Italian Time Travel 01 - The Other Side of Heaven

by Morgan O'Neill

  Gwen swallowed. “Stefano was beheaded several days ago.”

  Adelaide groaned and then murmured a prayer. “My poor friend, my poor, dear friend. He was so kind, so caring, and selflessly brave.”

  “Yes, he was a good man.”

  “Did you know him?” the queen asked.

  “I met him once. He was a wonderful man. He didn’t deserve to die.”

  “I feared Willa would do something like this, and I prayed God to save him, but, but,” Adelaide wept bitterly, “now I find myself questioning the Lord’s existence. How could God allow such things to happen? How?”

  Gwen sat there, tears running down her cheeks, listening to Adelaide’s sobs. What could she say to her? How could she comfort her? She didn’t dare pretend to have those sorts of answers.

  Gwen touched Adelaide’s forehead, making the sign of the cross, just as Father Warinus had done for her. It had been comforting then; perhaps it would work now. “My daughter, I don’t know why he had to suffer. I must admit, I don’t have the answers.”

  “The Church teaches us to accept God’s will.” Adelaide leaned against Gwen, allowing herself to be hugged. “The priests tell us it is sinful to doubt.”

  “Yes,” Gwen said softly, “but we are only human.”

  Adelaide sighed, and Gwen rocked her long into the night.

  *

  To the dismay of the guard, Gwen insisted on taking the oil lamp as she exited the dungeon. It had to be very late. The castle was quiet, seemingly empty, but for a few night watchmen. She made her way through the public spaces, past poor Adelaide’s braid, then outside to the hostelry and her bedchamber.

  A serving man had shown Gwen to her private quarters before the banquet, and made sure to point out her good fortune; most visitors stayed in the castle’s large, noisy dormitories.

  Gwen opened the door to her small room, yawned, and looked longingly at the pallet-bed. Earlier, she’d arranged the pillow and her sack under the covers, in case anyone checked on Brother Godwyn in the middle of the night.

  After placing the oil lamp on the table, she pulled aside the covers and retrieved her sack, shaking out the contents on her bed. She suddenly wondered what time it was, deciding it had to very late, well past midnight. She’d recently fiddled with her watch, trying to set the time to jive with the June sun. Rummaging, she got sidetracked by gifts Father Warinus had given her just before they’d set out from Pavia.

  Besides the rosary, she now had a much larger wine skein, some hardtack for emergencies, new undertunics, a tiny ivory pick for cleaning her teeth, and two gross reminders of where she really was: a wooden lice comb and a small, shovel-like implement for scooping earwax. He’d also provided a sewing kit, complete with delicate ivory needles, scissors, and an assortment of colored thread, all kept in a beautifully tooled leather case.

  Funny how little she actually needed. She had been so spoiled in the modern world. Gwen touched the pretty case and for a moment the recent horrors faded. She was struck by the sheer wonder of being here, smack-dab in the Middle Ages, meeting the people, listening to them speak, touching things like this collection of whatnots. How often had she wished for the ability to travel in time? She knew her professors and fellow grad students would give their right arms for a chance like this.

  But without a return ticket, actually experiencing it was…

  Gwen sighed as she rifled through the undertunics and found her watch with its black and white image of the world’s most famous mouse, standing at the helm of a steamboat. The watch was a gift from her father on her twenty-first birthday, and she recalled the twinkle in his eyes as he said, You’re officially an adult now, Gwennie, but don’t let that ever get in the way of having fun. We can always go back to the park any time you want.

  “Daddy, you old Disney-loving boomer,” she whispered to the air. “I wish more than anything… I wish I could see you again, tell you I’m alive.”

  Her voice failed, the attempt to recapture her fond memories backfiring. An angry tear rolled down her cheek, and she fiercely brushed it away, then picked up the skein and took a swig of wine. She held the wristwatch up to the light and read: 3:50.

  Painfully late. She yawned again and drank some more wine. The need for sleep suddenly overwhelmed and she fought the urge to curl up on her pillow. She couldn’t risk going to bed. She was so tired, she knew she’d oversleep. Once she got back to Father Warinus, she’d take a long nap.

