Sacred and Profane

by Nina Merrill

  Maybe in the morning. I’ll look around when there’s more light. If they let me live through the night. She tried to push the morbid thought aside, but she was in no way certain Payraud would listen to her warnings, much less believe them. Especially since he’d had such an adverse reaction to the drawings and codes in her journal.

  Jennie stood for a while, allowing her eyes to grow used to the darkness. There was more light and at the same time much less, in Paris than in Minneapolis. She looked to her right and saw distant clusters of mellow gold light that had to be candles and fires and torches in houses and taverns. In contrast to the pinkish nightscape of a modern city, Paris was black as the inside of a barrel of tar. Yet the sky was dazzling, brilliant with stars, pinholes of light against the velvet dark. Far more stars than she’d ever seen in her life, and a river of light above that could only be the Milky Way. She clutched at the embrasure to steady herself. The night had a faint edge of chill signaling the imminence of autumn and colder weather.

  She slipped back inside the room and wrapped her arms around herself beneath Tibald’s cloak. Now that she was alone, it was time to think. She had to find her way back to her own century. She’d come here, so logically she could return.

  Jennie turned from the window to see what more of the room the moonlight revealed. Before her were the outlines of a stool and a bed, a small table with something on it, and the dull gleam of metal across the room where the door was. She shuffled over to the bed and groped about with her hands briefly.

  There seemed to be a cloth ticking, and inside the cloth she heard rustling—straw—as she pressed. The bed was nothing more than a pallet over a frame. There was no blanket and no pillow. Certainly no feather bed or comforter. She sank down and drew Tibald’s cloak tightly around her to stave off panic.

  The enormity of her situation struck her at last and she trembled. Hot tears welled, but didn't spill. Jennie reminded herself she was not a crybaby.

  The problem was, she hadn’t an inkling of the mechanics of how she’d arrived where—or precisely when—she had, and thinking herself out of it might take skills she didn’t possess. It would likely require resources she didn't possess as well. She couldn’t hop onto the internet and coax a search engine into giving up useful information. She couldn’t pick up the phone and call someone who knew or cared. Harrison would eventually wonder where she was…in a few days. Their schedules didn’t often mesh for more than an hour or two at a stretch, unless they managed to have dinner or a weekend together.

  I’ll end up like those people I’ve read about but never believed in—the ones who went missing from their own lives, vanished into thin air. It’s a good thing I don’t have any pets.

  For several moments Jennie had been hearing a faint scratching sound coming from her right. It finally intruded into her thoughts. Peering in the direction of the sound, she could see nothing in the gloom.

  Nothing at all.

  But she felt when the thing brushed past her bare foot where it rested on the stones.

  Chapter 5

  Her scream was a thing of beauty. Loud and shrill and long, expressing more than mere terror at being crawled over by what was probably a rat. Jennie jerked her legs up onto the bed and knew a fleeting fear that the ticking was infested with fleas, bedbugs and lice, and that motivated rats could climb. There was no place safe, but at least the scream was therapeutic.

  And it brought instant results. There was a scuffle in the hallway outside her room and a juddering bang as the door slammed open. Dancing red light filled her room and two figures rushed in. One was Napier, sword drawn in his right hand and a torch in his left, and the other was Tibald, with a bundle of cloth and a flask in one hand and another torch in the other. They stared at her as she knelt on the bed. They looked for all the world like television cops guarding each other’s back in a firefight.

  Napier’s sword flicked here, there, as he assessed the invisible threat, and Tibald held his torch high to provide as much light as possible.

  “What's the matter with you?” demanded Napier.

  “Rat,” gasped Jennie at last, in English, for her medieval French had fled her in her panic. She stared wildly around the floor and pointed at the rat huddling in a corner on the outer wall.

  Tibald laughed. Napier sheathed his sword, straightening erect from his fighter’s crouch. His hand brushed over his belt and a moment later there was a bright glint of silver in the torchlight followed by the ringing of metal on stone. Napier lunged across the small room and bent, coming up with something in his hand. He swaggered toward the bed and thrust the twitching dark bundle at her—the rat, spitted on a small, wicked dagger.

