The Assassin: (Mortal Beloved Time Travel Romance, #2)

by Pamela DuMond

  “Hello, Nadi!” Jorge rode his stallion on the opposite side of the wagon. “You are looking a little pale, my sweets. Anything you desire to tell me?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m just fine. No desires whatsoever.”

  Samuel glared at me. If looks could kill, I’d be as dead as one of those chickens whose necks Miri enthusiastically twisted. “He has a pet name for you?” He frowned, dug his heels into to his horse’s sides and rode off.

  “I’m fine, Captain. Absolutely fine,” I said as the cart jolted forward. I peered down at the wheels that sunk lower into the riverbed and shuddered.

  “You are lying to me, Nadi,” Jorge said as the water splashed the bottom of his feet and spilled onto the floorboards.

  “I would never lie to you.” I winced.

  He laughed. “You’re lying to me right now,” Jorge said. “Water frightens you. Tell me why.”

  “You’re mistaken.” I scooted backward.

  “Something bad happened to you involving water. Now your fear stays quiet and buried deep in your heart and mind, just like your other secrets. It only breaks out of you when the fear resurfaces. Like now.”

  “I, I…” I broke out into a sweat and felt my heart race.

  “Captain Cortez,” Miri said. “Do not be picking scabs from Nadja’s wounds. Besides you, too, are performing many manly deeds of ‘burying deep’ as we make our way from town to town.”

  “Miri!” Sister Ana exclaimed.

  Jorge burst into laughter, flicked the reins onto the back of his horse, and surged forward, waves cresting around him.

  Our cart creaked through shallower waters and arrived at the other side of the river. We pulled up onto the ground; I hopped out, swayed for a few seconds, and fought the urge to kiss the earth.

  “I told you there was nothing to worry about.” Jorge winked and rode off to join the rest of the men including Samuel, who seemed to be in the lead.

  ~ ~ ~

  Lucky for me, Miri was not only our group’s cook but the overall supervisor of peasant-assigned chores. I helped her pitch tents toward the end of the days, prepared meals, and shared a little gossip.

  “Can you believe Sister Ana initially turned down Prince Pedro’s offer to be our spiritual advisor?” Miri asked as she quickly skinned a rabbit.

  I frowned at the stray mutt who’d followed us from the small town we visited today, held out my hand to him, and beckoned. “Scout, come.” He bounded over toward me and I pushed him behind my skirts, away from Miri. I glanced up at her seconds later and she was already flaying the next.

  “I hear rumors that Sister Ana balked at taking this position because she did not want to leave Prince Pedro and Inêz’s son, John,” she said.

  “She was nursing him back to health,” I said. “I can totally understand why she wouldn’t want to leave. Where are the vegetables? I’ll clean them.”

  “Vegetables?” Miri deftly cut the rabbit into pieces.

  “Um…” I thought, “Herbs?”

  She nodded to a burlap bag lying on the ground. “Ana has only been a Sister at the Monastery of Santa Clara a Vel-ha for a few months.” She tossed meaty pieces into a water filled pot and placed it on top of a small smoky grill. “Why does she have such a strong attachment to their son?”

  Because she was probably a Healer, and Healers just couldn’t let it go; they had to help.

  “I don’t know.” I scrubbed beets with a wet rag. “Because she’s lonely? Because she bonded with John like a mother to a child?”

  Miri sniffed. “She doesn’t seem like the motherly type. But like magic, overnight, she had a change of heart and agreed to attend to our Christian needs. You know, I have awakened a few times to take a piss in the middle of the night and spotted her wandering unchaperoned into the forest. What is a nun doing in the darkest of forests all by herself in the middle of the night?”

  “Praying?” I asked.

  “I doubt it. More likely she takes a lover or worships the pagan gods she still believed in before she conveniently converted to Christianity.” Miri plunked another metal pot on to the top of the grill, a bit of water sloshing over the top. “I think Sister Ana only accompanies us because His Highness poked a nice bag of silver into her private purse. If you know what I mean.” She winked.

