve.

  He gasped again as another flood of memories came washing over him. Drenching himself in blood and appearing to her upstairs in his bedchamber, vowing to make her daft. Fighting his grudging admiration when she had the cheek to ignore him. Using all his strength to put her betrothal ring on her finger. Sweet, beloved Genevieve. He whirled and looked at her.

  “My God,” he whispered.

  Genevieve. The one who had given him joy. The one who had loved him and forgiven him for the dreams he had ruthlessly crushed. The one who had given her heart into hands that could never truly hold it. The one who had made him weep ghostly tears for what he could never have with her.

  The one who had loved him enough to set him free.

  “Genevieve,” he said hoarsely.

  Genevieve opened her eyes at the sound of her name. She froze and stared at him, as if she thought she were hearing things.

  “Genevieve,” he breathed.

  She closed her eyes and let out a shuddering breath.

  “My love, what have I done to you?” Kendrick exclaimed, hastening over to her as quickly as his shaking legs would carry him. He cut the ropes that bound her hands behind her, then caught her as she sagged against him. He gathered her close, rocking her with a desperateness that was echoed in her embrace.

  “Oh, Kendrick,” she whispered, beginning to weep, “I thought you wouldn’t remember me.”

  “Sweet, sweet Genevieve,” he whispered, tightening his arms around her. Merciful God, how close he had come to slaying the very being he loved more than life itself! He felt the hot sting of his own tears and then relished the feel of them coursing down his cheeks.

  And then he wept for another reason entirely. He was alive. It was a miracle, an impossible, beyond-all-reason miracle. The curse had been broken and somehow he had been given a second chance at life. How long would it last? The thought pulled him up short. Would he die? How long had he been given?

  Please, he prayed silently, let it be until we are both old and gray. Please don’t take this from me so soon.

  A peace stole over him, like a soft mist. It reached down into the innermost depths of his heart and stilled the fears there. Genevieve would be his forever, even past the grave, so what did life matter? But he had the feeling they would both have a great deal of white in their hair before they made their final journey together. He closed his eyes and gave thanks for a second chance. His life and his dreams had been restored and he would never forget the mercy of that gift.

  Then his joy bubbled up within him and spilled over, making him laugh. He pushed Genevieve back and took her face in his hands. “Mon Dieu, how I love you!” He ran his hands over her face, over her hair, across her shoulders and down her arms. He kissed away her tears, then kissed her mouth. Beloved Genevieve!

  She managed to escape his groping hands long enough to fling her arms around his neck. He caught her around the waist again and crushed her to him.

  “Your mail!”

  “I’m sorry,” he grinned, not releasing her.

  “I think I’ll survive,” she gasped.

  “I hope so, for I vow I’ll never let you from my arms again.” He held her as close as he could and closed his eyes, savoring the feeling. How perfectly her slight body fit against his. How blissful was the feeling of her arms around his neck, holding onto him as if she would never relinquish him.

  Then his stench hit him square in the nose. “By the saints, Gen, how can you bear my smell?” he gasped, pulling away. “And you’re freezing.”

  “No, don’t go yet,” she said quickly.

  “Oh, I’m not leaving,” he reassured her. He hauled her up into his arms, laughed at being able to accomplish it, then strode toward the dungeon door. He’d always meant to wall up the entrance to the dungeon but now he was glad he’d never gotten around to it. Worthington would have had a hell of a time getting him out. He ran lightly up the steps, relishing the feel of weariness in his muscles and his lady’s cold fingers around his neck. “You’re chilled, Gen. I daresay you’ll need to shower with me to warm up.”

  “Kendrick!”

  “We are betrothed,” he grinned, striding down the passageway near the kitchens. “ ’Tis allowed.”

  “No way.”

  She would learn soon enough that he was merely teasing. He knew he would need to take his time with her, but his enthusiasm was too great to give way to reason at the moment. All he wanted to do was strip off his filthy clothes, bathe his sweaty body, then pull his lady back into his arms and keep her there until the priest could be fetched and the ceremony could be performed. Then he would continue to keep her in his arms until she grew used to the feel of him there, then he’d love her until she was breathless. His body stood up and applauded the idea.

  Worthington came out into the great hall the same time they did. He was rubbing his eyes. “What is all the confounded racket?” he grumbled.

  “Too much wine last night,” Kendrick whispered loudly to his lady. “We’d best not demand breakfast quite yet.”

  Worthington did a double take of Genevieve in Kendrick’s arms, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he slipped to the floor with a groan.

  “Maybe later,” Genevieve agreed.

  Kendrick laughed as he stepped over his steward and carried his love across the hall. He would come down later and rouse Worthington, then order him to prepare a meal. For now, he had more important things to do, such as bathe, then kiss his lady senseless a time or two.

  Aye, fiction had become reality and how sweet it was.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Genevieve sat on the counter in the bathroom and listened to Kendrick hum a medieval-sounding melody in the shower. It was too much to take in. She had felt his arms around her, hadn’t she? She had felt his mail dig into her side as he carried her up the stairs. She had put her face against his dusty hair, felt the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. He was real, as solid and tangible as she was.

  “This was worth waiting for,” Kendrick groaned.

  How different his voice sounded. Deeper, rougher. She smiled.

  “It feels that good?”

  “I think it would be better if you were in here with me, but that might be too much pleasure for this first day.” He poked his head out from behind the curtain and winked at her. “We’ll try it tomorrow.”

  She watched his finge
rs as they held the shower curtain. Real, corporeal hands. Hands that had held her, touched her face, traveled over her back and arms as Kendrick felt her to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Hands that could now easily slide her ring onto her hand and brush away her tears.

  “Genevieve?”

  She looked at his face and smiled weakly. Even with his hair dripping down around his face and dirt on his cheeks, he was beautiful.

  “Come here.”

  She felt a blush begin to stain her cheeks. “Why?”

  “Because it’s been at least ten minutes since I last touched you. I want to make sure you haven’t turned into a figment of my imagination.”

  She didn’t know how he could joke about that, but he did seem determined to make light of it. He’d told her not to worry, that he had been given a second chance, that he would never leave her, but it would be a good long time before she relaxed completely.

  Genevieve wiped her hands on her green pajamas as she hopped off the counter. Now to face her other great worry.

  Kendrick was real.

  That should have had her grinning from ear to ear. Instead, it made her enormously nervous. It was all good and fine to fall in love with a man possessing just slightly more substance than your imagination, to have him whisper things in your ear that made you blush, to imagine how it would feel to have him hold you and kiss you. It was another thing entirely to have that dream made flesh, and have that flesh be full of desires. Good grief, she’d only been kissed once, and that by Kendrick in his study the night before. Yes, they would surely have to wait a few months before they did anything else. Maybe he wouldn’t mind putting off their wedding until they had progressed past the hand-holding stage, say in another year or so.

  She put her hand into his wet palm and blushed as he raised her fingers to his lips. His lips were soft against her hand, his face rough from his whiskers. She felt butterflies take flight in her stomach as he pulled her even closer and lowered his head to hers.