by Amanda Paris
“A handsome man who will become your husband, children, a nice, respectable life here. A large white house. Definitely a cat.”
My future was looking brighter and brighter. I assumed she meant Ben, and I smiled.
“You said you saw two paths. What’s the other one?”
“That’s what I’m trying to uncover. For most people, they have very clear futures. They have choices, yes, and that can alter their future. But generally, I can read their paths clearly, even taking free will into consideration. For you, I see one vision, but the other…” She let her sentence trail.
I had the impression she could see something but was reluctant to tell me.
I laughed nervously.
“No ax murderers, I hope.”
“No, no ax murderers,” she said quietly, giving me the idea that she saw something or someone equally dangerous.
“What then?” I whispered.
“I do see evil, but I’m sorry; it’s very unclear.”
I gulped. What did it mean? Would I die the way I had in my dream?
“Okay, well, thanks for your time,” I said abruptly. I felt the need for fresh air.
I stood up to leave, disturbed by her fortune-telling and wanting to get away from the odd feeling that she gave me.
“Wait!” She stopped me, grabbing my arm and almost forcing me back into my seat. “We are only at the beginning,” she continued.
“What do you mean?”
“I can read your future, however unclearly, but the answer you seek will emerge from your past.”
Was I supposed to understand these cryptic remarks?
Again Ramona gave me that mysterious half-smile.
“Relax,” she said. “I want us to try hypnosis.” This sounded a little more plausible, at least, like what I’d read in the library.
She asked me to lie down on a nearby couch, to rest and clear my mind. There was something soothing about her voice, which calmed me, and I felt my breathing become more even.
“Emily, I’m going to start counting. Then you’ll tell me who you were and where you come from.”
She began counting backwards, and my breathing fell into a regular pattern, as though she could control my physical reaction as much as my psychological one.
By the time she got to one, I knew that I’d left behind Emily St. Clair for a different person entirely.
I heard Ramona’s voice as if from a distance.
“Tell me who you are,” she directed.
In a strange voice I didn’t recognize as my own, I answered her, “Lady Emmeline de Vere.”
“Lady Emmeline, what year is it?” she asked, as if from a distance.
“1216,” I automatically replied.
“Where do you live?” she asked, but her voice was growing fainter.
“Montavere,” I heard myself reply.
“And where is that?”
“Sarum. Near the stones.”
“Now, Lady Emmeline, I want you to describe everything you see, everyone you meet. What does it feel like, sound like, look like…every detail is important.” Her voice continued to drift and a buzzing replaced it so that I could no longer hear her.
I could feel myself falling, the darkness closing in as I left one world and entered another one.
Emmeline
And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.
T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”
Chapter Five
"Dream Kingdom"
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
T. S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton”
The sun beat down on us. I could feel the sweat beading on my brow despite the chill in the air. My headdress felt heavy, and my hands shook. I closed my eyes, not bearing to look at the combatants below us. Their galloping hooves thundered, signaling that the joust had begun.
The tension mounted as the horses’ breathing grew more frenzied. Their sounds grew closer, then indistinguishable. The moment had come. A great cacophonous clash resounded, and I could bear it no longer. I forced one eye to open, then another. Relief poured through me as a cheer went up. He was safe.
The feeling was short-lived. His opponent had yet to rise, and the loud, deafeningly cheers had all but ceased when one minute stretched to two and then three. Had he killed him?
The Black Knight dismounted, handing his lance and shield to his squire, and lifting his visor. His black warhorse gave a fearful snort, anxious to ride again. He had not yet realized that this round, at least, was over.
The narrow slit didn’t afford the Black Knight a full view, so he removed his helmet. The sun glinted off his short, curling dark hair and made a sunburst wherever it touched his shining armor. He bent over, removing his opponent’s helmet carefully and checking for signs of life. The joust, a preparative for war, had claimed many knights, maiming or killing them. The lance could find an eye or worse. It often found a deadlier home.
We sat above them at a distance, awaiting knowledge about whether or he still breathed. My father, the Lord of Montavere, arose from his place of honor above the field of combatants. The crowd grew quiet, the joust temporarily suspended as a life hung in the balance.
“How fares he, Sir Damien?” my father shouted below.
The Black Knight stood, wiping his brow, and smiled at us. My heart quickened. I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.
Sir Justin must have opened his eyes, for the Black Knight reached out his hand, pulling up his fallen comrade.
The spectators cheered, their voices ringing throughout the field. Knights often took fatal falls during tournaments; it added to the danger and, unfortunately, the excitement for many. Though Sir Damien had received his knighthood only a short time ago, he’d become the champion in several tournaments in the south of England. Already, people knew him as the Black Knight of Montavere, for he had shining dark hair and eyes, deep pools of intensity that compelled admiration. His prowess with a sword grew along with the rumors of his strength and courage. He could ride any horse, including Brutus, the wildest in my father’s stables.