  “Miri!” I giggled as my hand flew to my mouth. “You shouldn’t say such things. I’d lay odds that Sister Ana is as pure as snow.”

  “That is not what I meant! For shame Nadja; you have a filthy mind!” She threw rabbit guts at me.

  But I ducked and they sailed over my head and landed with a splat on the ground. “Stop it!” I laughed.

  Scout pounced and gobbled them up.

  She shook her greasy, bloody index finger at me. “I am telling you right here and now, Nadja, there is something not right with that nun. I do not trust her. Mind the fire for me, please.” She walked off toward a crate filled with squawking hens. “Hello my lovelies! Which one of you is feeling unlucky tonight?”

  Thunder crackled overhead and the dog growled. I leaned down and petted its head. “Nothing to worry about, Scout. I’ll keep you safe.”

  “Yet another storm to weather,” Sister Ana said and I jumped.

  She’d walked up silently behind me. How did she do that? Was this a nun thing?

  Scout barked. She bent down and held out her hand to him. He padded forward hesitantly, sniffed her fingers, licked them; then spooked and raced off. “Funny question, Nadja. Whom do we not trust? I personally do not trust our fearless leader, Captain Cortez; I do not care for his womanizing. But I know it is not easy being on the road. We all survive in the best ways we can. How do you survive?”

  “I, um, well, it’s simple really,” I said.

  Actually, it was the opposite.

  “Pray tell?” she asked.

  “On clear nights I just look up at the stars and think about all the people I love and all the places I’d like to visit someday.”

  “What do you do on the stormy nights?” she asked as the rain began clattering down around us.

  “I remind myself that the seasons change, the earth needs cleansing, and storms don’t last forever,” I said.

  “How sweet. I myself find that too often the simplest things are actually very, very complicated.” She grabbed a beet from the bucket, bit into it, and walked off into the rain.

  ~ twenty-one ~

  While Jorge, his men, and Samuel searched for clues, I performed menial tasks like laundry, grooming the horses, visiting the village markets to buy food, and whatever other chore needed to be checked off the list. During the course of my labors, I quickly learned that the Romani network was the medieval equivalent of Facebook.

  Wherever we landed, eventually a gypsy would approach me. Sometimes it was when I purchased groceries or carried them back to our camp. He or she would act as if we were long lost friends, or distant relatives, but as soon as we were far enough away from the crowds would ask in hushed tones if Messenger had information to pass on to The Cruel.

  The problem was—I didn’t. We hadn’t unearthed any juicy clues about the assassins and I didn’t know anything more about medieval Samuel than the first day I met him in Portugal. Even if I did, I would never relay mere gossip about him to anyone, let alone Prince Pedro. Samuel might have been a stubborn, entitled noble, but he was still my stubborn, entitled noble.

  I felt guilty about the financial arrangement between Prince Pedro and me—like I was taking his money for nothing. So I gave the gypsies meaningless tidbits to pass along. Like… Sister Ana frequently wandered into the forests alone at night. Perhaps she was sleepwalking, praying, or both. Jorge appeared to be a ladies man and drank a little too much. Miri could make dirt taste good if she cooked it the right way. The girl was seriously talented and The Cruel would be crazy not to promote her to head chef when our mission ended.

  Several days later, we journeyed to a small town close to the Castilian border. I shopped for groceries in
an outdoor market when an argument between our men and a merchant broke out.

  “Leave me alone!” An older man shouted at Gaspar and Samuel in front of a stall piled high with spices. “I told you nobles, on more than one occasion, that I do not follow royal whims,” he hissed through his very long yellow teeth. “I belong to the Merchant Guild, pay my ridiculous taxes, earn my meager living, and that is the extent of how far I will bend over. Even if I did encounter one of these so-called assassins that you are searching for, how do I know these men are guilty of anything? I will not betray a fellow countryman because royalty decrees he is guilty of a terrible crime.”

  “But they are guilty of a terrible crime,” Gaspar said. “They murdered Inêz de Castro!”

  The merchant turned his head and spat onto the dirt. “I do not believe you.”

