Kiss Across Kingdoms

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “Maybe he is already on the Council,” Rafe replied. “No one knows when it was formed. I certainly don’t.”

  That was a startling idea.

  “This must be the end of your scheming, of course,” Rafe added.

  Alex thought of the still darkness at the end of the small time stream that he had seen on his way here. “Perhaps,” he said. Then, because it was Rafe and he could not lie to him, he added, “I’m not sure I can let it go that easily.”

  Rafe sighed. “You’ll get us both killed,” he muttered, turning his horse to bring it back in line with the rest of the caravan.

  “That might change things, too,” Alex replied. “I just don’t know if it would change things enough.”

  Rafe swore under his breath. In English.

  * * * * *

  They camped that night four miles inside the Mercian border. It had taken most of the day for the army to file through the chink in the dyke and for the carts to negotiate the narrow plank bridge across the trench. The long minutes while the King’s cart was eased across were filled with tension, with guards on both sides of the dyke keeping an eagle eye out for approaching travelers.

  No one had the energy to travel much farther after that. Chirbury was a good day’s march away.

  Now they were in Mercia, guards were posted around the perimeter of the camp, which was kept tight and small. There was not the same degree of drinking and merriment there had been the previous night.

  Because they had been picked out by Siorus and seen travelling together with him, Alex and Rafe were able to stay closer together than they had before. Yet Alex was still the camp physician and there were injuries from the crossing of the dyke, including a broken arm.

  After everyone else had eaten their small evening meal of venison sliced straight off the haunch roasting over the fire, Alex set the broken arm. The man writhed in pain and setting it was complicated, made worse by the man’s screams. It took three others to hold him down firmly enough and by the time Alex was done, everyone around him was on edge and muttering. The sun had set while he worked. He got to his feet and pulled out his belt knife. “Keep him down and still,” he told the three. “I’ll need stout branches for a splint.”

  He moved over to the nearest tree, only a few feet away. The land on this side of the dyke was the same rolling, verdant pastureland as was on the other, with only occasional clumps of trees and bushes. The camp had been struck next to a small glen of trees that could be used for wood for the fires. Alex worked by firelight, stripping branches to make his splints.

  The man came out of the trees at a full run, his sword over his head and a battle cry on his lips. He wore an English helmet. Every single soldier in the camp jerked his head up to see where the threat was coming from, just as Alex did.

  The man was coming for him. He was the closest. He was had no arms other than the little knife in his hands.

  Alex was suddenly tired of it all. The fear, the worry, second-guessing himself, and the doubt of those around him, including Rafe. Siorus, this morning, had been the last straw. Now this. If he was to stay in the role of a meek physician, he should cringe and run away from the attacker.

  Screw that.

  The man launched himself at Alex with a berserker scream. Alex dropped his knife and the branch, stepped inside the man’s guard and grabbed the thick wrist. He wrenched it backward. The arm broke with a wet crunching sound and the scream turned into a howl of pain. The man let go of his sword, which dropped into Alex’s waiting hand. He gripped the hilt, stepped back and swung the sword flat and hard. It took the falling man’s head off with the ease of a knife going through soft butter.

  The body fell forward onto its knees, then toppled and was still.

  Alex straightened up and rested the sword point in the ground, looking at the headless body. The whole thing had taken perhaps three seconds.

  Silence.

  He looked up. The entire camp, every single man, was watching him. Most of them had their mouths open and their eyes were very large.

  Someone started to laugh. It was a low sound to begin, a deep subterranean chuckle. Then it grew into a belly-shaking roar. Alex spotted who it was. The king was laughing. He was holding his belly, his head back, as he gave vent to his mirth.

  Nervous smiles appeared here and there. Siorus scowled heavily, as he looked from Alex to the king.

  Rafe hurried over to where Alex stood next to the body. “Are you crazy?” he demanded in a harsh whisper. “Doctors don’t fight!”

  “This one does, apparently,” Alex said. “Besides, it’s done now.”