Despite the nearly legendary status that had grown around him, I always worried that another knight, anxious to dethrone a champion, would unseat and kill him. My fears seemed unfounded, however, as Damien remained the only undefeated knight at Montavere. I knew the others now dreaded him in the field, even in practice.
“We have our champion,” Lady Lamia, my father’s beautiful wife, declared, rising beside my father and startling me. She seemed to sense my surprise, turning to look at me, her eyes narrowing to slits.
“Sir Damien, come forward,” my father said. Damien slowly proceeded to the platform where we sat. Though he had engaged seven knights already, unseating all of them, he did not look the least bit winded. He glanced sideways at me, but only I perceived his momentary search. He would not let Lamia or my father catch him. He tapped his breast, letting me know that he carried my colors, white and gold, next to his heart as he bowed. Officially, he wore Lamia’s red scarf, which she had tied around his arm before the tournament began.
“My champion,” she cried when he approached, clapping her hands together as she regarded him with cunning, lascivious eyes.
“Sir Damien, this day you have proven yourself the best knight in the castle—a great honor for one so young. You may request anything of your lord,” my father magnanimously offered.
My breath caught. Would he do it? Would he ask for my hand? We had not discussed it before, but now might be the only real chance he would have. It all depended on my father. Would he give his only daughter to his best knight? Had Damien proven himself worthy enough for such a huge prize?
Damien looked at me directly, and I could see that he weighed the odds of success and failure in his mind.
If my father turned him down, he likely would show his wrath to Damien, forever ending any chance of our marrying.
I could feel Lamia turning her head towards me, and I looked hastily away, a signal to Damien that the time was not right.
“Merely to serve as my liege lord’s champion is enough for me,” Damien answered, understanding my downward gaze.
Another cheer rose up from the crowd. Damien had become their favorite knight; he embodied all the ideals of the chivalric code—courtesy, honor, humility, loyalty, fidelity. They could not get enough of him.
My father smiled radiantly at him, his aged features briefly cast into a look of youth as he basked in the glow of a beloved knight, whom he regarded almost as a son. It was this affection that I hoped would win my father over to Damien’s suit.
“A worthy knight! We salute you!” he exclaimed, taking Lamia’s hand into his.
The unwounded knights raised their swords in admiration of one so young and brave. My heart swelled with adoration, and I felt pride growing inside of me.
My face, ever a register of my feelings, grew warm with love.
Lamia grasped my arm with her free hand and squeezed tightly.
“And why does a maiden blush so?” she said angrily, her words drowning in the cheers around us.
“Let me go!” I said, trying to wrench my arm away from her grip.
“To the hall!” My father called out, not seeing Lamia’s hold over me. She had the remarkable knack of grasping me in public without anyone’s noticing. I often had bruises or scratch marks for days afterwards.
She abruptly released me, leaving the tell-tale marks that would turn black and blue by the next morning. My father had started down, thankfully leading Lamia away from me. I hung back from them, hoping to see Damien one last time before we both had to return our separate ways to the castle.
The tournament had ended for the day. I watched Damien mount his horse, but not before he gave me a meaningful look. I knew we’d find each other later.
Lamia looked back and followed the line of my gaze.
“This isn’t over,” she hissed through clenched teeth as she turned back to my father, her scarlet mouth turned down and her black eyes blazing rage.
Happily, I escaped her, if only temporarily. I knew I couldn’t go immediately to Damien. I would have to wait for tonight when we could find a moment to leave the hall undiscovered. Each tournament was followed in the evenings by a banquet in the castle. At least two hundred people would fill the benches in the hall, and I could easily slip out with so many milling about.
We’d taken separate caravans from the castle to the tournament. I would have preferred to ride my mare, but Lamia had insisted that I accompany her and my father, though I could do so in a separate caravan, with Millicent, my maid, following.
I knew Damien would not be able to find me without attracting notice, and I focused instead on biding my time, waiting until later to elude Lamia’s penetrating eye. Lately, she’d begun to keep a closer eye on me, and I wondered what her plans might entail. They could not bode well.
The mist cleared, and the castle rose up before us, the outer stone walls towering over the small, strategic peak that the first Lord of Montavere had chosen as his castle site in 1102, over a century before. He’d defeated another less powerful noble, overtaking the weaker Norman stronghold, a more defenseless structure easily breached during an attack, and replacing it with the impenetrable defenses of Montavere Castle. It had taken the last 100 years to build, with a thousand masons all working together, some generations following their forefathers, to complete the massive outer walls with four tactically advantageous towers. Guards manned the walls at all times, ready should intruders approach to attack.
The last of the masons had only recently completed the finer work, including the multiple gargoyles Lamia had ordered built when she married my father. She required them to work at a nearly impossible rate of speed and with impeccable precision. They adorned every arch and entrance, perpetually poised to leap out and frighten onlookers. Many a scream was heard throughout the day and night by the castle dwellers still unaccustomed to their fearsome gaze.They always caused me to shiver as I approached. I averted my eyes, eager to avoid the daemonic faces leering over us as we entered through the drawbridge, which crossed a large, murky moat.
