How could Beth have failed to hear tales of Dillon and Alyssa? Plentiful stories of the couple circulated the country and were carried as far away as the Holy Land. Even the damned minstrels sang of them, feeding the fear the two inspired.
And how could she not know of King Richard? He had only been dead for four years, succeeded by his treacherous brother John. Was she simply unaware that some had begun to refer to King Richard as Lionheart, giving testament to his bravery and ferocity in battle?
Aye, mayhap that was it.
He frowned and closed his eyes.
At least he hoped that was it.
His friends’ suggestion that she was mad followed him into troubled dreams.
Chapter Seven
Waking up with Robert’s large, warm hand kneading her breast should have warned Beth that the day would not go as planned.
Of course, none of the surprises that followed were as pleasant as that one.
Whew! What a way to wake up. All warm and tingly and snuggled up against a man’s strong, muscular, very aroused body. It was a first for her. And one she hated to see end, which it did as soon as Robert woke up and realized he had been fondling her in his sleep. Swiftly apologizing in a voice gravelly with slumber and no little desire, he rolled away from her, rose, and left the tent.
The other men didn’t tease her or make any sly remarks about Robert’s having spent the night with her, though she had expected them to. For whatever reason, some men tended to be juvenile about such things.
Instead they seemed to be on their best behavior. They didn’t jump on her as soon as she opened her backpack. They didn’t pester her about her possessions. They didn’t fight over who got to dismantle and put away her tent. And they developed the most peculiar habit of addressing her as my lady.
Are you warm enough, my lady?
Will you take my cloak, my lady?
Shall we stop for a rest, my lady?
It was all very odd.
And the surprises kept coming, each more disturbing than the last.
They returned to the road she and Robert had traveled the previous day.
The narrow hard-packed dirt, deeply rutted with those strange wagon-wheel impressions, never changed. It didn’t widen and smooth over to indicate they approached civilization. No rubber tire tread marks appeared. No gravel covered the dirt. Nor did blacktop or pavement. No candy wrappers appeared in the grass alongside the road. No soda cans. No plastic bottles. No cigarette butts. No billboard advertisements. No street signs or markers of any kind.
It just continued on as it was, seemingly endless.
And the people…
Twice they encountered other people on the road. Both times Beth remained silent, so shocked the words she wanted to spill froze inside her.
First came the merchant. (Traveling salesman just did not seem an appropriate title for him.) He rode atop a rickety wooden wagon full of who-knows-what pulled by an ancient, swaybacked nag that plodded along at the speed of a snail and boasted matted fur interspersed with bare patches irritated by flies.
Absolute astonishment temporarily supplanted her fears for Josh when the man spoke Middle English.
Beth could not help but gape while Robert told the merchant he wasn’t interested in any of his wares and questioned him to determine whether to not he had encountered Josh or anyone who might have met Josh’s description.
She couldn’t even guess the man’s age. His leathery skin and blond hair could’ve used a scrubbing. One of his teeth was missing. The others were discolored. She was pretty sure one was rotting.
And he wasn’t Amish. He bore no beard and wore no hat. Nor did he wear the black suit she had seen Amish men wear so often in pictures and movies. Instead his clothing looked to be that of a down-on-his-luck tradesman or merchant raised in the era Robert and his friends were mimicking, as if he were part of their reenactment troupe.
Except he acted as though he had never met Robert or the others before.
She glanced around to assess their responses, expecting to see recognition, and found none. Stephen and Adam weren’t even paying attention. They just evinced boredom and a desire to continue their journey. Michael seemed more interested in her own horrified reaction than in the newcomer’s identity.
When Robert said something sharply, Beth looked back at the merchant in time to see him hastily avert his gaze from her. She had noticed him looking at her strangely throughout the exchange—her jeans in particular—but didn’t know why. Nor did she have time to ask as Robert dismissed the man and nudged Berserker forward.
“Does aught trouble you, my lady?” Michael asked, riding abreast of them.
She hesitated. “Don’t you know that man?”
“I have never met him, nay.”
She sensed no lie. “Robert, do you know him?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Nay.” The arm wrapped around her waist tightened. “Is he one of the men who attacked you, Beth?”
“No,” she denied. “Nay, it’s naught. Never mind.”
But it wasn’t nothing. The next travelers they came across confirmed that.
A man and a boy headed in the same direction as she and the others. The duo resembled each other so closely they must be father and son. Both were garbed in shabbier, more threadbare clothing than the merchant had worn but seemed clean and could easily have walked off the production set of a medieval movie. The man looked to be in his late thirties, with stooped shoulders and lines bracketing his eyes and mouth. Lean and hungry. Barely more than skin and bones. She suspected that every spare crumb he came across he fed to the scrawny six – or seven-year-old boy at his side.
Both bowed deferentially to Robert, offering several milords. Neither appeared to have previously met him.
