by Kristy Tate
Emory’s thumb rubbed a circle against the pulse skittering in Petra’s wrist. Behind her, she heard low chanting. She turned to watch an old woman, the chovihanis, was performing the healing. The jingling tambourines grew louder, drowning out the wail of the fiddle. The healer’s voice matched the rising volume; the chants turned to moans and cries.
Emory looked over his shoulder. “She’s calling out to the spirits in the Otherworld.”
“The Otherworld? What other world?”
“You do not believe in the Otherworld?”
“Do you?”
“What you and I believe doesn’t matter. It’s the faith of the one being healed that’s important.” Emory listened. “The chovihanis is trying to stand in the shoes of the sick one.”
Petra smiled.
“What?”
She shook her head. “It’s just—well, they’re all barefoot.”
Emory sighed and continued his interpretation. “It seems the lad is troubled by a malevolent spirit. The chovihanis is attempting to lead his problems into one of the three levels of the Otherworld where they belong.”
“Do you think she can place me where I belong?”
Emory shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
He reached out and touched her cheek. “Because you don’t believe.”
“Then why are we here?” Exasperation tinged Petra’s voice.
Emory stroked her neck, pulling her closer. She knew she needed to lean away, to break the hypnotic contact. She couldn’t trust Emory and yet, sitting beside him in the semi-darkness of the gypsy camp, inhaling the tangy smoke of mugwort and rosemary she felt powerless as he drew her against him.
Emory whispered in her ear. “If need be she can also travel to the three levels of the Otherworld for soul retrieval, which occurs when someone loses a part of their soul in a past or present life. Have you been lost?”
Emory’s lips brushed across Petra’s cheek, a hint of a kiss. She felt, rather than heard, him laugh softly as her lips looked for his. This is it, then? She wondered. Is this why I’m here? To be with Emory? Could she really give up her home, her family, her life plans to be with this person she’d just barely met?
No. Of course not.
But she didn’t want to think that hard. She didn’t want to think at all. Not about tomorrow or the next day. At this moment, she just wanted to be.
In this time, in this place, all she felt was Emory pressing against her, his lips looking for hers. And that was all she wanted.
Until the world exploded in fire, smoke, and the sound of guns.
Chapter Nine
Raids on Gypsy tribes were common sport in Elizabethan England because:
Gypsies were accused of spreading disease, particularly the plague.
Unprotected by the law, they were easy to blame for others’ unexplained, dirty deeds.
Raiding Gypsy camps had about the same entertainment value as cockfighting.
—Petra’s notes
With a racing heart, Petra dropped to the prickly grass. Emory pushed her beneath a caravan and fell upon her. A small cry tore from her. He covered her completely, his knees digging into the ground on either side as he sheltered her with his body.
Another explosion pierced the air, and Petra bit back a scream. She tried to make sense of it, but all she felt was Emory pressing her to the ground, hard and heavy on her back, his ragged breath on her neck. She tried to push onto her elbows and his arms, rigid beside her, pinned her beneath him.
“Hush, Petra,” he whispered. “For your health, be still.”
Women, children and horses screamed. Goats bleated as horse hooves thundered past. Peering between his shoulder and the dirty ground, she saw scurrying feet, darting dogs and not much else.
“A gypsy hunt,” Emory said in her ear. “This, I suppose, is your fortune.”
“I don’t want this fortune,” Petra struggled for breath. Wriggling beneath him, she managed to turn over. Nose to nose with Emory, she debated on whether that had been wise. She tried to rise onto her elbows.
“Are you hurt?” Emory asked, without moving, his lips inches from hers.
Petra shook her head. She couldn’t breathe beneath his weight.
“Good.” He didn’t flinch but remained firm and unmovable.
That’s when she realized the pandemonium beyond the caravan had quieted.
Emory had lifted onto his elbows, his face still just inches from hers.
“What happened?” Petra gasped.
“Gunpowder, they must have thrown it into the fire.”
Petra managed to get her other elbow beneath her. “But who? Why?”
“The gentry. Land owners hire thugs to drive away the Roma. ‘Tis common enough sport.”
