Journey in Time (Knights in Time)

by Karlsen, Chris

  Confused, it took a few seconds before she nodded yes.

  "No matter what, remember what I told you," he warned and trotted ahead to chat with Simon.

  All ignored her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Where did an Elysian Fields exist in England? Shakira knew of its origins in Greek mythology, but not anywhere else. Shortly into the ride, the answer loomed before her as a large Norman castle of Cotswold stone appeared. A crenellated curtain wall twenty-feet high and lined with evenly spaced arrow loop windows surrounded the structure. Towers stood at the gated entrance and armed men patrolled the palisades. One shouted from a corner flanking tower announcing their approach.

  Alex dropped back to her side. “Remember, not a word.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know.”

  “Give me your watch.”

  “Why?” It was her favorite Movado, part of their Museum Collection.

  “Just do it.”

  She unfastened her watch and handed it to him. He slipped his off and put both in the pocket of his breeches. At the edge of the moat, he took her reins and led Eclipse over a wooden drawbridge. They crossed through a raised portcullis and into a vaulted passage on into the castle’s bailey.

  This had to be a movie set she assumed as they entered. She was familiar with the landmark buildings in the area. A fortress this size she’d have heard of or at least seen pictures of in books.

  She scrutinized everything they passed for sound or camera hookups. Meutrieres were cut into the stone on each side of the archway they entered. The "murder holes" allowed the castle's defenders to pour all manner of materials, from boiling oil to sewage, onto attackers. The stonework throughout the passage looked aged and the details accurate. The set designers did an excellent job.

  A three-story cylindrical Keep, like the Round Tower at Windsor, dominated the bailey. A wide stone staircase led up to massive oak doors on the second level. On the first level, broad barn style doors with iron locks stood on each side of the stairs. Typical features for a Norman castle. The production company must’ve spent a fortune on the construction, unless it was a facade. She’d yet to see technical equipment anywhere.

  Their arrival stirred a flurry of activity and drew a group of men who also addressed Alex as Sir Guy. He dismounted and handed his horse to a young man who’d jogged up. Alex laid Eclipse’s reins over the horse’s neck and then gave Shakira’s hand a light pat, "Stay here."

  She had a million questions she didn’t get the chance to ask before he rejoined the men they rode in with.

  While he chatted with the others, she viewed the area with an eye out for reflection from the lens of a hidden camera. Everyone dressed in medieval fashion. They spoke in the same archaic way the knights did, using language straight out of Canterbury Tales.

  A few of the people who came to greet Alex stayed gathered around. The acrid smell of sweat and animal urine burned her nostrils. The people standing near Eclipse reeked of body odor. The knights hadn’t stunk and she’d been downwind of them. Her eyes watered as the odor wafted up and she resorted to breathing through her mouth. Whether the people were students or actors, stinking like they did took realism way too far.

  In front of a three-sided booth, a stout, muscular man with a bushy salt-and-pepper beard hunched over a horse’s hoof he held between his legs. Smoke rose as he fitted a hot shoe to a mare. After a few seconds, he dropped the mare’s foot and set the shoe on an anvil, where he began to hammer and shape the metal. When he finished, the blacksmith dipped the glowing iron into a bucket of water. After the steam and sizzle subsided, he fit the shoe against the mare’s hoof again.

  A half-dozen similar structures lined the same wall. The stalls were reminiscent of carnival booths. Their work spaces were enveloped on three sides by heavy canvas flaps or in this case flimsy looking wood boards. Two men in the work areas next to the smithy huddled over something she couldn’t see. On the opposite side of the bailey, school-age boys tended to horses and animals by a stable and pens.

  She mulled over the possibility this wasn’t a movie set but a re-enactment group that prides itself on realism. Tourists, especially Americans, love to feel they’re experiencing the real thing.

