Italian Time Travel 01 - The Other Side of Heaven

by Morgan O'Neill

  The commander shouted again, “Tell his lordship my men are garrisoned, and we are ready to resume our meeting.”

  “A moment more!” Alberto called out. Looking at Gwen, he cleared his throat. “A moment more,” he shouted again. “We are nearly done.”

  Grumbles and fading footfalls could be heard outside.

  “Godwyn… er, my lady, I spoke too harshly out of mistrust. Forgive me, I…” he reached out, as though to touch her cheek, then his hand closed, along with his expression. He stepped back. “I will keep your secret and take the priest’s message under advisement. Obviously, you will be provided with private sleeping quarters tonight. You may withdraw and get something to eat while my steward sees to your comfort.”

  “Withdraw?” The word thundered in her soul. “No, no,” she whispered, “please, er, would you have dinner with me?”

  He looked into her eyes and then shook his head.

  “But, we still have a lot to talk about, don’t we?” she asked quietly.

  He glanced at the tent flap, considering. His demeanor was all business now. He called for his steward and spoke in the man’s ear. Gwen couldn’t hear anything, but the steward nodded, glanced her way, and then nodded again.

  Alberto turned back to his maps, then said, “I’ll come when I’m able, Brother. You may go with my steward. He will see to everything.”

  *

  Gwen paced the tent, her food untouched. Where was he? She sat and poured a mug of wine, then dunked a piece of crusty bread in it and chewed. Had he decided not to show?

  Footsteps came and went outside her tent, men muttering. Gradually, the camp quieted, and she stretched out on her cot, convinced he’d blown off their meeting.

  “Godwyn?”

  Her eyes flew open. He was standing over her, gazing down. Gwen sat up, ran her hands through her hair, then noticed how different Alberto looked. He was clean-shaven, his tunic fresh.

  “My apologies for barging in, but you didn’t answer.”

  “No, no.” She scrambled up. “Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward the table and stools. “Uh, are you hungry?”

  He nodded and then sat.

  She joined him and nervously poured the wine.

  He smiled and raised his mug. “Lady Gwendolyn Godwyn.”

  His dark eyes held a smoldering heat she’d never seen before, and her body warmed in response. Whoa, slow down, she scolded herself.

  She tapped her mug against his and smiled back, hoping she didn’t sound too lame as she said, “The term lady might be a stretch, but it’s nice to be honest with you at last.”

  They both drank, and Alberto kept his gaze on her the whole time. He was gorgeous.

  “I’ve decided to send some men with you first thing tomorrow.”

  Relieved, she spontaneously reached out and touched his arm. “Thank you.”

  Alberto was still for a long moment, then took her hand and turned it over, gently tracing his thumb across her palm. “You are most welcome.”

  His caress unleashed the heat of desire and sent it surging from her sensitive palm to her pulsing core. She felt her body instinctively sway toward him, but something within cried out for caution, and she forced herself to pull back. She didn’t dare reveal how she felt about him. Not yet. Her mind reeled, the complications of a relationship with him overwhelming, risky, given the turmoil of this world and her place in it.

  He looked long and deep into her eyes. “You have told me a great deal this night, which has opened my eyes to new possibilities. From the first, you have bedeviled me and now you beguile as well. I know how to deal with Berengar, but you, you are a strange woman and full of courage, and I am still trying to make sense of this.”

  She nodded. “Believe me, so am I.”

  “And am I to understand from this private meeting that you hold some affection for me?” he quietly asked.

  Her mouth dropped open. The look on his face, filled with hope, made her uneasiness disappear. He was hers for the asking. “Yes.”

  He smiled and stood, drawing her to her feet. She’d never been this close to him and breathed in his scent: damp wool and leather; a hint of wood smoke mingling with the wine. His dark eyes sparkled only inches from hers, and his lips, his lips…

  She leaned in, closing the whisper of distance still separating them. “Yes, you have my affection… Alberto.”

  Gwen touched her lips to his and then drew back, searching his expression.

