Kohl, Candice - A Twist in Time.txt
Page 14
plenty more.” Judith used her thumb to fan through the
remaining pages.
Andrew scrutinized the fine, rectangular sheet
marked with pale, evenly-spaced lines. The paper looked
almost as sheer as a veil, so that the sunlight made
shadows of his fingers splayed behind the page.
“Jesu! ’Tis so thin and so very smooth. This is surely
not made of skin?”
“No, it’s made from wood pulp. Maybe rags, too.”
“I have heard of that process,” he told her,
remembering something his tutor had disclosed. “The
Spaniards invented it, or they brought the knowledge
back to Iberia from elsewhere. But you have so many
sheets bound together, they must be worth a king’s
ransom. The paper I’ve seen has been painstakingly
produced, each page formed in a frame.”
“I don’t have a clue how this paper was made,” Judith
admitted. “I think, probably, it’s made in huge rolls and
cut to size, but I couldn’t say for sure.”
“Your father did not explain?”
“My father?”
“Peter Lamb.”
“Oh! I don’t know. I—I don’t remember. Remember?”
She flashed him a flickering smile.
Andrew reached over Judith’s lap and flipped back
the pages she had written on so that the top one lay
face up. “What language is this?”
“English.”
“’Tis not.”
“It is,” she insisted. “I know it looks different from
anything you’ve probably read, but it’s just another
version of the language we’re both speaking. You and I
have different accents, different ways of saying the same
word. Well, we make our letters differently, too. We don’t
use the same spellings, either.”
Andrew considered Judith curiously. “We?” he
repeated. “Who is this ‘we’ you refer to?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure, Andrew. I told you,
things pop out of my mouth, but in my head, I just don’t
know. I guess I’m referring to people who speak like I
do, who read and write like I do.”
“And these people, you’ve no idea where they live?”
Andrew pressed.
“No.”
“Judith.” He uttered her name sternly, like a parent
warning a child.
“I don’t. I really don’t.”
“You may not,” he conceded. “But though it has been
a long while since I last visited the city of York,
methinks they speak not very much different than I.”
“I never claimed I came from York. You did. Philip
did.”
“You were the first to mention York. I recall it well.”
“No, I—“ Judith looked frustrated and very near
tears. “If I did, I don’t remember it now.”
She grabbed the handle on her satchel. “I think
maybe I should go inside now.”
“Nay,” he commanded as he grabbed her arm. Then,
releasing her, he asked more gently, “Why do you wish
to leave now? The sun is shining...”
“The sun is hot. I would really love to take off this
heavy old dress, put on shorts—”
Again, she looked aggrieved at having spoken.
Again, Andrew’s instincts hummed. “You would prefer
to don what?”
The color in Judith’s face heightened. “They’re an
item of apparel I do recall wearing,” she explained,
almost daring him to question her dubious memory.
“They’re much cooler, much more comfortable to wear
in warm weather than a long dress with long sleeves.”
“Mayhap my sisters have such a garment in their
clothes trunks,” Andrew suggested, knowing full well
they did not. But he had to say something to distract
himself from the vision that had come into his head, a
vision of Judith stripping off the cotehardie she presently
wore to reveal her voluptuous naked body.
“Your sisters don’t have any shorts in their wardrobe.
Trust me.” Judith sounded fatigued. She sighed but
released her grip on her satchel.
“Write something for me,” Andrew urged quickly.
“No, I’m tired of writing.” Then, surprisingly
gracious, she offered instead, “Maybe you’d like to write
something? You could use my pen.”
Andrew accepted the object Judith handed him as
though she’d given him the cutting edge of a sharp
knife.
“It’s not going to bite you,” she assured him with a
laugh. Her unexpected giggle sounded high and girlish.
Andrew imagined hearing her laugh in just such a
manner while cavorting with him in bed.
“See the little silver lever at the top? Click it down
with your thumb, like this.” Judith demonstrated. “Did
you see? The point comes out the bottom. Press the
point to the paper and write.”
Helpfully, Judith put the whole sheaf of bound paper
under Andrew’s blank sheet so that he had a solid
surface to work on. Gingerly, he began to form
meticulous figures, using the lines to guide his script.
After writing only one sentence from a verse of the
Holy Scriptures, Andrew held up the paper and sucked
in a breath. “Sweet Mother of God! Where does the color
come from? How does it work?”
“Here.” She took the implement, broke it apart, and
dumped the innards onto the book in Andrew’s lap.