Petra, in an effort to distract her attention from Emory’s body poised above hers, watched the feet and hooves scramble in the dust.
Then the caravan above them rolled away.
“Aye, what have we here?” A portly, bearded man smelling of beer wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Lumbering, ox-like, he drew closer. As he leered at Petra, Emory peeled away from her in a fluid movement and stood in front of her, arms folded.
“We are not Roma,” Emory began.
Petra sat up, instantly disliking the beefy man and his raunchy grin.
“But acting none better.” The man laughed an unpleasant bark. “A bit of sport amongst the filthy Roms?”
Emory spread his arms, as if trying to hide Petra. “This is a gentle woman.”
“A true lady wouldn’t be here with the likes of you.” The man looked Petra up and down and ran a hand through his beard. “She best be coming with me, boy.”
As swift as a cat pouncing upon a mouse, Emory swung his fist into the older man’s distended gut. The man whoofed out a puff of smelly breath and then lunged for Emory with a growl. Petra back-crawled away, pebbles and sticks hurting her hands.
“Now, my friend, be reasonable,” Emory said, sounding casual and relaxed even as he blocked a heavy blow with his forearm. “You must know a treasure such as she would bring a fair price from her distraught father.”
The man, stumbling, reeled toward Emory like a charging bull. “If she’s such a treasure,” he huffed, “then why is she rolling in the grass with the likes of you?”
“Good question,” Emory said, taking a moment to swipe his hair from his eyes before sending his fist into the man’s nose.
Petra scrambled to her feet.
Blood spurted down the man’s face, and he howled in pain and anger. Emory placed his heel firmly in the man’s groin and kicked him into the grass.
Petra, who had never seen a fight that hadn’t been choreographed for TV or stage, stared. The spurting blood, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the grunts and puffs of pain transfixed her. When the ox-like man fell to the ground, Emory grabbed her hand and she shook back to life.
“Let’s take you home, my sweet,” Emory said, pulling her away.
She followed mutely, and then screamed when another thug appeared from behind a caravan, raised his sword and plunged it into Emory’s chest. Emory’s knees buckled and Petra watched in horror as the sword sunk deeper and a silver tip protruded from his back.
A dark smelly and stiff shadow flew over her, plunging her into darkness. Petra clutched at the cloth covering her head. Someone tied something around her throat. The more she pulled, the more she choked. Petra kicked and flailed her legs when strong arms lifted her off the ground. She smelled yeasty breath and her stomach turned sick.
She tried to remember all that she’d learned in her self-defense class. Bash and dash – both difficult without the use of sight or arms. Breakaway techniques -- she struggled to think and then remembered to make her body limp. She slid from her captor’s arms, but once her feet hit the ground, the man scooped her up and swung her around. Her head made contact with something solid. Inside the dark bag, Petra saw stars.
***
&nbs
p; Moon and stars lit the valley. Emory didn’t like being dragged by his heels, his head bouncing along the stone-studded path, but in his long existence he’d learned possum skills. So, eyes half open, body limp and an open wound in his chest, he held his peace while Petra’s captors tossed his body down a river bank. He suppressed a grunt of pain when he smacked against a willow and silently thanked the tree for keeping him from the creek. Buried in the tall grass, he watched a man lift Petra onto a horse.
The ox-like man hauled himself up beside Petra, who was hooded and bound. It nauseated Emory to watch the man gather her against his barrel chest.
“Whatcha got, Marshall?” asked the youth who had stabbed Emory.
Marshall.
Marshall’s beefy arms circled Petra’s waist and rested against her breast. Emory thought he’d explode with pent-up anger.
“Bounty,” Marshall grunted.
“Bounty or bootie?” The youth laughed.
Fire flamed behind Emory’s eyes. He fought the urge to attack with nothing more than his hands. He tried gathering his thoughts.