  Gwen sat on the bed, removed her sandals, and began to massage her feet. They were a mess, her heels calloused and cracked, but when she focused on her fingers and ragged nails she grimaced. They’d probably only get worse in the coming days, from all the digging they still had to do.

  She looked over at the washstand in the corner. At its feet stood a bucket of water, a stool, a few rough, linen cloths that passed for towels, and a small bottle. The bottle intrigued Gwen and she wondered what it held. Some kind of medieval version of lotion or bath oil? She could only hope. Feeling grimy, she decided to scrub up; the opportunity to wash didn’t happen very often.

  She stood and pulled off her cowl and undertunic. The stone floor was cold as she walked toward the washbasin.

  After uncorking the bottle, Gwen sniffed its contents. Lavender. She dabbed it on her fingers, rubbing them together. Oil – wonderful. She worked some into her feet and hands, then dripped a bit into the bucket and swished it about. After wetting a towel, she rubbed her face. The scent was heavenly, buoying her spirits, but not for long.

  To her dismay, her pending escape still loomed in her thoughts, and Gwen frowned, assuring herself everything was going as planned. It would work out. The steward said the gates would open an hour before dawn. Not too much longer.

  She smiled grimly. Then I’m outta here.

  *

  Berengar arrived at his castle-keep just before Lauds and heard the bell toll thrice, a signal for his wife’s clergy to attend chapel. The lower and upper gates had opened to him without question, his troop of thirty handpicked bodyguards galloping through, intent on stabling their horses and getting some rest after the long ride home.

  As soon as they reined in, Niccolo appeared and bowed, not a hair out of place, anxious to see to his lord’s needs. Berengar dismounted and handed his reins to a stableboy. Removing his helmet, he allowed Niccolo to assist him with his chain mail.

  The man opened his mouth to speak, but Berengar waved him off and walked away. No time for distractions. There was only one thing he needed now.

  He strode into the castle and up the stairwell to Willa’s bower, taking the steps two at a time. He dismissed the guard and burst into the room, finding his wife’s ladies sprawled around her, asleep.

  “Out!”

  The women scrambled up and left.

  Willa slept on, doubtless drugged with one of her sleeping potions.

  No matter. Berengar stripped, then moved to the bed. Pulling Willa to the edge, he stood over her, spread her legs, and grabbed her breasts. She lay like a dead thing, unresponsive, which aroused him even more. “Sweet Willa.”

  “Berengar?” She slowly opened her heavy lids and then glared at him. “You stink of the road. Get away from me, you son of a whore!”

  “Do you dare deny me?”

  She roused herself even more and moved to push him away with her foot. “Do you dare provoke my wrath? I decide when to spread my legs, and it is not now. Get out!”

  “Bitch.” He drew away and, without a backward glance, pulled on his clothes and went downstairs to the ever-present Niccolo.

  Berengar took a proffered cup of wine and guzzled it down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Tell me everything that has happened since I left.”

  “My lord, Queen Adelaide is in solitary confinement, still willful and ever defiant. As for the male prisoner, your wife did her best to extract information, but he attacked her and she was forced to kill him in self-defense. His head is affixed to a pike on the lower gate.” />
  “Yes, yes, I saw what’s left of him. A pity I was not there to witness the event.” Berengar smiled at Niccolo, and the man squirmed under his gaze. He was not telling everything he knew.

  The steward stared back. “My lord?”

  “And? What have you neglected to say?”

  Niccolo started. “Nothing, my lord!”

  “Bah!” Berengar spat on the floor and scowled at him.

  “Well,” Niccolo’s eyes widened, “there is one other trifling bit of news.”

  “I thought as much.”

  “Yes, my lord. A Benedictine monk was admitted here this past eve. He has taken a vow of silence.”

  “What?” Berengar’s instincts flared. The princess Emma had been spirited away by a Benedictine. “Did you recognize this man?”

  “No, he was a stranger, my lord, young, tall, wearing the light robe favored by some orders, not the black.”

  Christ! Berengar fumed. His men had reported just such a monk in Pavia. “Where is this monk?”

