Beowulf is the oldest story ever written in English.”
Judith rolled her shoulders. “Could I ask you to get my
neck? It’s really sore.”
Andrew readily complied, and she continued, “The
people I work with write stories—long, long stories. I
take their stories to publishers, the folks who print
them—”
“Print them?”
“Make many, many copies of them and bind the
pages together,” Judith clarified. “The publishers pay
the writers for their stories, and I get part of that money
for finding the publishers on the writers’ behalf.
Ummmm...Andrew, that feels so good.” She sighed
contentedly. “I know it doesn’t sound like hard work,
but it is. I swear, an agent works seven days a week.”
“Thus, you have no time to weave your own cloth?”
“No. No time at all. I use the money I earn to buy
cloth—actually, garments already sewn of cloth—and
that’s why I don’t know how the material for my leggings
was manufactured. Um—made.”
Andrew considered what Judith told him. God’s toes,
but he had been to York, and he’d never encountered
people whose customs seemed as strange as Judith’s,
or whose language sounded as foreign. He never saw
exercise equipment, either. Did she reside within an
exclusive society of some sort, one to which her
alchemist sire belonged? Were they outcasts even
among the people of that city?
Judy realized Andrew had stopped working his magic
with his fingers. She rolled onto her side, delighted that
she felt no pain when she did. “Andrew? Is something
wrong?”
He looked up, meeting her eyes. “Nay. I was only
thinking.”
“About what?”
He considered her for a long moment before
answering. “I notice that the day grows light. We should
be on our way, Judith, for I’ve no time to spare. I left
Laycock without waiting for my brothers or my sire to
return and protect it. If war breaks out before I get
back—”
“It won’t.”
“It won’t?”
“There won’t be any war, at least not any serious
fighting, because King John’s going to sign that charter
your father and the other barons are drawing up. I didn’t
put it together at first, when Philip explained what was
going on. But the other day, I suddenly realized—”
Judy broke off as though she’d been garotted. She
stared back at Andrew, who stared hard at her. What
have I been doing? she asked herself. Had she totally
lost it, rambling on about health clubs, her career, and
even worse, telling Andrew about the signing of the
Magna Carta as casually as a psychic made predictions
on one of those 900 hotlines?
“Jesu.” As Judy watched, he crossed himself and
muttered, “You have the sight.”
“No.” She scrambled up, shaking her head
emphatically as she sought some way to distract Andrew
from her stupid confessions. “It’s just a hunch, that’s
all. Like I mentioned, Philip told me all about the
negotiations those, uh, barons, Marshal and Langton,
have been handling. There’s no way King John won’t
sign the charter. Really. But if you’re nervous, we can
get a move on.” She gathered up her blanket, trying to
be helpful and eager. Then she paused and suggested,
“Andrew, if you’d rather, we could go back to Laycock.
We don’t have to go to York. You know I’m not that keen
on it. Besides, I wouldn’t want you neglecting your duties
to chase after my phantom family.”
He stood, grabbed her shoulders, and looked deep
into her eyes. Judy’s heart raced as she feared he could
read her mind, her heart, more easily than she could
read a newspaper.
But then he shook his head and said softly, “Nay. I
think we must go to York.”
Nineteen
“Keep your back straight, Judith. Do not slouch.
That’s better. And remember your feet—heels down, toes
up.”
“Right. Got it.”
She attempted to return Andrew’s encouraging
smile. In fact, his coaching had made her a better rider
over the past few days—not that she could have done
anything much but improve. But her mind wasn’t on
riding; she kept thinking about what—whom—they rode
toward.
Surely they would reach their destination today.
What other reason could Andrew have for insisting she
wear the lady’s tunic she’d brought with her, along with
his sister’s veil and chaplet? None that she could think
of. Obviously, he expected to meet the alchemist in York
quite soon. Obviously, he anticipated learning the truth
about her circumstances.
She sighed, wondering why she kept going through
the motions. Sure, this was a diversion, a way to while
away the endless days. But was she only killing time,
or was she killing herself by signing her own death
warrant? When Andrew learned she wasn’t the old
knight’s daughter, he’d not only abandon any thoughts
of marrying her, he probably wouldn’t even want to
“keep” her.
Geez. Suddenly, she wanted to be a kept woman!
Yet being Andrew’s live-in girlfriend wasn’t just a silly,
romantic notion. Judy had no desire to endure the
elements and forage for food while waiting for next
Halloween to arrive. Laycock Keep might be cold and
gloomy, but it seemed like the Plaza compared to the
huts in Wixcomb. And those huts seemed like Holiday
Inns compared to wandering homeless.
