Kohl, Candice - A Twist in Time.txt

by A Twist in Time. txt (lit)

  a wick nor a flame inside. What a marvel! Had Peter

  Lamb created this device and all the others? If so, the

  inventor should be ruling the world, or at least be the

  wealthiest man in all Christendom. What other men,

  even kings, would pay for these things!

  He discovered a small box. Flipping it over, this way

  and that, he couldn’t even guess what it contained, what

  its function might be. He did see tiny written words: P-

  L-A-Y. R-E-W-I-N-D. He knew the words “play” and “wind”

  but could not fathom why they, and others, had been

  sketched onto the box. The biggest word he saw, S-A-N-

  Y-O, meant nothing to him at all. It was another of

  Judith’s words, one from her odd-sounding English.

  “Shite,” Andrew swore. The next item he pulled from

  the bag he had not seen before—it must have been

  caught beneath something heavier when he’d dumped

  the satchel onto Judith’s bed. Now, for an instant, he

  felt terrified all over again. He would have flung the

  object, as he had the illuminating eye, except his fingers

  felt as though they had melted around the handle.

  Cautiously, he looked at the thing in his hand.

  Breathing deeply, he willed himself to stay calm as he

  peered at himself and saw his own face looking back at

  him. God’s blood, he beheld a mirror! No polished piece

  of metal this, but something else altogether. The surface

  felt smooth and cool beneath his fingertips, almost like

  ice. But the veneer wasn’t ice that dripped as the frozen

  water warmed and melted. The object remained solid.

  And his reflection remained perfect. He couldn’t help

  staring. God’s teeth, but he was not a bad looking man!

  And he looked much more like Robin than he’d ever

  thought he did. But then, he had never seen himself

  before, not in such clear, precise detail. It seemed as

  though another Andrew of Laycock had materialized,

  an Andrew of Laycock with neither bulk nor depth who

  proved to be his identical twin.

  When he flipped the mirror over, he had another

  surprise, but he quickly came to terms with that uneasy

  feeling. He understood that this surface had been

  designed to distort his reflection, more so than the

  ripples in a pond or the uneven plane of a piece of

  polished metal. Jesu! He had never been so intrigued

  by anything as he was the pores and the whiskers on

  his face.

  After a time, he gave up his personal examination

  because he had saved the most intriguing item for last.

  From the satchel, he finally pulled a mysterious, flat

  box and set it on his knees. Examining the edges, he

  soon puzzled out how to open it. And, with a quick intake

  of breath, he did.

  He did not know what he expected to find inside.

  Something blindingly brilliant, perhaps. Something truly

  magical, at least. Or, perhaps, a vast amount of gold

  and jewels. Something valuable, precious, even holy.

  But there seemed to be nothing inside. The

  underside of the lid appeared flat and smooth as the

  mirror, though its surface looked dim. The bottom half,

  in his lap, had been carved with an array of raised

  rectangles, each marked with a symbol. They were—

  aye—letters! Pleased he recognized them for what they

  were, since all had been queerly fashioned and some

  were missing, he understood these symbols formed the

  written word. But it perplexed him, since he found

  nothing to write with in this box—no paper, no brushes,

  not even one of Judith’s pens.

  He closed the box and latched it. As he sat back in

  the chair, watching Judith sleep, he felt confident that

  one day she would explain its purpose because she would

  recover. He would see to it. He would not let her die.

  But what then? She would leave—she would leave

  him! He could not delay contacting Peter Lamb

  indefinitely. When they discovered he had sent no

  messenger to York, Philip, if not Arthur, would send a

  man to question the alchemist. And Andrew knew what

  the old knight’s response would be: Judith was his

  missing daughter. Not only would she be welcomed

  home, Philip would then court her in earnest. Nay, he

  would promptly ask for her hand and quickly wed her!

  At least Philip would wed her if Judith fulfilled his

  requirements for a bride. If she failed in that matter,

  Philip would instead marry Penelope. Such a union

  would please Andrew as much as it would please Lady

  Edwinna. But what if Philip chose the other damsel over

  Judith not because she proved to be poor, but because

  she proved to be already wed? The idea that Judith might

  have a husband made Andrew’s stomach queasy. He

  had never expected Judith Lamb to come into his life,

  but now that she had, he couldn’t imagine living without

  her. By the saints, he could barely remember living life

  without her!

  He decided not to speculate. As he gazed at her

  slumbering form, he knew Judith was going nowhere

  for a long time to come.

  Fourteen

  Judy had been drowning in a murky, turbulent sea.

  Deep currents buffeted her, tugging, pushing, pulling,

  while tentacled monsters imprisoned her with their

  limbs, squeezing the breath—and life—from her.