He’d have to separate Marshall from the others without raising an alarm. Unless he could get the man off the horse first, the horse would need to fall without injuring Petra. If not for her, he could have startled the horse, causing him to rear and bolt and hopefully cast off Marshall. If she’d been awake, she could be of use, but from her slumped and compliant form he knew that she’d fainted. Normally he detested female vapors, but watching Petra’s retreat, his heart twisted as the horses moved away. Marshall lumbered behind the others. Emory couldn’t wait much longer; on foot he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the overburdened horse.
Crouching, Emory hurried along the creek’s grassy edge, jumping downed trees, dodging branches and tripping in and out of rabbit holes.
Ahead, Petra bounced against Marshall. Every jolt increased Emory’s ratcheting fury. As they approached a bend in the road, Emory sprinted ahead to position himself behind a boulder. He picked up a couple of large rocks, tested them for loft and then aimed for Marshall’s temple. When the other men and their horses disappeared around the bend, Emory let his rock fly.
“Good Gad,” the man muttered as the rock whistled past his head. “Demmed bats.” He turned in Emory’s direction and Emory launched another rock. Marshall’s oath died mid-mutter, as the stone smacked his forehead with a sickening thud. With Petra in his arms, Marshall wavered atop of the horse, leaning right and then left, like a leaf held to a branch by a thin stem.
The stallion, tall and beautiful, stood pawing the ground, waiting for the reins to tell him where to go. As Emory dashed forward, Marshall toppled to the right, taking Petra with him. Emory caught her while the big man hit the ground with an earth-shaking thud. Emory carried Petra away from Marshall’s crumpled body. To Emory’s surprise, the horse stepped over Marshall, and ambled after him.
Emory wondered how long it would be until Marshall’s partners noticed his disappearance. Considering their apparent drunkenness, it might be hours. As the sound of horses and men gave way to crickets, creek and owls, Emory clucked to the stallion, picked up the reins and led him away from Marshall’s moaning body. Safely hidden in a thicket of trees, Emory laid Petra across the horse’s back and then hoisted himself up after her. Positioning in the saddle, he drew Petra against him and turned toward the village.
He debated on whether to remove Petra’s hood and binds. His task would be easier if she remained inert. Her head bounced against his chest and he felt his breath matching her own in a gentle rhythm. Slowly, irrevocably, he felt himself melding into her.
This has to stop, he thought. I am Emory Ravenswood, a man whose long life knows no end and no companion. He couldn’t keep her with him, tucking her into his home and bed, selfishly asking for her to share his half existence. What he wanted battled with what he knew was right. She needs to return her to her family. Not that he knew any better idea of how to find Royal Oaks than she did.
The horse plodded towards town, hoofs beating a soft cadence that seemed to say, what now, what now, and what now? If he couldn’t have Petra, he could, at least, have the horse. He named him Centaur. Centaur could stay at Anne’s, but surely both women would be angry if he deposited Petra back into Anne’s bed.
The Earl then. Petra had said she knew his son, Little Lord Fartinstaff. He thought of Garret’s blond pompadour lifting off his high forehead, his blue know-nothing-refuse-to-see-anything eyes.
Emory shifted, annoyed and uncomfortable. The son was young, he reminded himself. It was the do-nothing-but-collect-taxes father who deserved disdain. Emory could hardly blame the son for the father’s misdeeds, or deeds of omission. Yet he did. The thought of leaving Petra in their care made him hate father and son. A new kind of revulsion, strong and bitter, rose from his stomach.
Petra sagged and bounced against him. Emory looked up at the moon as if expecting it to provide answers. It twinkled back at him. Petra’s time was short: his time with her shorter still. It was a shame she had to die.
Petra would be gone by the time the Earl returned to Hampton Court. Young Falstaff was an impulsive idiot, but he was harmless and generally kind. He would ensure her final hours were spent in comfort. Perhaps Falstaff could locate her family and provide a fitting burial.
By the time the horse plodded over the last hill, giving Emory a clear view of the village, the chapel, and beyond that the imposing towers of Pennington Place, he knew what he had to do.
Chapter Ten
Bathing was rare but grooming frequent. Nails needed to be cleaned nightly, hair combed daily. Combs were made of ivory, horn or wood. They even had silver ear-spoons, small tools for cleaning out earwax. Ear-spoons can still be found in Asian markets, and there are professional ear cleaners in the streets of many Asian cities.