Picking up one piece and then another, she told him
about “ink” and “points” and “spring loads.” Andrew did
not really comprehend her explanation, and when she
reassembled the object to return it to him, her intimate
touch sent a jolt through his fingers and hand.
“Ink,” he repeated, trying to focus.
“Yes, the stuff that makes the lines on the paper.”
“Soot and water?”
“Not exactly, but I suppose that could be a kind of
ink.”
“And you write words with this—”
“Pen,” she supplied helpfully.
“Pen,” he echoed. “But it has no brush, no fibers.”
“Right again. I showed you. The ink’s in the tube,
and it rolls out on that little ball at the end of the
cartridge.”
Andrew dropped the writing implement, the pen. As
it fell into his lap, both he and Judith reached for it.
The pen got away from Andrew, and the only thing Judith
managed was to graze his crotch with her fingers.
Andrew very nearly covered her hand with his and
kept her fingers pressed against his manhood. He would
have regretted that brazen move had he succumbed to
instinct. Judith had to be wooed the way Philip wooed
women. Fortunately, Andrew found himself prevented
from doing anything crude because Judith yanked her
hand away and sprang to her feet.
He glanced up at her to see that blood had rushed to
Judith’s face once more. He had never seen her blush
so furiously when in Philip’s company. Did this prove a
good sign or ill?
Andrew bent over to retrieve the clever writing tool
and discovered blood had rushed to a different part of
his own anatomy. He jumped to his feet as well, so that
his tunic hung loose over his groin and disguised the
desire Judith inspired.
“You can keep the pen,” she offered briskly when he
attempted to return it. “I have more.”
He swallowed hard and found his voice. “You do? I
presumed there would be only one in all the world.”
“Nope. There are at least three, because I have two
more.”
“Thank you.”
“Take a few more sheets of paper to write on, too,”
Judith suggested. Her words came out in a rush as she
tore several pages from her book and thrust them into
Andrew’s hands. “I really should go inside now.”
Andrew let her go, gladly. He had never dreamt a
conversation with a woman could be so difficult, so
tiring, so delightful! He felt as though he had run up
and tumbled down a dozen high hills. His pulse raced
and his brow was damp with sweat. He felt elated and
exhausted.
Yet as he watched her walk away, Andrew sighed.
Whether or not she knew it, Judith Lamb was surely
Sir Peter Lamb’s daughter. Only a clever inventor could
have created the fine writing paper and writing
implements Judith claimed. Her possessions alone
proved close kinship between herself and Sir Peter,
while her ability to read and write proved she’d been
highly educated. Only royals and nobles were educated,
and only an aged eccentric would educate a daughter to
the extent Judith had been tutored.
Andrew looked down and kicked the dirt. He didn’t
want her to be a lady! He wanted Judith to be
unassuming, the daughter of a crofter, a freeman, or a
servant, but not the daughter of a knight and his lady.
Andrew couldn’t have his way with a lady, not unless
she were already widowed, intended to take holy vows,
or had accepted his offer of marriage. As yet, he had no
reason to believe Judith had either been widowed or on
her way to join a nunnery. And he certainly had no
intention of proposing marriage. Besides, he had made
those damnable vows not to try to bed Judith. Such a
pledge meant little if made to a peasant. But it meant
much, if made to a lady.
God’s bloody tears! I may as well find Louis and send
him to York straightaway. There is no longer any reason
for me to keep the wench near.
That is what he thought. But that is not what he
did.
Nine
Judy came awake before opening her eyes. As she
did every morning, she steeled herself for what she
would see when she looked around. Always, she longed
to find herself in her bed, in her room, in her rent-
controlled New York City apartment. At least, she hoped
to find herself back at the Wixcomb inn. But when she
peeked, she inevitably discovered herself, as she did
this morning, lying on a straw-stuffed mattress in a bed
topped with a canopy and surrounded by closed curtains.
Not in the States, but England. Not in Laycock Inn, but
Laycock Castle. Not in the twentieth century, but the
thirteenth.
Hardly surprised and not as keenly disappointed as
she used to be, Judy swung her legs off the bed, pushed
aside the curtains, and stretched her arms overhead.
Her back ached and her head hurt a little. Stepping out
into the room, she found—again, no surprise—that the
stone floor felt cold beneath her toes. Shivering, she
hopped around and grabbed the silk robe Andrew had
never reclaimed, covering her nakedness. And just in
time, for Bridget, at that very moment, opened the door.
“Good day, milady!” she chirped, far too perky for any
human being at this early hour, but most especially for
a servant in medieval times. “I expected you’d want a
bath again this morn. Elmo and Jock are bringing the
tub. Mayhap I ought to leave it in your chamber?”