  Sometimes, it seemed to Judy she broke free and swam

  away. She even reached out to grasp a hand, a hand

  attempting to draw her to safety. But then light, sounds

  and other intrusions dismayed and disturbed her. So

  she allowed herself to sink down deep again, so deep,

  the dense, numbing darkness cocooned her. If dangers

  remained present, she hadn’t sensed them.

  Today, though, that strange sea coughed her up,

  and she could not resist opening her eyes. Like any

  shipwrecked sailor, she felt too weak and exhausted to

  do more than contemplate her surroundings from the

  same spot in which she’d awakened. To her chagrin,

  she found no white, sandy beach beneath her, only dingy

  linen. No brilliant blue Caribbean sky above, only the

  heavy fabric that canopied her bed. No swaying palm

  trees, only the cold stones of her room at Laycock Keep.

  And no chattering monkeys and birds, only the servant

  called Bridget dozing in a chair.

  She remained in this time, that time, nearly eight

  centuries before her own. When would it end? When

  would she be back where she belonged in New York City,

  U.S.A.? Would she never put another disk in a computer,

  never pull another contract draft off a fax machine?

  Would she never hail another taxi, go to a restaurant,

  or drink a cappuccino? And what of her family? Was she

  destined never to see her parents again, or her brothers,

  or her friends? Had that last heart-to-heart with her old

  college roommate, Sarah, proved to be the final

  midnight gabfest she’d ever have on a telephone?

  Sucking in a noisy, woeful breath to try t
o keep from

  bursting into tears, she inadvertently woke Bridget. The

  servant’s head snapped up, and her eyes snapped open.

  Finding her awake, Bridget leapt from the chair and

  hurried over.

  “Milady, are you truly awake?”

  “Mmm-hmmm.” Judy sniffed and dabbed at her eyes

  with the backs of her hands, glad she’d kept any tears

  from falling.

  “Oh, Lady Judith, Lord Andrew will be so pleased!”

  Bridget clapped her hands together.

  “Why?” Her voice sounded more like a frog croaking

  than a person speaking.

  “Why?” Bridget repeated. “Because he’s been fretting

  himself near to death over you, milady. He’s sat in that

  chair watching over you most every night.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Let me get you something to drink,” the servant

  interrupted, turning aside to ladle water into a cup.

  Grateful for the cool liquid that would soothe her

  parched throat, Judy gulped it down until her greediness

  resulted in a coughing fit. As Bridget slapped her back,

  the maid warned her, “You must be careful, milady.

  You’ve gone so long without decent nourishment, you

  won’t be able to hold much down.”

  “I—I’m okay. Fine. Thank you,” Judy rasped as she

  sat back, propped by the pillows Bridget had plumped

  behind her.

  “What was it you were saying, milady?”

  “I wouldn’t think Andrew—Lord Andrew—would care

  much that I’d been...ill. I seem to recall he...locked me

  in this room. And when it filled with smoke, he didn’t

  come...to...release me.”

  “I’d know nothing about that, milady,” Bridget

  insisted. Yet Judy understood from her manner that she

  knew all about it. “What I know, as I said, is that Lord

  Andrew took a keen interest in your well-being. He’s

  had me at your side since the moment he learned you’d

  taken ill.”

  “Where...is he now?”

  “No doubt he’s with the bailiff or the captain of the

  guard, doing what the lord and master of a keep must

  do.”

  Judy snorted. Lord and master. Some things never

  changed. “I thought—I thought his older brothers had

  returned.”

  “Aye, they did, Lady Judith. But they left again. That

  worrisome business with King John, and all. We be

  praying it goes well, that there’s no war.”

  Bridget did a little bob. “I must find him and tell him

  you’re awake and talking. I’ll ask Cook to make you

  something that will sit easy on your stomach. You need

  to eat. You’re thin as a reed after all these days.”

  “How many days?” Judy asked as the servant

  retreated.

  “Nearly five, milady. Five days.”

  Five days! Beltane had come and gone nearly a week

  ago. Of course, it had been over by the time she’d gotten

  herself out of this room, out of this keep. She should

  have known even then it was too late to try to get home

  as dawn of the following day encroached.

  But she had been so hopeful. She’d felt that—that

  feeling—when she’d reached the place of power. She had

  been so sure the winds of time, or whatever the heck

  they were, would carry her back, forward, whichever

  direction it was, to 1998. But she had traveled nowhere,

  absolutely nowhere.

  When could she hope to try again? Samhain?

  Halloween! Dear God, that was still nearly six months

  away. Judy knew she would never last that long, not

  here, not at Laycock Keep near her special place of

  power. Elfred would stone her or burn her at the stake

  for having magic powers, magic possessions.

  She should have died. She didn’t know what she’d

  come down with, or even how she had caught it—probably

  some bug that people of her own time never encountered

  and had no immunity against. But considering the

  people of this age had no knowledge of anatomy or

  medicine, she should have succumbed to the illness.