—Petra’s notes
The next time Petra opened her eyes she saw Kyle, leaning over her, his gaze warm and concerned. Her heart lifted. I’m home, the nightmare has ended. “Kyle,” she breathed.
“My lady?”
Her elation crashed. Looking around, Petra saw a room of stone walls draped in tapestries and ornately carved bed posts draped in gossamer. A silver candelabrum with unlit candles sat on a bedside table.
Kyle wore a simple white tunic and tan breeches. A young woman behind him wore a blue gown and a white apron, and a man standing in a corner wore a dark, unreadable expression. How long had she slept? She tried to rise, but her head thundered. She slipped back down among the pillows.
Gypsies, music, healing, the Otherworld, rosemary and mug-wort, Emory, the sword. She was still trapped and, now, friendless. Tears of disappointment and loss came to her eyes. With her thumb, she felt Emory’s ring.
We both know I do not live. That’s what he’d said. Did that mean that he couldn’t die? No. The shock on his face, the sudden stillness in his eyes, that horrible, ragged noise from his lips, and the blood gushing from his belly—his death had looked more real than anything she had seen in the movies, much more gruesome than her mother’s slow fading.
Petra turned away from Kyle’s gaze to look out the window at rolling acres of lawn, distant farmland, and a thick wood. “Where am I?”
“Pennington Place, my lady.” Despite the Harry Potter accent, he even sounded like Kyle.
Petra clutched at the quilt and pulled it to her shoulders like a shield. “How did I come here?”
“My man Fritz found you by the front gate. You have suffered a head wound.”
Petra clung to that. “A head wound. Yes.”
The man with the frown and massive eyebrows left his corner and stepped closer. “If you would tell us your family, we will send word of your safety.
Safety? She’d seen her only friend in this time warp run through with a sword. She’d been kidnapped, bagged and beaten. No, she wasn’t safe. She rubbed the knot on her head, feeling its size and wondering if it would turn purple. “I remember little.”
“You do
not recall who brought you to our gate?” Suspicion tinged the man’s nasal voice. He had a beak like a buzzard. Perhaps anyone doomed to spend a lifetime with such a nose would be cranky.
A line from the book of Alice in Wonderland sprung to Petra’s lips and she had to bite it back. One would never undertake a journey without a porpoise. Who had said that? The Caterpillar? The Cheshire Cat? That was what she needed, Petra decided, a mythical mentor.
Petra turned to Kyle, who, if not mythical, was at least familiar. “Have we met?”
Kyle smiled and shook his head. “I do not believe so. I would have remembered such good fortune.”
She smiled because he was so Kyle. Even if he wasn’t. “You look familiar, like someone I know from somewhere else.”
“What is your name, my lady?” the Buzzard Man in the corner asked. His question, though reasonable, sounded like an accusation.
“Petra Baron.” She struggled to sit up and ended by bracing herself on her elbows.
The Kyle look-a-like stepped closer to the bed. “I am Garret Falstaff and this is Lord Chambers.” He motioned to the man behind him, but didn’t introduce the young woman, who was probably a maid. “You are safe here at Pennington Place.”
***
Petra watched a parade of maids fill a copper tub with a scalding, lavender-scented water. Mary, the tiny blond maid in charge of the brigade, scuttled between the bedroom and presumably the kitchen with brimming buckets.
“T’won’t be but a minute now, miss,” Mary huffed as she poured a final bucket into the copper tub. After dismissing the other girls, Mary pulled up a sleeve, exposed her forearm, and dipped her elbow in the steaming water. “Very good, miss.” Mary placed her hands on her hips and gave Petra an encouraging smile.
When Petra didn’t budge, Mary scowled and spoke slowly, encouragingly, as if Petra was a child. “Would you like me to undo your gown, miss?”
The dress had a row of tiny buttons parading down her back, but it also had a side zipper, making the buttons unnecessary. But Mary wouldn’t know that.