  “He was given a private room in the hostelry, the one with the peephole, for I assumed you might want him watched. I went there a few hours ago, but he was asleep in his bed. I planned to go back and make certain he––”

  Berengar turned on his heel and left the steward in mid-sentence. Upon reaching the hostelry, he quietly slipped inside the room next to the monk’s bedchamber. Looking through the hole, he was surprised to see the monk awake. Stripped to the waist, he stood with his back to Berengar, sponging himself.

  Nothing remarkable, except…

  His waist curved in. His graceful movements accentuated the slenderness of his shoulders and arms.

  Instantly suspicious, Berengar leaned forward, willing the monk to turn. As if in response, the stranger pivoted and faced him, reaching for a towel.

  Berengar saw two small breasts, their nipples golden pink in the lamplight.

  It was all a sham. She was a spy, the devious bitch!

  The woman let her robe drop from her waist. Her mound was fair. Berengar licked his lips. She raised her left leg, placing her foot on a stool, and gently sponged herself.

  Berengar’s eyes flew to her cleft, the blush on her glistening flesh the same as her nipples. He grew rock-hard and grabbed himself. A good rape tonight, the perfect way to celebrate his homecoming.

  He watched the woman pat herself dry, idly wondering how she tasted, and how he would torture her. He weighed his options, anticipating endless hours of amusement.

  Yes. He laughed softly. Then she will burn.

  *

  Gwen picked up a clean undertunic and checked her watch. It was almost 4:30. The gates must be open by now.

  The door creaked and she froze, and then spun to meet the intruder. A dark-haired man stood there, his tunic made of a fine silk brocade. “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I might ask the same. You certainly are no monk.” He leered, staring at her breasts, and undid the drawstring on his breeches. “How dare you infiltrate my castle with your lies and deceit. I shall teach you a lesson.”

  “Berengar, you murderer!” Gwen lunged at him, wanting to claw his eyes out.

  He seized her wrist, and panicking she tried to twist free.

  “Bitch, what is that you hold?”

  Gwen moved to hide her wristwatch, but he snatched it away. She stumbled back, looking for a way out as he blocked the door.

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her watch, then he pushed up his sleeve, revealing his wrist.

  Gwen was dumbstruck. “Stefano’s watch! You bastard. He was my friend.”

  “Spy,” he growled. “So you were in league with him. Well, you’ve come too late. That was his head you saw rotting on the gate.” He laughed and opened his pants, exposing himself, and grabbed her.

  She twisted aside, upsetting the bucket with her foot. Water sloshed across the floor.

  Grasping for her, getting tangled in his drooping pants, Berengar lost his balance and fell flat.

  Gwen saw her chance, scrambled for the bucket and swung hard, striking him on the side of the head. He didn’t move after that.

  Chest heaving, she stood for a long moment, eyeing him. She kicked his side. No reaction. He was out cold.

  Gwen threw on her cowl and sandals, then grabbed her things off the bed and stuffed them into her sack. She was almost out the door when she remembered the watches. She wrenched hers from his hand, then took Stefano’s, kissed it, and shoved both into her sack.

  “Berengar, you bastard! I hope you can hear me. I should kill you for what you did to Stefano, you medieval piece of shit!”

  He moaned. Gwen dropped her things and hit him with the bucket again. This time the blow landed right on his nose. Reflexively, he gasped and his eyes flew open, and then rolled back into his head. His body shuddered, and he went still.

  Gwen felt no pity or remorse as blood poured from his nostrils, but gathered her things and set off, intent on escape. Stefano’s watch weighed heavily on her mind, the only remaining connection to him, a part of her now.

  She raced out the door.

  Chapter 16

  In the dim light before dawn, Gwen hurried toward the castle’s main gate. Her sack thumped against her back as she fought to maintain her balance, holding her hem high so she could jog without tripping. She smiled and waved at an unfamiliar guard standing at the threshold. He looked confused by her haste, but smiled back and let her pass.

  One more gate to go and then she’d be free. Rushing headlong down the steep grade of the causeway, Gwen cursed as she tripped, fell hard, then rolled and was on her feet again almost immediately.

  A horn blasted.

  Oh shit! Why didn’t I tie him up?