“Yes, maybe you should,” Judy agreed. It had to be a
pain to lug the thing from wherever they stored it.
Bridget set out Judy’s bath towels. “As you won’t be
wanting me to assist you, I’ve other things that need
doing, milady. Sally’s bringing up your morning meal—
the victuals should be here shortly.”
“Thanks.”
Judy swallowed a couple of aspirins and washed them
down with water. She poured more cold water into a
bowl and, after splashing her face, she quickly brushed
her teeth. The men had just arrived with the tub when
she felt an urgent need to relieve herself, so she grabbed
her tote and hurried down the hall to the toilet.
On the facial tissue she used for another purpose,
Judy spied a pink stain. Her period! That explained her
aches and pains. At least she had a supply of tampons.
Judy unwrapped one from the box she found in her tote,
wondering if she’d have enough to last. ’Til when? When
would she be going back to her own time, her own world,
her own home? She kept returning to the spot outside
the bailey walls where she’d awakened that morning
weeks ago. But except for a feeling she could neither
interpret nor explain, it offered no clues and no real
hope for finding a way into the future. The present—
the countryside, the keep, even the people who
populated it—seemed so authentic, so substantial... It
was beginning to feel to Judy as though her real life
had all been a dream. Sometimes she thought the
easiest thing would be for her to accept that, and, from
this day forward, proceed as though she were a woman
born of the Middle Ages. Then, at least, all she’d have to
worry about was Philip.
He had been absent longer than she had expected
him to be, and so many dangers existed out there. He
could have been attacked by outlaws, or gored and left
for dead by the kind of wild pig she’d heard endless stories
about when the knights in the hall told tales after
supper. Philip could have fallen from his horse and
broken his neck or been wounded in a sword fight—who
knew? She didn’t. So she worried...
...When she wasn’t thinking about Andrew. It
embarrassed her. It irritated her. She found spending
time with him extremely uncomfortable, as they
vacillated between being adversaries and friends. Yet
when he wasn’t around, it seemed almost worse. Then,
Judy kept looking for him, not to dodge his presence
but because she actually hoped to see him. Which only
led her back to the sort of encounter that kept her off
kilter and made her totally unsure of herself.
She didn’t like being unsure of herself. She didn’t
like dealing with Andrew, she didn’t like thinking about
him. But, upon her return from the jakes, she stopped
cold outside her bedroom door, which hung ajar. Within,
she spied Andrew standing beside her tub h
olding a
bucket. When he saw her, he scowled at her angrily.
She could ignore him, snap at him, or play it casual.
Judy decided upon the latter tack. “What’s up?” she
inquired.
In reply, Andrew slammed the bucket down, sloshing
water across the floor and into the rushes.
“What was that for?” Judy stepped into the doorway
and leaned against the jamb.
“I might better ask, what is this for?” Andrew
countered.
Since he gestured to the tub, Judy responded, “My
bath.”
“Another bath.”
“What do you mean, ‘another bath?’ I only have one
a day.” She walked into the room and set down her tote.
“One a day,” Andrew shouted. “Are you mad?”
“No.” Judy clutched the edges of her robe tightly
across her bosom and squared her shoulders. She didn’t
want to fight, but if he did... “You are obviously mad,
though. And I don’t have the vaguest notion why.”
“Me? Mad?” Andrew fumed, taking a step toward the
door and kicking it shut with one thrust of his long,
muscular leg. “If there’s anyone gone mad around here,
’tis you, not I!”
Belatedly, Judy understood the confusion. “I didn’t
mean you were crazy, just angry.” She couldn’t resist
adding, “But you are acting crazy.”
“Crazy?”
“Mad!” Exasperated, she also shouted.
“Don’t berate me, wench,” Andrew warned, grabbing
her sleeve. “You’ve neither cause nor the right to do
so.”
“I don’t?” His anger was contagious. She pulled her
sleeve free of his grasp with one quick yank and backed
away from him. “You lurk in my room, waiting around
to chide me for having a damned bath, and I don’t have
a right to yell? I sure as hell do!”
“None, even I, would begrudge you an occasional
bath. But one, every day for two sennights?”
“Two what?”
“Two sennights. A fortnight.”
“A fortnight?”
“Two weeks,” he explained, grinding out the words.
Andrew’s voice rose again quickly as he continued, “Even
if you are in truth a lady, do you think the people of
Laycock Keep are all your personal servants? Do you
think that they’ve no work to do other than attend to
your frivolous needs?”
“Of course not. I only wanted—”