  No modern conveniences were visible, no electric tools, no hairdryers, or motorized vehicles. Understandable for a strict re-enactment group, some are rabid about "living the part." Where were the tour buses and the public restrooms? Surely the health requirements insisted on some type of toilet facilities. She scanned the area again. Only she and Alex wore modern clothes. Where were the tourists?

  Nothing made sense. Whether it was a crazy university project, a period movie, or re-enactors too into their roles, she didn’t care. This was not the weekend she envisioned. She wanted to leave. The atmosphere, the people, and the looks they gave her made her uneasy. She didn't know what was going on with Alex. Why did they keep calling him Guy? Why did he know everyone? Why had his manner suddenly grown so stiff and imperious? Why about this place made it so dangerous for them? She closed her eyes and tried to relax.

  Someone clutched her left leg. Shakira squeaked and looked down. A grey-haired woman with pale rheumy eyes mumbled gibberish and stroked the boot.

  "Where the deuce did you come from?"

  The crone squeezed her calf then tugged on the boot.

  "Stop it," Shakira whispered, violating Alex’s order to stay silent. The woman continued to pester her, handling the boot, pressing her face against the leather upper. "Let go," Shakira barked in a low voice. She shoved her foot deep into the stirrup and tried to jerk her leg out of the woman’s hands. Her heel banged against Eclipse who danced to the right. The crone followed, tightened her grip, and laughed exposing toothless black gums. Shakira pushed down harder on the metal foot rest and locked her ankle.

  The knight Alex called Stephen broke from the group of men and came over. He efficiently, if unchivalrously, hooked a gauntleted hand under the old woman’s upper arm and yanked hard. The woman yelped and released her hold as Stephen gave her a forceful shove away. The crone ranted at him, and then sneered at Shakira. She made a weird sign with her fingers, spit, and tottered off. Shakira had no idea what the hell that was about. Had the hag put some kind of curse on her or was it a ward against evil?

  "Nutter," she mumbled.

  Stephen walked on before she could inquire about the old lady’s odd behavior.

  She had enough.

  Alex must’ve sensed her anxiety. He interrupted his conversation and was at her side in a matter of seconds.

  "I’ll help you dismount." He took the reins from her firm grip and lifted her down to the ground. "Come." He offered his arm and tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow.

  “No.” She refused to move. “I want to go home.”

  He looked ill, green around the gills, like he was sea-sick.

  “You can’t.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Shakira took a cautious sniff as Alex led her into the Keep. New floor rushes filled the hall with the fresh scent of cut grass. An underlying odor smelled vaguely like rosemary with a hint of residual smoke. An odd combination, but at least it didn't burn her nose to breathe.

  A woman dressed as a servant approached Alex.

  While she spoke to him about the evening meal, Shakira studied the hall’s decorations. Three rectangular leaded glass windows were installed in the eastern and western walls. Smartly positioned, a surprising amount of natural light streamed into the room which was augmented by torches. A fireplace a man could stand inside was built beneath the eastern windows. Two large tapestries hung on the far wall. One depicted a clash between knights on horseback wearing surcoats of red, orange, and black. The second was unusual. Instead of the standard square cut, the top was half-moon shaped and depicted knights and ladies out hawking in muted tones of blue, gold, and green. Other than several tables and benches pushed to the side, the room had no furniture.

  Alex ordered drink sent to "his chamber”
from the servant woman, who bobbed her head once and left.

  Interesting reference, his chamber, if this was a movie set, wouldn’t he say his dressing room? Things were getting weirder and weirder.

  “Alex--” Shakira said.

  “We’ll talk upstairs.”

  They climbed a torch-lit spiral staircase with arrow loop windows inset into the exterior wall every tenth step. Shakira peeked out of one. She was impressed. The strategic placement gave archers a view of the bailey with no blind spots. A clever design feature, were this an authentic Norman castle.

  The design of the staircase was a different matter. It troubled her that the steps were true stone and had wear depressions. Why bother with such realism? Why not build stairs from cement or plywood painted to look like stone with no indents?