  Rafe looked down at the head. The helmet had rolled off. Rafe stiffened. “That’s Gwil,” he said, his voice harsh.

  “Gwil?” Alex said, barely curious about the man’s identity.

  “He’s one of Siorus’ men!” Rafe whispered furiously. “He’s not English at all!”

  They both looked over to where Siorus stood beside the king, who was finally getting control of his amusement. Siorus was watching them, the scowl still in place. As they looked, he lifted his forefinger and wiggled it.

  Then he crouched down by the king and murmured in his ear.

  “A first and last warning, and then action,” Alex murmured.

  “He can’t kill you, not with a sword. He has to know that,” Rafe said.

  “He wasn’t trying to kill me,” Alex said. “If everyone was to see me take a sword to the gullet, then I would have to ‘die’ and take myself off his chessboard. That’s all he needs.”

  Rafe watched Siorus murmuring to the king. “If that’s not influencing human affairs, I don’t know what is,” he said, sounding pissed.

  “It doesn’t look as though he’s getting very far,” Alex observed, for the king had lost all his humor and was scowling as hard as Siorus. As he looked, Llewelyn shook his head, his jaw set. “Whatever he’s saying, the king doesn’t like it.” He bent over and picked up the branch he had discarded.

  “What are you doing?” Rafe asked curiously.

  “I still have a broken arm to splint,” Alex said.

  This time, when he crouched next to the man to splint his arm, the man stayed silent. So did the three men holding him down. They watched Alex with the wariness of prey.

  Not long after that, Siorus came to him and said curtly that the king wanted his attendance.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shortly after breakfast, the big gates were dragged closed with much shouting and effort by dozens of men. Only the man-sized door in the left-hand gate was left open for the last of the families who lived in the area to squeeze through. The Powys army had been spotted.

  “They will be here by sunset,” Wulfstan said, reading the message strip the courier had brought from the spies watching Llewelyn’s progress.

  Sentries and lookouts began to patrol the palisades, keeping a watch to the west as the sun climbed in the sky. When it was at its highest, a shout went up.

  “Lone rider!”

  “English?” Aethelfreda asked.

  “No!”

  Aethelfreda gave no reaction, except that her eyes narrowed, as if her thoughts were hurrying along. She had taken up a position at the top of the town square. There was a short section of flat road that ran past the church, straight to the gates. From the western edge of the square, Aethelfreda had a clear view to the gates and the guards standing in the towers.

  Aethelfreda had adopted Sydney’s style of military dress. She’d asked her women to construct a gunna that was split at the front and the back just as Sydney’s was. She wore a mail shirt beneath and male leggings and long boots. There was a sword in her belt.

  Alfwynn also wore a sword but had not had the courage to give up her kirtle. She had, though, looped a section of both the kirtle and the gunna and tucked them into her belt, so that her man-style boots were visible beneath and to give her freedom of movement.

  The three of them stood together at the top of the square and waited while
reports came from the gatehouse. As the day lengthened, slaves bought wine and cakes.

  And now this, a lone man who was not English.

  “A messenger from Llewelyn, perhaps,” Wulfstan muttered. “Offering terms.” His mouth turned down.

  “Is he armed?” Aethelfreda asked.

  Wulfstan shouted to the guards at the gate and the answer came back. “No weapons, no shield, no helmet.”

  There was more calling from the guards, although this time they were facing to the outside of the fence. They were talking to the messenger and Sydney could hear the man shouting back. The words were indistinguishable.

  A soldier came running down the road to the square. He stopped in front of Aethelfreda, breathing hard. “The man is from Llewelyn. He wishes to speak to you on behalf of the king of Powys. He says he is here to negotiate a peace.”

  “That is a delicate way of offering terms,” Wulfstan said dryly.

  “Perhaps,” Aethelfreda said. “Search him for weapons, then let him in.”

  The soldier ran back again, his sword clinking softly.

  The man-sized gate was opened and a dozen armed soldiers slipped through. Then, after a few minutes, three of them moved back inside. Among them was a tall man with dark hair and a trimmed beard, wearing a long green tunic and no cloak.