“Judith, look!”
She jerked, glanced toward Andrew, and discovered
him pointing. She looked up ahead, expecting to see a
medieval city’s low skyline on the horizon. But she only
saw a solitary house sitting in the center of plowed
cropland. This couldn’t be the alchemist’s residence,
not if the man lived in York.
“What is it?”
“A surprise.” Andrew met her gaze with a kind smile.
“This eve you need not sleep under the stars. This eve
you shall have a roof over your head.”
Shelter of any kind sounded wonderful. Judy had
experienced one night outside in the rain, and one night
was enough. She only hoped Andrew made reference to
the house they approached, not a barn or a stable.
“Whose roof?” she asked.
“Lord and Lady Ackworth’s. ’Tis their house, straight
afore us.”
She smiled, enormously relieved. No York, today.
No Peter Lamb. No losing Andrew or her means of
surviving her medieval sojourn—yet. “Are they friends
of yours?” she asked.
“Aye. Friends of my parents. They’re like kin to my
brothers, my sisters, and me.”
“Then—then we haven’t reached York yet?”
Andrew’s brow creased, and he shook his head
slightly. “N
ay. There’s a way to go. I’m sorry.”
Judy wasn’t. If she had felt a bit more confident, she
would have kicked her mare into a trot, maybe even a
run.
As it was, they made good time up to the house.
“Ho, there!” Andrew greeted a servant in the yard.
“Is your master at home?”
“Aye, milord. I’ll fetch him.” He bobbed his head
respectfully and hurried indoors.
Another man appeared in the doorway and called
out as Andrew helped Judith dismount. He spoke French,
but Andrew replied in English.
“Aye, ’tis me, Uncle Geoffrey,” he confirmed, opening
his arms and striding toward the middle-aged fellow
heading down the front steps.
As they embraced, “Uncle Geoffrey” switched to the
same language Andrew spoke. “And who be this comely
lady?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you’ve wed, Andrew.”
Judy met Andrew’s quick glance as he replied, “Nay,
Uncle. I am not wed. This is—”
He broke off, glancing at Judy with a somewhat
pained expression. She realized then that Andrew had
no idea how to explain her. She considered identifying
herself until she recalled the lord’s presumption that
she was a lady. After all, she looked like one. But she
had neither the speech nor the manners, and she did
not want to embarrass Andrew. So she kept silent and
waited for his next move.
“This is Lady Judith Lamb,” Andrew announced
finally. “She has been visiting Laycock Keep, and now
I’m escorting her home to York.”
“Are you? Delightful, my lad, delightful. You will be
staying with us for the night?”
“If you’ll have us.”
The stocky, gray-haired man took another two steps
that brought him directly before Judy. He lifted her hand,
bowed and kissed it. “A pleasure to have you here, my
lady. I am your humble servant, Geoffrey Ackworth.”
She nodded politely but, over the lord’s head, gave
Andrew a pointedly meaningful look. Judy had no idea
if he could interpret all she tried to convey—she had
quite a few things she wished to discuss with him in
private.
Then, as though he read her mind, Andrew
continued, “You must not take offense if Judith doesn’t
speak. She was ill for some time and lost her speech
because of it.”
“How dreadful!” Ackworth appeared sincerely
distraught.
“She prefers we speak English. ’Tis easier for her to
understand.”
“I shall gladly comply. You look so robust and
beautiful, my lady, I can only assume you are fast
approaching a full recovery.”
He paused, distracted by Andrew’s horse. Admiringly,
he ran his hand over the animal’s neck, flank and
hindquarters. “’Tis a beautiful beast you have here,
Andrew.”
“Aye. He came from Tuscany, from the stable of one
of that country’s best breeders. My father gave him to
me some years ago, advising me that, as a younger son,
my horse would not only prove my most faithful
companion, but the means by which I might earn a
living.”
“Thomas is wise—and generous.” Ackworth smiled
at Judy. “Come,” he urged, offering her his arm. “My
wife, Lydia, is somewhere within. She’ll be excited to
meet you and to see Andrew again.”
As the three of them entered the house at the
second story—a tall flight of cement stairs enabled them
to ignore an obvious stable at ground level—Ackworth
strode across the firelit room to a short, wooden
staircase. “Lydia?” he called out. “Lydia, we have
guests!”
“Andrew!” the lady exclaimed from the top of the stairs
before hurrying down to hug the young knight just as
her husband had. “Where are the rest of your family?”
Andrew explained.
“Then who watches over Laycock and the village?”
Lord Ackworth inquired.