  He pulled her close, his mouth covering hers, his kisses searing, intense, causing the cares of the world to fall away. He held her nearer still, his hardness compelling, his body powerful and ready. She felt molded to him, melting hot, willing.

  Finally, he groaned and stepped back, but his smoldering gaze held her captive. “I have spent days hating you for the desires you stirred in me, Gwendolyn. I thought I was losing my wits, even my soul. I prayed God never to see you again.”

  Gwen wanted him so badly her mind refused to form words.

  “Now, somehow,” he said, wonder in his voice, “I pray God you may never leave my side.”

  *

  Gwendolyn reached up and touched Alberto’s cheek, her fingers lingering. A jolt of pleasure shot to his loins.

  “Alberto,” she whispered.

  The intensity of her gaze took his breath away. “Gwendolyn, I––”

  “My lord, a scout has just come in and seeks an audience,” the sentry’s voice rose from outside the tent.

  Gwen backed away and Alberto adjusted his tunic, willing his body to obey.

  Not now, he scolded himself. Not yet. Not this night, with the entire garrison listening, as they surely would. Not with the queen in gravest danger. Not this night.

  Holding her gaze, he moved to the tent flap and spoke loudly for those outside, “We’ve finished here. See to his needs and those of his horse. I shall call for him after I have returned to my tent.”

  He knew Gwendolyn wanted the moment to go forward as much as he. Despite her butchered tresses, she was beautiful. How could he ever have thought her a lad? He had never wanted any woman as badly as this one. By God, the feelings she stirred in him!

  “Come back when you’re done?” she whispered.

  Another jolt of heat surged to his loins, but he shook his head and grinned. “There would be talk if I spent the night with a monk.” He watched her a moment more, memorizing her face, the blue of her eyes. “Rest well this night, good monk,” he added, trying to sound casual as he opened the flap and stepped out.

  Reaching his own tent, Alberto felt more excited than he had in years. His relief when Gwendolyn revealed her true nature obliterated the sense of shame he’d carried since he’d rescued her. Now other, stronger emotions replaced it, chief among them passion. How she stirred him!

  He suddenly realized the aching void he’d suffered since losing Hilde had changed and transformed itself into tender remembrance. No one, certainly not Hilde, would have wanted or expected him to live the rest of his life as a monk. He smiled, knowing she would have seen the humor in this comparison, given Gwendolyn’s assumed identity.

  He also realized she’d be the first to give her blessing.

  Then he recalled Gwendolyn’s dangerous mission, the reason for her coming. She’d been brave enough to ride alone for days, strong-willed enough to put the needs of others before her own, bold enough to put him in his place. That a woman could show such strength of character, such courage, stunned him, and he smiled when he recalled how she’d stood up to him, and then chuckled at the thought of Father Warinus when he finally discovered her truth.

  He must tell his men the evil news from Pavia, and hard decisions would be made, but the hardest, Alberto realized, would be the unavoidable necessity of telling Gwendolyn he couldn’t spare more than an escort or two and some medical supplies.

  He tried to decide who should ride with her. Barca, yes. Alberto nodded, satisfied. Barca could be trusted in all things. His skills were excellent
and he would be just the man to protect Gwen. And Ionas the Greek was a good healer. He could be spared, since Alberto had several others under his command. Ionas would help Warinus in his efforts.

  At first light, Alberto and the rest of his men would ride in another direction – the direction of Berengar and his castle-keep, high on the bluffs overlooking Lake Garda.

  Would Gwendolyn be angry with his decision? His mind returned to what he’d said to her: Damn your guile. I prayed God never to see you again. And then he recalled his final words: I pray God you may never leave my side.

  He was profoundly shaken. Were his feelings for her really so strong?

  It seemed so. He wondered how he might make those feelings known before… no, there was no other way. He had men to lead. Duties.

  For the time being, bringing a woman into his life, even this one, was a luxury he could ill afford.

  *

  The soldier Barca stood before Alberto, eyes wide, thick black brows raised, making no effort to hide his astonishment.