  “I witnessed it,” Samuel said. “I was there, trying to make my way into the villa to save her.”

  “What stopped you?” the yellow-toothed merchant asked.

  Samuel’s face blanched. “Trust me when I tell you the men we seek have evil in their hearts. They must be captured and brought to justice.”

  A crowd of townspeople gathered, ringing the booth.

  “We do not want you here.” The man said. “Leave me and the people in this town alone!”

  Gaspar’s face flushed and he grabbed onto the merchant’s arms and shook him. “We seek justice for Lady Inêz. We seek the men who killed Prince Pedro’s beloved!”

  “Take your hands off him!” an old woman hollered and clubbed Gaspar with a thatched basket piled high with dead pheasants. A rag-tag gang of children raced up and threw stones at him and Samuel. One sliced into Samuel’s forehead and blood trickled down his face.

  “Stop!” I hollered, but no one paid me attention. “I was there, too! I saw Lady Inêz before she was murdered.”

  “Then you laid eyes on the assassins,” the vendor said.

  “I did.”

  I felt the mob’s gaze collectively turn onto me. Fifty sets of eyes bored into me, but it felt like five hundred. My heart raced and I broke into a clammy sweat.

  “Can you identify them?” the vendor asked.

  “I think so,” I said. “Yes.”

  Samuel stared at me as his eyes widened. “Let him go.” He put his hand on Gaspar’s shoulder. “You do not want to hurt this man. He did nothing wrong.”

  Gaspar shook his head. “He hides something.”

  “Let him go.” Samuel repeated.

  Gaspar reluctantly released the merchant.

  He shook out his arms, glared at Gaspar, and then turned to me. “If these men are truly evil—why have they not come hunting for you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said but my words drifted away from me, torn from my lips. The crowd circled tighter around us, and suddenly I struggled to breathe. I could smell horse dung, some kind of soup and spices. Sweat. Fear. Right—that was my own.

  My hands started to shake. My senses were on overload. I hadn’t had a panic attack in so very long that I thought I’d outgrown them, but now I was going to have one in 1355. This wasn’t possible. There was no Xanax. I couldn’t do yoga and lie down in the middle of the village in Child’s Pose and just breathe it out for a half hour.

  The realization sunk in that not only were the Hunters gunning for me, but I was also living on borrowed time with Inêz’s assassins. The vendor with the yellow teeth started to laugh; it sounded distorted, tinny and theatrical, like the maniacal glee of The Joker in the Batman movies. And I couldn’t help but wonder if Prince Pedro had sent me here not simply to be his spy—but to be bait.

  Perhaps we didn’t have to try all that hard to find the assassins because they’d hear that I could identify them, decide they wanted to wipe the slate clean, would turn the tables, and find us. My breath grew ragged and I struggled to remember that every inhale deserved an exhale. My eyes flitted over the crowd searching for an escape. My brain fogged and my vision grew hazy as the villagers morphed from individuals into one big pissed off mob. I pressed my palms to my mouth, hyperventilated into them like a paper bag, and covered my eyes with my fingers.

  Please don’t let me pass out. Please don’t let me fall onto the ground in front of these people like a victim. Please don’t make me be a Messenger anymore.

  When Samuel caught my hand, he pulled me to him and scooped me up into his arms. He held me flush against his rock solid chest and whispered, “I will not let them hurt you, Nadja. I promise you. I will not let anyone hurt you.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck, tucked my head down, and squeezed my eyes shut as he carried me through the angry crowds away from the bedlam. This was the old Samuel; the Samuel I met back in King Philip’s War, the young man who coaxed the injured horse back from death’s door.

  This was the young man who had captured my heart.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Thank you for helping me,” He sat on the ground cross-legged as I kneeled next to him, and dabbed the cut on his forehead with cloth I dipped in a cup of wine.

  He grasped my wrist and stared up at me. “You do not have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “Let go.”

  “I watched your face turn white like the melting snow,” he said. “You nearly fainted in the village.”

