Journey in Time (Knights in Time) (12 page)

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 way 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.

“Alex, if this is a joke--”

"I swear to you I had nothing to do with this."

"Dear God." She slumped under the impact of his words and pressed her forehead against the stone mullion. The horror of the situation was too much to handle. Her world was orderly, methodical. This new reality shattered that world. "I'm sorry. The last thing you need right now is for me to fall apart. Please, give me a minute to pull myself together."

Instead, she began to shake. Alex came up behind her and slid his hands down her arms. "I think the term living ghost is an oxymoron."

The lighthearted quip meant to tease her into relaxing a bit, failed. For his sake, she wished she could fake it, smile a little and let him think the attempt worked. She felt like a shit, but she didn’t have it in her to give him the tiny victory.

"I guess you're not in the mood to quibble over semantics. I’m a living man who happens to remember my prior earthly life.”

He moved next to her and leaned on the window embrasure. “By a quirk of the fates, or by their design, I also remember the centuries where I drifted between worlds. Caught in a place where I could hear and see the descendents of my bloodline, but unable to do more than watch the events of their lives unfold. Unable to..."

He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he stared off into a distant place, locked on another time, reliving memories.

Her tremors subsided as she watched him, engrossed. “Unable to do what?” she asked, laying a hand on the linen sleeve of his shirt.
  

His bicep jerked beneath her palm and he turned. "It’s not important,” he said, the sorrow of the past in his eyes. “Déjà vu is just an eerie feeling for most people but my reality. Given a choice, I'd choose to remember nothing."

"Please go ahead with..." she gestured palms out, "how you came to be given this life."

"My nephew, many generations removed, fell into a coma following a traffic accident. Each day his spirit died a little. As the light from his energy failed, I was granted his form."

"What happened to his spirit?"
 

"I haven't a clue."

"Did you ask?" The question unintentionally sounded condescending and clinical.

Alex walked away. "No, I believe that information is on a need to know basis, and I never assumed I was on the need to know list." He kept his back to her and filled the goblets with wine. "Why do I feel like I'm on the witness stand? You want me to defend a circumstance where I had no control other than to agree or not."

"Sorry, force of habit." Such a weak apology, empathy for the trauma of his experience entered her conscience as an afterthought. "Blame my curiosity, but don’t despise me for it."

He handed her a goblet. "I don’t despise you. I doubt I ever could. Go on with your questions."

"When did this exchange take place?"

"Five years ago. He was twenty-five, almost twenty-six, my approximate age at Poitiers."

"Those knights and the people here think you’re the same man you were six-hundred years ago. They see Guy when they look at you. How? Why? I’m not sure what the correct question is."

"My nephew bore a remarkable resemblance to me, extraordinary considering the lapse of time between our lives."

"It is indeed."

Religion wasn’t her strong suit. She preferred to sleep in on Sundays, rather than attend church. But, Alex’s experience raised questions.

“You’re awareness of both your mortal and immortal life indicates the existence of a soul.”

He nodded. “I’d like to think there was more than mere memory.”

“Then you, Alex, are in possession of that soul.”

He nodded again.

“If there’s but one soul per person, what about Guy, the Guy Guiscard from this place, how can the two of you be?”

“I don’t believe we can exist on the same plane at the same time. He’s not in Wales. He’s me, and I’m here.”

Shakira sipped her wine, thinking in a strange way that was good news. “Its better, isn’t it? I mean, we don’t have to worry about him riding into the bailey. Seriously, explaining the phenomena of the two of you to these superstitious folks wouldn’t end well.”

“The terms pitchforks and torches come to mind.”

"Can you tell what year this is?"
 

"Yes, it’s early September, 1355, when I went to Wales. Simon told me I've been away about a week. I wasn't expected to return yet, which is why Simon and Stephen were so surprised to see, me or as they believe, Guy."

He rocked back and forth as they talked. The repetitive motion soothed her frayed nerves. "Poitiers was in September, 1356. At least we have a year to keep trying," she said.
 

The gentle swaying stopped. "No, we don’t." He pointed out the window to a stall next to the blacksmith’s. "See that man?"

A thin man in a leather apron stoked a forge with a length of flat metal, a sword. When the steel glowed red, he pulled the sword from the fire, held it aloft then laid it down onto an anvil. A small group of knights and garrison soldiers crowded around as he fashioned the blade.

"Yes."

"That’s the sword smith. On his left is our armourer. They work from sunup into the night so every soldier from Elysian Fields will have a weapon of some kind and protection. You see, we don't have a year. The army sails for France right after Yuletide this year."

"What are you saying?"

"Baron Guy Guiscard sailed with them. If we don’t find a way back to the twenty-first century, I, as Guy, will be expected to go--”