  Alberto waved him off, impatient. “Father Warinus sent her here in all haste, since he is unaware of her secret and did not realize what could befall her. Be that as it may, she came willingly and without escort. Using the disguise was the only way she could travel freely.”

  The sturdy, barrel-chested man cleared his throat and collected himself. “Yes, my lord. My apologies. How may I be of service?”

  “You must take her back to Pavia,” Alberto spoke briskly. “Her mission is of the utmost importance. She must not be caught or waylaid, and has no ability to defend herself, so don’t expect any help.” Alberto thought he could detect disappointment behind Barca’s stern expression. “You must do this, man.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “I am also sending Ionas the Greek. Father Warinus has need of healers. You’ll find Ionas fights no better than she does, so do not expect help from that quarter, either.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I will not tell Ionas of her true identity, Barca, and neither shall you. He has no need to know. Should he somehow be captured, he cannot divulge what he does not know.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good. We will depart at first light. I want you gone before then.”

  “My lord.” The soldier bowed, then turned on his heel and left the tent.

  “Do not fail me in this, Barca,” Alberto said quietly, staring at the flap.

  He closed his eyes and prayed, “Keep Gwendolyn safe and well.”

  *

  After a fitful, lonely night, Gwen stood in Alberto’s tent, trying to find the words to say goodbye.

  “Do not be angry with me, Gwendolyn.”

  She raised her eyes and looked into his. “I’m not angry, Alberto. I’m terrified. You’ve fought a hundred battles – it’s what you do – but this is the first time I’ve had to send you into that hell, and I… I don’t want to let you go. What if…?”

  “I am humbled by your concern, but I will be fine,” he said with a grim smile. “It is Berengar who will suffer.”

  “Damn bravado,” Gwen grumbled, thumping him lightly on the chest. “Men always think they have total control, but they don’t. I want to be there, too, to protect you, to stand guard, or throw myself in front of a blade!”

  Alberto grinned and took her hand in his. “My mighty, becowled, warrior-maid. That might be one way to slay Berengar – he would die of laughter.”

  Gwen frowned and leaned against him. “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “I’m not. I know you mean every word, and I admire your bravery.”

  He kissed her hand, his lips soft, his stubble rough against her skin, and she closed her eyes, heat flushing through her body.

  “It is said,” Alberto’s voice was low, his mouth brushing her earlobe, “a warrior must never face battle without his lady’s kiss.”

  Gwen looked into his eyes and smiled.

  “May I know that I ride forth with your heart?”

  She nodded, and he wrapped her in his arms. He kissed her deeply, pressing against her, and her whole body throbbed with need.

  “Gwendolyn,” he whispered into her hair, “we both know there is no time for this now, but I will return to you unscathed and when next we meet…”

  “Yes.” She rested her cheek against his chest, hearing the heavy beat of his heart. “Be careful, Alberto.”

  He held her quietly for a few moments and then placed his hands on her shoulders, his own sagging in resignation. “Now go, Brother Godwyn. Go with Barca and please, no swordplay, no mighty deeds. Keep yourself from harm, as will I, and we shall see each other again before very long, I promise.”

  Chapter 9

  It was an afternoon of brisk wind, racing clouds, and deep blue skies. Adelaide was determined to separate her hope from her fear, yet the pounding of hooves matched that of her heart; she knew she would not rest until Emma was back in her arms.

  She forced herself to consider the men who rode beside her. Brave Prand, God keep him and protect him always. And Stefano, poor Stefano. It was two days since they had escaped Berengar’s camp, nearly two full days on horseback. Stefano looked dreadful, and he could not ride well, lord, he could not ride at all. And she doubted very much he would be able to wield the blade Prand had given him. Poor Stefano.

  They had pushed themselves hard, urging their mounts eastward through field and forest, avoiding roads, paths, and homesteads, until the sun was low behind them. At last, when they reached a clearing, Prand raised his arm and slowed his horse to a walk.

  Adelaide followed suit, and Stefano tried, but he pulled too hard on the reins. His horse stopped dead in its tracks, nearly throwing him over its head. Fortunately, Stefano managed to pitch sideways, hitting the dirt, his body – and pride, no doubt – bruised, but otherwise unscathed.