Glad to be free of Lamia for a time, I hurriedly left before she remembered me, finding my way to my chamber, located far from hers. Damien would likely still be in the field. The celebration had begun and would continue through the evening, when the contestants and castle inhabitants would drink, feast, and dance merrily at the banquet. They would forget for a time the oppressive presence of Lamia, who cast a dark shadow over us all.
The afternoon dragged on interminably. I spent the majority of it sewing, hoping to avoid my stepmother, who, fortunately, did not seek my company. I guessed that she had begun to suspect my feelings for Damien, and I didn’t want to answer her questions. I had no facility for lying and didn’t relish the punishment she might mete out to me.
Millicent, my maid, sat quietly beside me, mending one of my skirts. Since Lamia had arrived, I received no new clothes, and Millicent did her best to alter the ones I did have.
We worked for awhile, our heads bent over together, but I grew impatient and finally stood up. Walking over to the window, I began pacing.
“Wearing the floor out, are we?” Millicent asked, not looking up.
I stopped in front of the window that overlooked the woods below.
“Got something on our mind, do we?” she prodded.
I started at the question, lost in my own thoughts.
“Sorry. What did you say?” I asked.
“Hmph!”she muttered.
Millicent had been with me since birth, and she was more mother to me than maid. I had no secrets from her.
“Sorry. I was just thinking,” I replied, snapping out of my dreamy state.
“This wouldn’t happen to be about a certain knight who won a certain tournament today, would it?” she asked, a smile on her face. I could feel her warm wishes, though I didn’t turn around.
“Mmm,” I murmured.
“No, I think not,” she said, putting down the dress and turning to me with concern.
“I suspect it’s her, isn’t it?” she asked.
She came over and put her large, comforting arms around me, just as she’d done since I was a child. I laid my head on her shoulder, glad to have her with me.
“I hate her,” I said fiercely.
“I know, dear. And she’s going to do everything she can to keep you from him.”
“What are we going to do?” I moaned.
“I don’t know. Maybe you should talk to your father,” she answered kindly.
“Do you think he would listen? He’s bewitched by her!”
“Shhhh! Don’t say it,” Millicent whispered, looking over her shoulder as she crossed herself.
“Well it’s true,” I said, though I lowered my voice.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, stroking my long red hair. There was always comfort to be found with Millicent, though we both knew that this problem was larger than both of us.
“Try not to worry. It will work itself out. I always say so, and it always does,” Millicent said in a soothing tone.
Not this time, I thought, sighing. This time, it’s too big for you.
****
That evening, the great hall filled as we prepared to feast the champion. Finally, I would get to see him, I thought, wishing he wouldn’t be the center of so much attention.
“Emmeline,” my father called to me from the dais, raising his glass. I smiled at him, but his kindly light gray eyes had moved from my face to sweep the hall, searching, I knew, for Lamia.
“Come give us a kiss, sweetheart,” he said, though I wondered whether or not he meant me. For the first time, I wondered whether his affection was merely a show for others.
I stepped up beside him, an
d I could feel Lamia’s eyes following me. She was jealous as always of any display of my father’s love for me. These were the times that I missed my mother the most.
My father had married Lamia last summer, waiting an indecent time after my mother’s untimely death in childbirth. Mother should have been long past her childbearing years, and yet, happily she thought at the time, she would give my father his long-awaited heir.
Lamia, a distant cousin of my mother’s—nobody knew from where— had arrived to help with the birth. She and my mother had grown up together, and my mother had had strange fancies near her confinement. She wanted someone from her past to stay with her during the birth of her son.
And so Lamia arrived, a beautiful, golden-haired woman who seemed ageless, looking much as my mother had remembered her from years before. When she’d first arrived, I’d regarded her with fondness—she seemed to take such good care of my mother, and she spared a kind word or smile for me as well, despite the coldness I saw in her dark eyes.
When the time came for the birth, we’d stood together, helping my mother through the throes of an agonizing labor. It had ended, finally, three days later, my mother suffering before the child, dead inside her, had been ripped from her womb, killing her. At that instant, Lamia withdrew from me completely, a knowing smile on her lips. She immediately went to comfort my father, whose grief at my mother’s passing knew no bounds. He had wed my mother twenty years before, and they’d lived a happy life together before the unfortunate birth of the brother I would never meet.
Lamia arranged for the burial the next day—an unheard of, rushed event that gave the mourners no time to grieve or prepare the body. It was customary at Montavere Castle, our ancestral home near to the town of Sarum, to spend several nights praying for the soul of the deceased.
But my father would not hear of it. Though I cried, pleaded, and begged, he turned a deaf ear, relying on Lamia, who, some maliciously said, had bewitched him. Knowing the depth of my father’s love for my mother, I could not believe he could so disrespect her in death.