“Our captain is loyal and dependable, as is our
bailiff,” Andrew assured him. “Also, I’m confident there
is no chance we shall come to war. King John should be
signing the barons’ charter very soon.”
Andrew’s pronouncement came as a surprise, not
only to the Ackworths but to Judy. He believed what she
had told him without question. He trusted her, despite
the circumstances of her unexpected intrusion into his
life.
It seemed a greater compliment than any Philip had
given her, couched in flowery phrases.
“You know more than I,” Ackworth conceded. “Lydia,
this is Lady Judith Lamb, a friend of Thomas’ family.
Andrew is escorting her home to York.” He glanced at
Judy. “May I present my lady wife, Lydia.”
Again, Judy nodded, smiled shyly, and remained
silent. Again, Andrew provided the reason why for Lydia’s
benefit.
“Having lost your voice doesn’t prevent you from
eating, does it?” Lydia asked with a smile and a sparkle
in her eyes. “Supper is ready to be served. Let’s sit, and
eat, and catch up on things, shall we?”
***
Judy soon felt so relaxed, she actually began to enjoy
herself. Because no one expected her to speak, she found
herself spared the anxiety of worrying that she might
say something inappropriate. Also because she didn’t
talk, Andrew anticipated her every need so that she
wouldn’t be forced to mime. He made sure she had plenty
of food to eat and mead to drink. The mead didn’t hurt,
either—she soon felt a warm, contented glow. But that
sensation, she knew, could also have been prompted by
the anticipation of sleeping a foot or two off the ground,
on a mattress, between clean, linen sheets. That, and
the decided relief that she hadn’t gotten all dressed up
to confront Sir Peter Lamb.
“It may be fortuitous that you happened this way,
Andrew,” Ackworth suggested as a servant cleared away
the remains of their meal.
“How so?”
“Let me show you something before I explain.” He
excused himself and went upstairs. When Ackworth
returned, he carried a parcel wrapped in soft wool.
“Look,” he said, laying the object on the table in front of
Judy and Andrew.
He peeled the cloth away and Judy gasped. It was
the dagger, the jeweled dagger, that she had seen
enclosed in glass at Laycock Inn! Before, she had barely
glanced at it. But now, the dazzling, stone-encrusted
hilt and ornately carved steel blade mesmerized her.
Beside her, Andrew exhaled a low breath. Asking
for and receiving permission, he lifted the weapon gently
with his fingertips. When he held it up and turned it
one way and another, the numerous flickering candle
flames ricocheted off every blue, red, and yellow
gemstone. The effect resembled an expensive evening
gown covered in sequins a
nd beads that winked beneath
the light of a chandelier. But these stones, though also
minute, were semiprecious jewels that generated their
own fire. No one in the room could take their eyes off
them.
“’Twas bequeathed to me by my mother’s brother,”
Ackworth explained. “He lived a long life, nearly eighty
years, and died only recently.”
“You are a fortunate man, Uncle,” Andrew told him.
“Not so fortunate.” He smiled ruefully and glanced
at his wife, who sat beside him, opposite Andrew and
Judy. “Like my own uncle, I am childless. But unlike
him, I have no one at all to whom I may bequeath this
weapon.”
Judy watched Andrew. Everything in him tensed,
every muscle, every sinew, every bone. “Aye?” he said
tightly, staring across the table at Ackworth as though
he were almost afraid to look down at the fabulous
weapon.
“I’ve another problem. I am a landowner, but no great
baron like your sire who has many men-at-arms to
protect a demesne of that size. Lydia and I fear that
someone may hear that this exquisite, precious dagger
has come into my possession—”
“—And that we’ll be murdered in our beds by thieves
who wish to get their hands on it,” Lydia added.
Andrew had been resting his hands casually on the
table. Now, he clenched them. Yet his voice remained
even as he asked, “What do you intend?”
“To sell it.” Ackworth shook his head sadly. “An
ornamental weapon such as this should not be hidden
away as I must hide it. It should be a family’s treasure,
passed down from one generation to the next.”
“What...do you ask for it?”
“I would like a destrier, Andrew, one from which I
could sire many more to be trained for battle and sold
for good coin.”
Judy watched Andrew rub his thumbs against his
fingers. He wanted that dagger more than anything, she
could tell. And he would have it, because one day the
innkeeper in Wixcomb would keep it on display, a family
heirloom.
Abruptly, Andrew flattened his hands against the
wooden table. “I confess, I wish I had your price, Uncle.
But I do not.”
“You have Zeus,” Judy blurted.
“She speaks,” Lydia exclaimed.
Almost—but not quite—regretting her outburst, Judy
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