  Prand frowned but said nothing as he dismounted, then assisted Adelaide.

  “Stefano, how do you fare?” Adelaide reached out to comfort the battered man, touching his sleeve, then offering him the skein of ale provided by Prand, giving it to him before even she took a drink.

  Stefano gave her a grateful smile.

  “Yes, friend, take your ease,” Adelaide replied, smiling back.

  “My lady, see the farm over yonder?” Prand asked, pointing to rolling hills. “The owner will hide us.”

  Adelaide looked out and sighed at the idyllic scene. There was a large, thatch-roofed farmhouse surrounded by several loggias and outbuildings. Spring wheat stood tall in the fields, each section separated by lines of grapevines, which also blanketed the nearby hills. Adelaide glanced back at the house. Who lived there? How could Prand be certain the landowner was trustworthy?

  He must have sensed her disquiet, for he softly added, “Have no fear. I was here often in my youth, and we still correspond. The man is my uncle. We shall sleep in safety this night.”

  *

  Twilight had fallen, and the night air billowed through the doorway with a first trace of warmth, of summer eves to come. Adelaide sat at the large farm table, sipping a sweet white wine. Sighing, she knew this was but a brief respite from her travails, a time to rest, collect her thoughts, and seek wise counsel.

  She listened to the chattering women, who groomed Stefano in another room, then turned her attention to Prand and his uncle, Jacopo. In the candlelight, the farmer’s face held the same hawk-look of his nephew, yet Jacopo was far taller and muscle-bound from years of heavy physical labor.

  Adelaide carefully watched Jacopo’s shifting features. Clearly, his initial enthusiasm at seeing Prand had waned; now he was considering the dire consequences of his hospitality, should anyone find out.

  Jacopo glanced at the open door and tossed back the rest of his wine. “You must understand… you see, it’s the neighbors, Liutprand. If they learn of your visit, well, I’m afraid few can keep secrets in these parts.”

  “Of course. No one saw our approach, and we shall be up and out by sunrise, Uncle,
” Prand said as he placed his cup on the table.

  “No one goes undetected here, I can assure you. But, regardless, an early departure would be best. These are dangerous times,” Jacopo replied, looking at Adelaide.

  She answered him with a smile. “Worry not. You shall be rewarded for your pains.”

  “My lady, with respect, a lasting peace will be reward enough.”

  “On the contrary, I am well aware of the risks to you and your family, and when peace is restored your hospitality in these dark times will have its recompense. I will not forget. Berengar is surely angered by my escape and will not rest until I am recaptured.” She made the sign of the cross. “God keep that from happening.”

  Prand frowned. “Uncle, I would speak to the queen in private.”

  “Yes, yes.” Jacopo rose from the table and bowed to Adelaide. “I must make certain my sons have given your horses the best of care.”

  As soon as Jacopo left, Prand refilled his wine cup, raised it and drank to her health. “Propinô soi!”

  The Greek salutation made Adelaide smile. It was Prand’s way of being intimate with her. The old friendship was rekindled, another reminder of their shared past. She was touched.

  “Eukharistos eimi,” she replied, realizing she did feel very well, indeed. She lifted her cup. “Propinô soi!”

  He nodded, taking a sip. His expression grew somber. “If we leave here at dawn, we might just reach Pavia by sundown.”

  “And then what, Prand? What should we do?”

  He took a long drink. “With your permission, I would speak plainly to you.”

  She recognized the tone in his voice and reached out, placing her hand over his. “I welcome it. Speak.”

  “Alberto Uzzo has begun to muster his forces. Berengar wished to have you well inside Castle Garda before his lordship is able to ride forth at full strength.”

  “But now I am free, Prand. Soon, I shall be reunited with my daughter, and I have been thinking… mayhap we should go to Rome. The Holy Father will protect us while Lord Alberto wages war.”

  “Yes, but he may not easily put down Berengar. We need another. You know of whom I speak.”