And the father spoke and understood Middle English.
The whole time the man answered Robert’s questions, the boy stared up at Beth with rapt fascination, as though she were Lady Godiva. The boy’s father seemed uncomfortable, his eyes darting to and from her in the manner of one who did not dare look too long.
She didn’t know why. She wore Robert’s freshly washed, big linen shirt over her jeans and tank top. And she wore her bra beneath the tank top. So it wasn’t as if her breasts were hanging out or anything.
“Follow this road to Fosterly,” Robert told them. “Find my steward, and he will see that you and your son have a warm meal.”
The man bowed several times. “Thank you, milord. ’Tis most generous of you, milord. And I’ll work for it, I will. I am a hard worker.”
“I am a hard worker,” the boy piped, dragging his attention away from Beth long enough to offer an energetic nod.
A chill skittered down her spine. The boy spoke Middle English, too.
“I have many talents you might find useful,” his father promised. “And I am always willing to put in a hard day’s work.”
“I am good with horses,” the boy boasted.
Robert nodded. “We shall speak more of this at Fosterly. I am certain my steward will have need of some of your talents.”
“And mine?” the boy pressed eagerly, ignoring the swift shake of his father’s head.
Robert’s chuckle vibrated Beth’s back. “Aye, and yours as well.”
The bowing and scraping began anew.
Robert kneed Berserker forward once more, leaving the two to follow on foot.
Beth glanced back and felt her throat tighten at the hope that shone on their thin faces as they smiled at each other. The boy took his father’s hand and skipped along at his side, grinning in anticipation of the warm meal the two would soon share, the new home they might find ahead of them.
Those could not have been actors. They just couldn’t have been. Beth had encountered enough homeless men and women i
n Houston to tell the difference between those who were truly hungry and in need of shelter and those who merely panhandled in their free time to make an easy buck.
That man and his son weren’t out to make an easy buck. They had suffered some very lean times.
“Does aught trouble you, my lady?” Adam asked.
She faced forward, feeling sick. “Aye.”
Though an expectant pause ensued, she offered nothing more.
Robert leaned to one side and ducked his head, trying to read her expression. “What is it, Beth?” he asked, his voice gentle and coaxing.
She shook her head, swallowing hard.
How could she tell him that a thought so unbelievable as to be labeled lunatic had entered her mind, making her question her own sanity?
Robert. Michael. Adam. Stephen. The merchant. The poverty-stricken father and son. Strangers to each other, yet all garbed and behaving the same. All speaking and understanding Middle English. As though they truly were medieval and not merely playacting or performing a role.
It was inconceivable, right? That they were medieval?
“Beth?”
Of course it was inconceivable. The notion that she had gone back in time was absolutely ludicrous. It just wasn’t possible. On any scale. The entire scientific community agreed that time travel remained purely theoretical.
So, she couldn’t have gone back in time.
Yet, realistically speaking, what other explanation was there?
If this were all part of some sick, twisted, incredibly extravagant joke that was being perpetrated at her expense, who was doing it? Who in his or her right mind would take it so far? And why had they chosen her, of all people, as their victim? She was a bail enforcement agent. A bounty hunter. A woman who had no knowledge of anyone who might possess the kind of wealth and connections that would be necessary to pull off something this big.
Robert abandoned his attempts to draw her out and began a whispered conference with Michael and the others. Beth paid them little heed, too busy trying to rationalize her situation.
So, as far as explanations go, the two choices appear to be—she closed her eyes—time travel, or a bizarre conspiracy with what—revenge—as the motive?
Both sounded equally deranged.
Which led her to a third option: that whatever wounds she had suffered had left her either brain damaged or mentally unbalanced, and all of this was just some massive delusion.
The fact that she was tempted to laugh maniacally did not ease her worries.
Time travel didn’t exist yet, so that one was pretty much out.
Insanity left a bad taste in her mouth, so Beth decided to nix that one, too.
That only left her with the implausible scheme or joke.
Okay. So someone with a lot of money (never mind that everyone she knew lived from paycheck to paycheck) must have arranged for me to be abducted from that clearing after I was shot. They… drugged me?
Yes. That was it. They drugged me, patched up my wounds and—while I was still sedated—transported me to someplace else. Maybe Pennsylvania? Ohio? Indiana?
Someplace cooler than Texas, that was for sure.
Then, after my injuries healed, they stopped drugging me. Or maybe I was in a coma. That would’ve worked, too. So, when I came out of the coma, they left me in this forest and hired actors to pretend they are medieval knights. And peasants. And a merchant.
So I would…
So they could…
Beth sighed. Even if all of the other stuff were true, which it only would be in a really bad B movie shown very late at night, what was the point? What was the end game? To make her think she was in Medieval England?
Yeah, right.
To make her think she was crazy?
They’re succeeding.