  “Yes, but I’m fine now. You, on the other hand, don’t look all that healthy with blood dripping into your eye. Let go of my wrist.”

  He released my hand. “I do not believe the assassins will come after you. From what I have heard, Prince Pedro’s outbursts grow more volatile every day. He has not been able to return to his home with Inêz. He stays at the palace, drinks until he passes out, and then sleeps for days. He wanders the castle, randomly picks a room, and destroys everything in it, cursing his father, the King, and his advisors. He empties royal coffers hiring artists and architects to build a new sanctuary. The killers just want to get as far away from Coimbra as possible.”

  I stopped cleaning his wound and frowned at him. “You told me a week ago to keep a low profile. You warned me that the servant girl drawing my bath might try and drown me in the tub. Yes, I was foolish enough to honestly answer a man’s questions in the village today. But now you believe the threat is over?”

  He shook his head. “Not over, just not as dire. I am fine, Nadja. But you need to get some rest or food.” He pushed himself to standing. “I am happy I was there to help you today. But what if I was not? Who will care for you if I am not around?”

  He strode away from me, back toward the soldiers and nobles who were returning to our camp for dinner. He was hot then cold, inviting then irritating. I didn’t know if I wanted to kiss him or smack him.

  And suddenly, like a longing in the pit of my stomach, I missed my mama.

  Perhaps if I had a real mom growing up, she would have prepared me for this. If she hadn’t disappeared when I was six-years-old, she would have sat with me, read a few books, and said, “Madeline, someday when you grow older and curvier, boys are going to stop hating you. They’re going to stop all that B.S. about not letting you play on their baseball or soccer team and they’re going to look at you in a different way.”

  “What kind of way, Mama?” I would have asked.

  “You know that TV show that I like to watch but it’s a little too old for you?”

  “The one with all the kissing?”

  “Yes. I wait until you’re asleep, but then you pop up behind me on the couch and say, ‘Mama, I’m thirsty, can you get me some water?’ And then I jump a foot in the air.”

  “I love that show,” I would have said.

  “So do I. Right after the boys start treating you like a human being, they’re going to freak out and return to being complete dorks. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I think our mother-daughter talks would have sounded something like that.

  I pushed myself off the ground, held my head high, and turned toward Lord Confusing. “Don’t worry about me, Samuel. I’ll ca
re for myself,” I called after him. “Like I always do!” I walked toward Miri who was flirting with Tomasis.

  I knew Samuel swiveled back around toward me, because I could feel it, the same way I knew he wanted to take back that stupid thing he’d said to me, or at the very least add a disclaimer to it. But I would not give him the opportunity. Not tonight.

  ~ twenty-two ~

  Jorge frequently left our group a few hours after dinner and stumbled back to camp in the wee hours of the morning. There was more than one breakfast I served where he smelled of booze and perfume. The local women enjoyed his company, welcoming him into their homes, and most likely their beds.

  Several days after my fallout with Samuel, I took a pre-breakfast walk with Scout in the rolling hills close to the forest. I searched for edible mushrooms and herbs while my dog found something foul to roll in. It was a pretty day, a bit chilly, and I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders. That’s when I spotted Jorge, half naked, about fifty yards away from me.

  He stood in a mid-sized, gentle river, his pants rolled up above his knees, as he dunked his shirt in its waters. I had no desire to get near another river right now, let alone a shirtless, buff handsome man. So I turned quietly, tried to make myself small, and snuck off in the opposite direction. But Scout barked excitedly and blew my cover.

  “Shh!” I hissed at the dog as he wagged his tail.

  “Hello, Nadi,” Jorge said. “Why don’t you and your furry friend join me for a quick bath.”

  “I’m clean enough, thank you. Too bad the same can’t be said for you.” I resumed walking.

  “But that is why I’m here in these awful waters. It seems like my latest adventures have nearly ruined my clothing.” Jorge held his dripping shirt up and regarded it like a six-year-old boy who had dropped his half-eaten ice cream cone onto the ground.

  “I think what you really mean is that your latest conquest ruined your clothing,” I said.