  Gwen picked up her pace. She’d never run so hard in her life. The lower gate was right in front of her. Fifteen feet. Ten. Five. She dashed through, passing another bewildered guard, who cried out, but wasn’t quick enough to stop her.

  The trees. She had to get to the trees.

  An arrow whizzed by, then another. She could hear pounding hooves and forced her legs to pump harder still. She passed the first bushes, twigs swatting at her skin, her hair. She didn’t try to avoid them, didn’t care as they scraped her cheeks, snagged her cowl. She reached the trees, crossing into the shadowy woods, but the hooves thundered ever louder. Close, so close. Where could she hide? Which way––?

  Suddenly, Gwen was snatched off her feet, her waist caught in an iron grip, the galloping horse only inches away. Shouting, she struggled against her captor, but he was too strong for her. In the next instant, she was forced over the pommel, a hand pressed against the small of her back, holding her in place.

  She tried to scream, but couldn’t. Her legs dangled down one side of the horse, her torso down the other. All she could see were flying hooves, clods of dirt, a black leather boot; all she could hear was the great beast blowing, straining, the thunder beat of its hooves against the ground.

  “Sonofabitch, this hurts – let me go!” Gwen grabbed for her abductor’s calf, to push up and ease her stomach away from the pommel, but she couldn’t free herself. Then her gaze fixed on bright metal.

  Crested spurs and… greyhounds! Gwen twisted, unable to get a glimpse of her captor’s – no, her rescuer’s – face, but a thrill coursed through her body. Nevertheless, she needed to be blunt.

  “Alberto, you’re hurting me!”

  “Hold on, a few moments more,” he shouted. “I must be certain no one follows us.”

  His horse dodged one way, then the other, crashing through brush and branches, leaping over boulders, finding its way through the forest.

  Finally, Alberto reined him in. “Hurry, put your left foot in my stirrup, so you can stand,” he ordered.

  When she did, he grabbed her by the scruff of her hood and yanked her upright. “Good. Now, swing your right leg over Heracles’s back. You can ride behind me. Hold on!”

  Gwen did as she was told, and as soon as she was settled, Alberto ur
ged his horse to a canter and they were off again.

  She held on tight, concentrating on the rhythm of the great warhorse, intent on keeping her seat. From time to time, she peered back over her shoulder, but saw no sign of pursuit. Then her eyes returned to Alberto. Despite his helmet, she caught the firm set of his jaw, his glancing eyes, his utter concentration, determination, and calculation.

  They had been riding for some time, and Gwen felt exhausted when Alberto finally slowed his horse to a trot, then to a walk. The poor animal was covered in sweat, but he still held his head high and proud, his ears alert.

  “I will not push Heracles anymore,” Alberto said quietly. “I do not believe anyone saw me rescue you. But I will assume Berengar’s troops realize someone took you away by horse. We must evade them through stealth now. Be alert to any noise.”

  “I will.” Gwen hesitated, questions filling her head. “Thank you for rescuing me, Alberto,” she whispered. “Berengar was… he found out… I’m sure he knows I saw the queen. I’ve ruined everything.”

  “You were quite reckless.” Alberto’s tone was formal, rigid. “You were also exceptionally brave to leave Pavia, then infiltrate Berengar’s keep. You’ve ruined nothing, my lady.”

  Gwen felt Alberto’s muscles tense as he added, “I nearly had Barca’s head for letting you out of his sight.”

  “Alberto, I released him from his bond.”

  “He was not under your command!” The harshness of his tone caused Heracles to prance nervously. Alberto cursed and rubbed the horse’s neck, settling him. “Do not countermand my orders again.”

  “I’m sorry, but you needed to know what happened to the queen. And Stefano was, was––” Gwen’s voice broke, her eyes filling with tears.

  Alberto glanced over his shoulder. “Barca explained,” he said, modulating his voice. “I pray to God Stefano died swiftly, Gwendolyn. Barca told me this man was your guide.”

  She wiped her eyes. “Yes, he was a friend.”

  Alberto stared straight ahead. “Ah, I see.”

  “You don’t see anything, Alberto. He was a good man, as much as I knew of him. But he was only a friend.”