Why? If someone had wanted her to lose her mind, there were far easier ways to go about it. And except for the bail skippers she and her brother hunted down, who she was fairly certain did not possess such grand connections, she couldn’t think of a single person who might wish her harm.
Nor could she believe that Robert would participate in such a deception.
Feeling utterly confused and defeated, she let her head drop back against Robert’s chest and closed her eyes.
Maybe this was just another in a long line of crappy television reality shows: Thrust a modern woman into a medieval setting without telling her and watch her crack up.
Yeah, right. And get sued six ways from Sunday when she realizes what’s happened. Besides, how stupid would it be to do that to an armed bounty hunter? After shooting her! Because all of this had begun with her getting shot and nearly dying.
No television studio would be that stupid. And anyone crazy enough to pitch such an idea would be shut down by the studio’s legal team.
And, again, she couldn’t bring herself to believe that Robert would be a part of something that devious. Or Michael. Or Adam. Or even Stephen, as aggravating as he could be.
They could have harmed her in so many ways since they found her, yet they had all been perfect gentlemen.
Perfect gentlemen with no apparent knowledge of objects commonly used in the twenty-first century.
Again she sighed.
Maybe this was an Occurrence-at-Owl-Creek-Bridge thing and everything around her was a very elaborate fantasy crafted by her mind in the moments before she died. It would make sense, in a weird kind of way, since the last thing she had seen before losing consciousness was Josh. And, when they were younger, she and Josh had used Middle English as their secret language, confusing friends who—upon asking what language they were speaking—wouldn’t believe them when they had said they were speaking English.
But, damn, that was an unsettling notion. She wasn’t ready to die.
Lifting her head, she opened her eyes.
Terror engulfed her, as great as that which had pummeled her when she had watched blood spray from Josh’s wounds.
Gripping the arm Robert kept around her waist with one hand, she dropped the other to his thigh and clutched it so tightly the chain mail dug into her fingers.
“Stop,” she whispered through stiff lips.
Robert dipped his head. “What?”
“Stop,” she repeated louder.
“You wish me to—”
“Stop. Stop! Stop!”
Berserker did an edgy little dance when Robert halted him. Either the fearsome creature wanted to keep going or he sensed her fear.
Twisting to the left, Beth wrapped both hands around Robert’s big arm. “Help me down. I need to get down.” Too impatient to wait, she threw a leg over the saddle, slid off the huge horse, and landed on the ground with a stagger.
“Beth, what is amiss? Are you ill?”
She barely heard Robert over the sudden pounding in her ears as she turned away. Her heart felt as though it might explode at any moment. Her breath came faster and faster until she feared she might hyperventilate.
Stumbling a few yards to the crest of the hill that Berserker’s height had allowed her to peer over prematurely, Beth absorbed the fresh scenery before her with something akin to horror.
Below them spread a valley dotted with cattle and plump white sheep, grazing idly on the lush green carpet that overlaid the land. Small huts with thatched roofs appeared and grew in greater frequency as her gaze moved on, ultimately clustering together and forming a sizable village. Farmland, rich and bountiful, wove a gargantuan quilt. People, whom she didn’t need to see clearly to know were dressed much the same way the merchant and peasants had been, bustled to and fro as they performed the day’s labor.
Beyond them a moat slithered in the shadow of a stone wall whose height and width she could not begin to estimate from this distance. And beyond that, atop the o
pposite rise, standing proud and majestic in the brilliant sunlight, rose an enormous medieval castle.
Her whole body began to shake.
Not a few stones piled here and there amidst tangles of overgrowth.
Not the remains of a medieval castle. Or the shell of a medieval castle. Or a refurbished medieval castle preceded by a paved drive, carefully planned flower beds and a parking lot arranged for tourists’ convenience.
But a medieval castle that stood in pristine condition.
A castle that looked as though it could have been built yesterday.
A castle with absolutely nothing modern surrounding it.
No city. No suburbs. No small town.
No sidewalks. No paved streets. No old-time brick-and-mortar streets.
No cars. No trucks. No SUVs. No buses. No motorcycles. No bicycles.
No telephone poles. No cell towers.
No grocery stores—neither large chain nor mom and pop.
No post office. No police station.
No motels or bed-and-breakfasts welcoming tourists with colorful signs.
“It can’t be,” Beth whispered as full-blown panic paralyzed her. “It can’t be.”
Robert paced back and forth from one side of the road to the other, his gaze fastened on Bethany’s back.
For almost an hour, she had stood motionless at the top of the hill, limbs stiff, fists clenched, eyes wide, face bloodless. Occasionally her lips would move, but damned if he could hear one word of whatever she spoke.
Every once in a while she would squeeze her eyes shut and shake her head as though in denial.
Glancing to one side, he gauged the response of his men. The three of them lounged in the grass at the edge of the forest, having grown weary of waiting. Though they talked in low voices that eluded him, he did not doubt they speculated about whatever madness afflicted her.
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