  He looked along the length of the road toward them.

  It was Alex.

  Sydney’s heart fluttered and she pressed her fingers to her chest, trying to stop herself from gasping or otherwise reacting. Her mind buzzed with incoherent thoughts, the strongest of them a bewildered puzzlement. How was Alex here? It simply wasn’t possible…

  Marit. The thought came to her almost as if someone else had spoken Marit’s name aloud. Along with it came certainty. Marit had done this somehow. Marit and Alex’s serum that let him see time itself.

  He had seen her now and his gaze fixed on her as he walked toward the Lady and her assembled household.

  Sydney began to tremble. Relief circled through her. If Alex had been with Llewelyn, then he would have seen Rafe. The two of them would have been able to work together and this was the result.

  Then her relief faded. How could he be here to negotiate peace? Peace had never been achieved. Both Powys and the Mercians had been trampled under by the Vikings as they swept across the land, their differences unresolved.

  What was Alex doing here, then?

  At the last minute, he pulled his gaze away from her. He stopped in front of Aethelfreda. He stood nearly a foot higher than the Lady. He bowed low. “Lady Aethelfreda of Mercia, I am Alexander of Cordoba, a physician to the King of Powys. I am here by command of the King. He has a request to make of you.”

  “Terms of surrender, I suppose?” Aethelfreda replied.

  “Not at all,” Alex replied, with a small smile. “Our two armies have had the measure of each other in the last few days. The king feels it would be interesting to see your greatest strength arrayed against his, in a match of combat, to determine who is the strongest—Mercia or Powys.”

  “A match?” Wulfstan repeated, puzzled.

  “A contest, between your champion and ours,” Alex explained. “Witnessed by everyone to ensure the proceedings are fair. The winning champion will determine who has the stronger army and therefore wins the day.”

  “What a remarkable idea,” Aethelfreda murmured. “A battle between two people instead of two armies.”

  “The winner dictates terms?” Wulfstan asked curiously.

  “Indeed. Terms are to be settled before the outcome is decided,” Alex said.

  There was a distant shout, that jerked Sydney’s attention away from Alex and the lady. There had been a note of alarm in the shout.

  There was a man standing on the roof of one of the houses that sat at the very edge of the town, up against the levies and the palisades. He lifted his arms up to his chest as Sydney looked and fright tore through her. “Crossbow!” she screamed.

  Alex was closer to Aethelfreda than Sydney was. He didn’t hesitate. He threw himself forward, bringing the Lady down with him.

  Sydney flung herself at Alfwynn, who wore a puzzled frown as she searched for the source of the alarm. Sydney caught her across the waist as a high pitched whizzing sounded in her ear.

  Alfwynn grunted as Sydney brought her down to the ground. Sydney landed heavily, Alfwynn even more so, for she landed on her back. More whispers of air sounded and Sydney looked up as a thick crossbow bolt shot past her face. The bolt buried itself deeply inside a water barrel, that gushed liquid around it.

  Sydney looked down at Alfwynn. She was clutching at a bolt that was buried in her shoulder, as blood seeped into her cloak and dress.

  “Oh God,” Sydney whispered.

  People were shouting all around them, Wulfstan the loudest of them. “Get him off her. Guards, put him in irons! Move it!”

  Sydney rolled over. Alex was getting to his knees, his hand under Aethelfreda’s head. He had managed to stop her from landing as heavily as Alfwynn had. “Are you hurt, Lady?” he asked Aethelfreda.

  Then the guards grabbed him by the arms and hauled him to his feet and wrenched his arms behind him.

  “No, Wulfstan. He was helping!” Sydney cried.

  “He brought men with him to attack while we had our guard down,” Wulfstan said, as he helped Aethelfreda back onto her feet.

  “I did not,” Alex said calmly. He was not struggling in the grip of the soldiers. “Your daughter is hurt, Lady Aethelfreda. I have medical supplies on my horse, outside the gates. Let me help her.”