  They passed a couple of closed doors on the interior side of the corridor. No sound came from behind them and she wondered if they lead to actual rooms.

  As the staircase continued to bend clockwise, following the curve of the Keep, arrow windows no longer lined the wall. The stairs intersected with a broad corridor and another floor which in olden times was the family living quarters.

  Alex stopped at the center and pushed on a wooden door with black iron hinges. "My chamber," he said.

  Shakira stepped inside and turned. Irritated and fed-up, she wanted immediate answers. “Alex--”

  He dropped a heavy wooden bar into metal brackets attached to the door frame. “Give me a minute,” he said, cutting her off.

  He crossed the room to a mahogany chest. The chest was the same size as the steamer trunk at his cottage but more ornate, with a hunt scene carved into the lid. He dug through the contents and pulled out a long-sleeved shirt, a tunic, hose, and knee-high, soft leather boots. It took him less than two minutes to strip down to his low cut briefs and change. Everything else aside, Shakira admired his ability to dress so fast.

  She eyeballed the room while he changed. The rustic chamber was similar in ways to his cottage bedroom. The bed here had a dark green down comforter and dark blue velvet draperies hung from a rail on the frame to enclose it. The colors matched those in his home counterpane. This room had a larger simple pine table and chairs. Other than a bench and stanchions in each corner with tiered rows of candles, the chamber was on the plain side, like the cottage. She’d ask Alex about the similarities between the two places if she wasn’t so peeved with him.

  The servant knocked. He tossed his riding clothes and their watches into the trunk, closed the lid, and then opened the door.

  The maid set a silver ewer of wine, two goblets, and a plate of food on the table. He thanked her and barred the door again after she left.

  Shakira threw her riding gloves onto the table and folded her arms over her chest. "What the hell’s going on?"

  “Please, sit with me.”

  “I can stand and listen.” She ignored his extended hand.

  “Some news is best heard seated.”

  Not what she wanted to hear, especially since he hadn’t lost the green-around-the-gills look. She thought about her options, stay and listen, or go. She deserved an explanation. He deserved a chance to be heard. She hesitated a moment longer, then put her hand in his, and he led her to the bed.

  "Where shall I begin?"

  In her experience, that opening is often followed by something you definitely don’t want to hear.

  She waited.

  Tiny tension lines fanned over the bridge of his nose and at the corners of his eyes. The silence stretched. Finally he said, "The explanation is extraordinary and impossible to believe—”

  “I knew it.”

  “What?”

  “Impossible is a euphemism for I’m going to hate it.”

  “Please, just hear me out before you pass judgment.”

  Curiosity overrode wariness. "All right."

  "I was born in 1330."

  Her brows lifted high. "Pardon?"

  His hand shot up. "Allow me to finish. I was born Guy Guiscard in 1330. I inherited a barony which included the holding you’re in, Elysian Fields. Like my father, I served King Edward the Third, and later his son, Edward of Woodstock, the Black Prince. I died in battle, at Poitiers."

  She didn’t know what to say. Who would? She eyed the barred entry, the only visible avenue of escape. Who was crazier, Alex for repeating a lunatic’s tale or her for listening instead of running for the door?

  "Shakira--"

  She shrank away, shunning the madman who reached to take her hand. She wanted Alex back. She wanted the man she started the day with, even as this man who had his face, his voice, and who looked so sad at her reaction tore at her heart.

  "Don’t be afraid, please. I need you to trust me, if only a little bit." He laid a light hand on hers. "I'm not crazy. Really, I'm not."

  "Madmen rarely recognize the quality in themselves."

  The corner of his mouth quirked up, "An apt observation," he said in a flat tone. Sighing, he asked, "Can I go on?"

  She wavered. Logic and deep misgivings battled with her desire to trust him. Trust won a tenuous victory. Doubt wouldn't be completely quashed, even as the warmth from his hand traveled up her arm. Dead men aren't warm. Crazy men are though. The thought weighed on her heart. And yet, part of her wanted to hear him out, wanted to hear some reasonable explanation for the bizarre turn of events.