  “Dinner, madame? I understand they’re not bad in soup.”

  “Excellent throw,” said Tibald. “In bad light, too.”

  Jennie shrank away from the vermin Napier held under her nose, drawing a shuddering breath that sounded more like a moan. The grin Napier tossed over his shoulder toward Tibald made him seem more boyish than brutish.

  “She doesn’t look hungry, Tibald.”

  “Nor would you, with a rat shoved in your face. Find someplace else for it, Alain.”

  Napier moved to the window, and with a flick of his wrist, flung the rat off the blade of the dagger and into the night. Jennie clapped her hands over her ears so she wouldn’t hear the corpse hit the ground, but nothing shut out the men’s laughter. Napier wiped the blade on his sleeve with care and sheathed it at his belt.

  Tibald moved back to the door and set his torch in a bracket placed high on the wall. He put the bundle of cloth on the bed near her with a slight bow. “Blankets, lady. And wine.” He put the flask on the table, next to what Jennie could now see was a basin and ewer. He lifted the ewer, tipped it to pour, and realized it was empty. “No water, Alain?”

  “There hasn’t been time.”

  Jennie could have sworn Napier looked abashed at Tibald’s quiet rebuke.

  “Go now. I will watch her.”

  “I was waiting for you. I dared not leave her alone. You heard the commander’s orders.”

  Tibald inclined his head. “Indeed. But now, water. And perhaps a little bread?”

  At this, he looked toward Jennie, who nodded weakly, still crouched on the bed. If they’re planning to feed me, maybe they’re not going to kill me. Just yet.

  She surprised herself by saying, “And the water—please boil it first, as you would for a tisane.”

  Napier turned back from the doorway with the ewer in his hands and stared at her. “What?”

  “Water, to drink—” she began. She didn’t dare drink fourteenth-century water that hadn’t been sterilized. “Please boil it first.”

  “You want to drink your wash water?”

  Confused, Jennie looked at Tibald, as though he might translate for her, but he, too, seemed mystified. She caught on. “Oh. That pitcher is for wash water. Might I have water to drink, boiled water?”

  “When there is wine?” Tibald gestured to the flask sitting on the table.

  “I…oh. I suppose not.” Ah, yes. Alone and drunk in the fourteenth century. There’s a recipe for success.

  The two men looked at each other, Tibald shrugged, and, with a glower, Napier disappeared with his torch down the stairs.

  “You are unharmed, lady?” Tibald’s quiet voice stroked over her jangled nerves like suede.

  “It didn’t bite me, if that’s what you mean.”

  His lips quirked in a smile that she could see even in the flickering torchlight. “’Twas only a rat.”

  “It was horrid.”

  “I live so much among men that I forget the vapors of women.” He twisted the stopper out of the flask for her. “Here, drink.”

  “I don’t have the vapors,” Jennie objected, but realized that was exactly how her behavior must look. She had fainted practically the instant she arrived, been disoriented in the kitchen where they'd questioned her, and now had screamed like the girl she was when a rat
ran across her foot. “It’s just…all been a bit frightening.” She couldn’t stop the quiver in her voice and was surprised when he pushed aside the edge of his cloak she had pulled tight around her and put the flask into her hand.

  “Drink. It will do you good.” Then he moved quickly to the window and leaned out as if her presence disturbed him. He took a few deep breaths. “The night is quiet.”

  Jennie sniffed at the flask. It smelled like wine, and hopefully of a high enough alcohol content to kill whatever contagions might be present. She put it to her lips and tipped it back. The wine was bitter and harsh with tannin. Tibald turned to look at her as she was wiping the corners of her mouth. Something in his pose, the way his gaze seemed to focus on her lips, made her sit very still, the way a mouse freezes so the hawk’s gaze will pass over it.

  Eventually she could no longer bear the silent perusal. “What is the hour, sir?”

  Tibald blinked, as though recalled to himself from a dream. Jennie saw his throat move as he swallowed. “Long after compline. You should rest.”