  Aethelfreda had dropped to her knees again, next to Alfwynn. Her chin was trembling.

  “My Lady,” Sydney said softly, to catch her attention. “The man is a physician. He can help Alfwynn.”

  “We have our own physicians,” Wulfstan said, his voice hoarse.

  One of Wulfstan’s captains came running up, his sword out and tinged with red. “We got him, my lord. There was just the one.”

  “I guarantee the man is a lieutenant acting on orders that Llewelyn has no idea have been given, my lady,” Alex said, his tone urgent. “There is opposition in the King’s camp. Many would prefer to slaughter you all and be done with it, while Llewelyn is holding out a peaceful solution because he is a reasonable man, who would rather see honor restored without bloodshed. Take the offer, my Lady. Let me help your daughter.”

  “Help her first,” Aethelfreda told him. She wiped absently at her eyes, which were damp with tears. “If she dies, so do you and all who stand with your king. If she lives, I will accept the offer.”

  Alex nodded and the guards let him go. He bent forward and scooped up Alfwynn in his arms. “Where is a table I can work upon?” he demanded.

  “This way,” Wulfstan said.

  “Someone get his tools,” Aethelfreda called.

  Sydney turned toward the gate. Aethelfreda caught her arm. “Go with them,” she said, nodding toward Alex as he hurried after Wulfstan, Alfwynn in his arms. “If my daughter dies, I order you to kill him.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Taylor climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to the big bedroom. The lamps on either side of the bed were on, shedding soft light over the three still bodies on the bed.

  Veris looked up from the tablet he was reading and put it aside.

  “How is Alex doing?” Taylor asked.

  “After that first rough patch, he’s now as comatose as the other two. I have no way to confirm it, but I believe he’s gone back and joined them.”

  Taylor raised her brows. “That’s going to require some thinking about. He’s jumped back to a time he doesn’t know, that isn’t part of his personal history, without a jumper like me to take him there.”

  “Oh, I think he had a jumper to take him there,” Veris said, his tone very dry.

  “Marit, again?” She sighed. “I tried to ask her about it when I put her to bed. She has your stubbornness. She closed up on me.”

  “Marit th
inks she is protecting Alex by not telling us what she knows. She may be right.” Veris pushed a hand through his hair and scratched at the back of his head. “There is too much about this that I can’t put together. There’s too much I don’t know.”

  “So we must wait for them to come back and tell us,” Taylor said reasonably.

  Veris caught her waist and pulled her to him. She settled on his knee willingly, and arched as his hand slid up her thigh under the skirt and cupped her ass. His fingers stroked lightly, stirring her senses.

  “Here?” she asked, glancing at the three on the bed.

  “Can you think of a better idea to pass the time?” he asked, as he lifted her and spread her legs over his.

  Taylor couldn’t really think at all, especially when he flipped her top up and drew her nipple into his mouth. She fumbled with his trousers and drew the zipper down. His cock sprang upward, thick and ready. He lifted her and impaled her on it, with a deep groan.

  All her questions about the three on the bed and what they were doing in the past were forgotten…for a while, anyway.

  * * * * *

  Sydney followed the small trail of people into the big house, where one of the long tables was used as a surgical bed. Alfwynn was placed on the table and Alex immediately bent over her to look at the thick, short crossbow bolt that was protruding from her shoulder. There was a lot of blood spreading across her dress and she moaned and shifted on the table, her pain clearly increasing.

  Sydney pulled out her sword and took up her post by the door. She rested the sword point down. She had no intention of killing Alex as ordered, although she had to make it look as though she would if he failed. There were too many people in the room. If she didn’t keep up the pretense, it would be noticed.

  Only, she could not remember if Alfwynn was supposed to die right now, or not. Nothing of her quick reading had mentioned Aethelfreda’s daughter. What if Alex was supposed to let her die?

  A thousand questions were batting at her mind once more. There was too little she knew for certain.

  Alex looked around the room, taking everything in with a single sweep of his gaze. He looked directly at her. “You. Give me your mantle. I need cloth.”