  "I'm listening," she said.

  "I rode to the aid of a friend trapped and at the mercy of an enemy knight. En route, I was surrounded and dragged from my horse. Both my friend and I were cut down. Apparently, it wasn't my time to die. For reasons I can't explain, our fates became entwined. As a result, we were doomed to have our spirits roam for many centuries. His fate, or destiny, if you prefer, was to remain earthbound until he learned to love. After a very long time, he fell in love with a mortal woman and she with him and his spirit was freed. In turn, mine was too."

  She still didn’t know what to say. The story sounded plausible, if you acknowledge the possibility ghosts exist. The paranormal never interested her. She didn’t believe in ghosts or disbelieve, and didn’t care to make an immediate decision.

  "Shakira?"

  Her mind searched for some scrap of normalcy to cling to, anything to stave off her rising hysteria. "Where are they now?" she asked, breaking her silence.

  "Happily married, the details aren’t important." He wrapped strong fingers around her wrists. “Look at me. I never expected to reveal my past. I’m compelled to tell you because our lives are at risk. You-must-listen-to-me," he stressed each word of the command. "We've stumbled into a nightmare beyond imagination."

  She compared what he said against the few clues at hand. When he dressed, he tied the hose around his waist with a drawstring, no elastic or zippers were visible on any of the pieces he wore. She scrutinized the room for electric sockets or wiring hidden in the crevice where the wall met the ceiling.

  Nothing a modernized building possessed was visible.

  “You’re saying we’ve returned to your past,” she said, feeling green-around-the-gills herself.

  “Yes. If we’re to survive, you’ve got to understand the situation.”

  "What do you want from me?" The upheaval of emotions she'd suppressed poured out. "I'm confused, and this tale is so outlandish."

  "I know. Believe me, I know," he said and hugged her. "Are you up to hearing the rest?"

  She nodded yes. How much weirder could the story get?

  "When our spirits were freed, we were given the opportunity to come back, a chance to live out our lives anew. The man you know as Alex Lancaster is my second chance."

  Her fingers slid over his chest to his heart. She verified the rhythm of his heart matched hers before lowering her hand.

  "I'm quite alive, if that's what you're confirming, very much a flesh and blood mortal."

  "You're saying you've been reincarnated, that you lived before and can remember it all," she said. "I don't have any feelings one wa
y or the other about reincarnation. From what I’ve read, a person isn’t supposed to recall everything from a past life. Yet you do."

  "I never used the term reincarnation. I said I was given a second chance at life. Do you want the details?"

  She shook her head and stood. She needed space.

  He sounded so rational.

  She was in chaos.

  Chapter Fifteen

  One side of the chamber’s leaded window was open to let in fresh air. Shakira leaned against the window’s mullion and watched the activity in the bailey below.

  “I never heard of Elysian Fields...this one, I mean.”

  “It was destroyed in 1645 by Cromwell’s Army. Maybe if you let me explain more you'd understand."

  "I’m afraid that’s beyond me at the moment," she said. "I'm absolutely boggled. How can I understand? What's anyone supposed to say when a person--" She reached for the words to describe how she felt about him without admitting her strong emotions, "they have a deep affection for," she cringed inwardly as affection popped out. It was one of those insipid words she avoided using. "Claims to be a living ghost, how does any logical person understand?"

  She wasn't sure what she wished to hear. Maybe he had a sick sense of humor and thought this was funny. The twisted possibility was better than the others running through her mind, like maybe he’s just plain daft. She didn't want to love a crazy man. One final and terrible prospect remained. Everything he said was true.

  Years ago, she slipped on a patch of ice. For a few seconds her body hung horizontal to the pavement. Then, she hit the ground with a thud that knocked the wind out of her. In a panic, she struggled for breath, oblivious to all else. The same blind frenzy threatened again.