  Why am I still living, here or any other place?

  No sooner had she asked herself the question than

  she noticed her bottle of aspirin on the table. Had she

  been taking aspirin? She could not have gotten out of

  bed and found the bottle in her bag, not of her own

  volition. But who? Who would know she even had the

  medicine, let alone what it was used for and that it might

  possibly help?

  She shook her head and scratched her stomach.

  She didn’t have the answers, not to any of her questions.

  “Lord Andrew. Lord Andrew!”

  He halted mid-sentence in his conversation with

  Roland and turned to look at Bridget. When he spied the

  servant running across the bailey, he felt his heart

  seize. Judith. She’s dead.

  “What is it, Bridget? What’s happened?”

  “She’s awake, milord. Lady Judith’s awakened.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Aye, milord, I’m certain. We spoke for a bit. I told

  her I was coming for you, and that I’d have Cook make

  her something to eat.”

  “Do that. Now. I’ll go to her directly.”

  Andrew dismissed the captain of the guard and took

  off toward the keep. He had to restrain himself to keep

  from running. It wouldn’t look good for the baron’s son

  to be seen sprinting to the room of a stranger, a ragtag

  wanderer who had happened to stumble into Wixcomb.

  Certainly, it hadn’t looked fitting that he’d spent so much

  time in the sickroom of a woman Elfred had proclaimed,

  loudly and vehemently, to be a witch.

  But Andrew couldn’t resist. He finally took off

  running, up the tall stairs to the keep’s front portal and

  then up the narrow, spiral staircase to Judith’s room.

  “Judith,” he exclaimed as he opened her door.

  Andrew thought he had never seen so welcome a sight—

  Judith Lamb sitting up in bed, her green eyes focused

  and clear.

  She blinked at him, startled, and clutched the sheet

  higher over her bosom. Then her eyes narrowed, and

  she said accusingly, “Where were you?”

  “Where? I was here.” Closing the door quietly, he

  approached the bed.

  “Bridget told me you were here, while I was sick

  and sleeping. I—I meant that night. Beltane. There was

  a fire in this room, and Elfred wouldn’t let me out.”

  “I know. I heard. I’m sorry.”

  Judith’s lips curled down in a tremulous pout as she

  gazed up at him with huge, teary eyes. “You should have

  let me out. I needed you, Andrew, but you didn’t help

  me.”

  Her mournful accusation broke his heart. Why, by

  all the saints, had he gone to the bone-fire with Robin?

  Because Judith had angered him, that’s why. She’d tried

  seducing him for reasons other than desire, and instead

  of taking advantage of the opportunity she’d finally given

  him, he had stalked off in a huff, his pride bruised, his

  feelings hurt.
Then he had accompanied his brother,

  seeking to satisfy himself with other wenches when

  only one could satisfy him. And she, he had left in harm’s

  way, nearly losing her forever.

  “I believed you were safe, Judith.” He glanced around

  the room, though he had previously inspected it and

  found none of the bedclothes, nor any of the furnishings,

  burned. “How did the fire start?”

  She scowled and looked down at her hands, folded in

  her lap. “I don’t know. It—it doesn’t matter. I put it out.”

  He smiled. “You’re very resourceful. I have always

  known that about you.” He sat. “How do you feel?”

  “Pretty lousy. But a lot better than I have been,

  obviously.”

  “Once I realized you’d fallen ill, I watched over you

  the best I could. I had Bridget sit with you when I could

  not, and I made certain to give you three of those ass-

  brin pills every hour.”

  “Every hour?” She looked up at him, surprised.

  “Aye. When e’er the bells rang—Sext, None,

  Vespers.”

  Judith’s brow furrowed. “How many Church hours

  are there?”

  “Eight.”

  “Thank God.” Her forehead smoothed, and she looked

  relieved. “Otherwise, you might have poisoned me. But,

  Andrew, how did you know to give me medicine? How

  did you know what aspirin is?”

  He explained, and she nodded thoughtfully,

  scratching her head. Suddenly, though, her scowl

  returned. “I don’t know whether or not to be grateful to

  you. I’d probably be better off dead, if I have to stay locked

  in this room.”

  “Jesu!” After all they’d been through—after all he

  had been through, fretting over her—the wench came

  awake for scant few moments and already she pricked

  his temper. Jumping up, he pointed out, “’Twas only

  one damnable eve. But you could not accept Robin’s

  single command. You had to do things your way.”

  “Robin’s command? You were the one who locked

  my door!”

  “And you escaped, only to make yourself ill by going

  outside in the rain. What in damnation were you

  attempting, Judith? You looked like a mad woman,

  ranting at the sky. If Elfred had seen you, God only knows

  what he’d have done.”

  “How I—how I looked is irrelevant,” she insisted.