  “I'm not tired, but I thank you for the blankets. And your cloak…it was kind of you.” She made to rise and give him back his cloak, but the moment she put weight on her feet, a sharp pain shot into the ball of her right foot and she gasped.

  Oh, you wimp! she swore at herself.

  “You are hurt,” Tibald chastised her, and in only a few movements had taken the flask from her hand, pressed her to sit again, and was on one knee with her bare foot resting on his other knee. His thumb brushed away detritus from her sole with a gentleness that surprised her. “It is but a small cut, though in a tender place. Have you no shoes?”

  “Of course I have no shoes! I came here unexpectedly. I had no warning, no time to dress.”

  “We must remedy that.” He looked up at her where she sat in her robe and nightgown, his cloak fallen from her shoulders. He caught the silk of her robe between his fingers. “You are the daughter of a noble house, are you not? Such tender skin, and such fine silk…”

  Jennie shook her head. “I’m hardly a noble, sir. Just a student.” She ignored the awareness spreading from where his hand wrapped around her foot. Come on, Jen. He’s a thick-skinned, rude man seven hundred years your senior. He shouldn’t be commenting about your skin, or be close enough to sample it for himself. And you shouldn’t be having so much trouble breathing.

  “Let me see your other foot.” He suited action to words, lifting her foot and checking the sole. “This one is unmarked, but both should be washed, and you must be shod.” He sat with his hand linked around her ankle, as if deep in thought. “There are none here with feet so small as yours. We will send for a cobbler come day.”

  Jennie tried to breathe normally and control the fluttering in her belly. It was ridiculous, this feeling of instant attraction. He no doubt had rotten teeth, and she already knew he—and all his brethren, for that matter—smelled like a locker room at half-time. It could only be that he’d shown her kindness in this storm she was experiencing.

  Tibald’s head flicked to the door and his hand jerked away from her leg. Jennie followed his gaze and saw Napier standing in the doorway, his eyes narrowed.

  “She has cut her foot.”

  Napier grunted, advancing into the room with the ewer in his hands and a loaf of bread under his arm. He set the ewer next to the basin with a thump and let the bread drop beside it.

  “It should be washed, and she will need shoes.” Tibald hadn't moved from where he knelt in front of her, but Jennie slowly removed her foot from his knee.

  Napier’s disapproving sidelong glance made her feel ashamed, as though she had somehow sullied Tibald.

  Napier gestured with his chin at the basin and ewer. “She has water now. We must do as we were bid, and not have further speech with her.”

  “It will do no harm to tend a fellow creature’s hurts, Alain.” Tibald’s face tightened and he reached to the table behind him for the basin, which he set at her feet, then added a small amount of water. He looked up at Jennie, who hadn't moved. “Soak your foot.”

  Reluctantly, imagining a million bacteria swarming the cut and single-mindedly seeking her bloodstream, Jennie obeyed. There’s no hope for me—if I’m not killed by Payraud or a rat bite or some contagion spread by fleas or lice or tainted wine, it’ll be an infection from a cut on my foot.

  “Do not use our order’s oath of charity as an excuse to—”

  “Alain!” Tibald glared over his shoulder. “Speak civil words or hold your tongue.”

  “I seek but to remind you of your own oaths, Tibald.”

  Tibald got to his feet and clapped Napier on the shoulder. “Fear not for my soul, my brother.” There was mirth in his voice, and Napier’s own lips twitched in a smile.

  “It’s not your soul I fear for, my companion, but your virtue.”

  “Sullied long before yours.”

  “Never.”

  “She was a milkmaid, blonde and plump and eager. And your sister.”

  God, are men the same no matter where, no matter when? Jennie rolled her eyes and flexed her foot in the water. The coolness soothed the cut and she reached down to rub at her skin and rinse away the worst of the dirt.

  Napier cuffed Tibald alongside his head. “My sister would have made mince of you, boy.”

  “I hear she wields a sword better than you.”

  “But she can’t throw a dagger half so well.” Napier was jollied out of his black mood, and now he used that same dagger to hack chunks from the loaf of bread he had brought with the water. Jennie swallowed hard, imagining rat blood tainting each chunk, though she had watched him wipe the blade. He tossed a wedge to Tibald, who caught it one-handed with a grin and took a bite like a shark’s.

  Maybe not rotten teeth then. She shook her head at her own idiocy. Even when she’d been sick with a high fever two years before, her dreams hadn't had such a surreal intensity. This couldn’t be real, and yet it must be. She couldn’t continue to doubt the evidence of her own senses.

  She half-rose, stretching to reach for the wine on the nearby table. The least she could do was to rinse the cut with alcohol, no matter how watery. The two men stood near the door talking quietly, but both turned when they heard her breath hiss through her teeth as the alcohol stung in the cut. It bled freely now.

  “What are you doing? There is plenty of water still in the pitcher.” Tibald and Napier both came to stare down at her.

  Primly, her bare leg across her knee, Jennie spoke. “The alcohol in the wine will disinfect the cut. If I’m lucky.” She wasn’t sure she had translated disinfect properly, and, at their looks of confusion, was even less sure. “There are…um, invisible creatures in dirt that cause sickness. The wine may kill them.”

  The two men looked at each other, and Napier shrugged. “She speaks like our old Saracen chirurgeon. He often washed wounds with wine or mead. Even ale.”

  “The knights he tended recovered more often,” mused Tibald. “Mayhap there is something to it.” To Jennie, he said, “Don't waste good wine, however.”

  “And eat your bread before another rat comes to dine.” Napier’s tone was droll, but Jennie knew it was meant to amuse Tibald, while mocking her at the same time. I thought you were jealous of Tibald, and that he disliked you. Now here you are like old school chums. Men. I’ll never understand them.

  Chapter 6

  Jennie shifted on the bed so her cut foot could air-dry, and dipped the other into the basin to wash it as well. Napier’s glance slid down her body to her bared legs, reminding her that decent medieval women did not expose themselves as she was doing. Gritting her teeth, she ignored him and bent to her foot. When she had finished, she dried her hands on a corner of one of the blankets Tibald had brought, and tucked her feet beneath her on the bed out of the reach of rats, and out of sight of Napier’s judgmental eyes.

  The men finished gnawing the hunks of bread and both took long swigs from the wine. Jennie watched the muscles o
f Tibald’s throat move as he tipped his head back and swallowed. Napier caught her watching and narrowed his eyes again. Nudging Tibald, he jerked his head to the exit.

  “We would be better guarding her from without.”

  Jennie bit her lip. Much as she disliked Napier, she didn’t want to be left alone again. But Tibald was nodding and setting the flask on the table, so she gathered up his cloak, holding it out to him. “I thank you, sir.”

  He smiled with a graceful bow, one hand to heart, one hand to hilt, and accepted his cloak from her. “You are welcome, lady.”

  This is what it means to swoon. Harrison might open a car door for me once in a while, but he’s not what I’d call chivalrous. Jennie should have found Tibald’s clichéd action laughable, but instead, because it was so earnest and honestly meant, was overwhelmed. She tried to chastise herself for her starry-eyed idiocy and could not. Way to go, Jen. Travel back in time and fall for an ideal. Who’s sworn off women.

  Napier plucked the torch from the wall sconce as the two men headed toward the door, and, at the realization she would be in utter darkness again, Jennie cried out. “Please! Leave the torch.”

  “You will set fire to something.” Napier took it into the hall with them.

  “I promise I won’t touch it. Please.”

  Tibald paused in the doorway. When he replied, his voice was sympathetic. “We cannot risk it, lady. You will have moonlight for a time.”

  “Please! I…I’m afraid of the rats.”

  “Alain has seen to them.” Tibald didn't bother to hide his chuckle, and out in the hallway Napier snorted. Tibald began to close the door. Jennie rose from the bed, ignoring her hurt foot, and padded swiftly to him.

  “Then leave the door open, if you will. Take the torch, but let me have the light from the hallway!”

  “Tibald, come away. Heed not her pleas. They are the blandishments of a demon.”