Journey in Time (Knights in Time) (32 page)

The stiffness softened. His barrel chest caved inward with the slump of his shoulders. He clasped his hands behind him and turned from her.

Shakira held onto a tenuous hope Blanche’s revelation was jealousy induced drivel. She despaired at the knight’s reaction and feared his reticence indicated the worst, but she needed confirmation.

"You place me in a precarious position, milady. What you ask is not my duty to yea or nay."

"Simon, please. If you were in my position wouldn’t you want to know?"

A long moment went by and then he faced her. He spoke matter-of-factly. "I respect your wish for the truth. In answer to your inquiry, yes, I understand he displeased the king with your marriage. Whether he'd have sailed to France or stayed here," Simon shrugged, "who can predict the nature of a king?"

"Make a guess."

"I believe Edward would order him to keep watch on our borders. A king must protect what is his already if he wants to remain a king. But depending on how the campaign is going, your marriage may not be a deciding factor in how Sir Guy is used."

Something Shakira speculated might be regret touched Simon's expression. "Do you require anything else of me, milady?"

"No. Thank you for your honesty, Simon. You may go."

With a slight incline of his head, the knight walked away at a brisk pace.

Leave here with Alex, or leave Alex. Last night, she’d sworn to do whatever was necessary to save him. Last night, deep within her, she’d bargained on receiving a miracle answer from Simon.

She eyed the chapel entrance. “A miracle didn’t save you from destruction,” she said bitterly. “It appears they’re in short supply. I’ll have to work this out myself.”

The answer was obvious and she knew it long before she reached the steps of the Keep.

If they didn't get home, he had to be free to pursue any opportunity, even annul their marriage and marry Blanche as repugnant as that idea was. Escape was his best chance. He could disguise himself and cross into Wales or the Scottish Highlands, somewhere out of sight from the English nobility. He’d need speed and stealth. His survival odds increased if he traveled alone, without her to encumber him, or add to his worries.

The success of either option required him to be free of her.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Shakira spent the rest of the morning in their chamber and detailed her strategy. Alex said Hailes Abbey was close. He spoke well of the monastery, impressed with the newness.

"Founded by the Cistercians, little more than a hundred years old," he said, adding he knew nothing of the order, per se. The abbey sounded decent. Fingers crossed, newer equated to cleaner. Tomorrow, she'd ask the village priest to arrange a meeting with the abbess. She’d invent a credible excuse for the trip to tell Alex and the need to go without him.

"I'll say a visit to the abbey helps dispel any suspicions the villagers have about my religious background. Yes, that will work." She practiced the explanation aloud, like she practiced opening and closing arguments for court.
 

She dashed for the bailey when the guards on the palisade called out just as Alex and Stephen cantered through the gate.

"Milord," she said a little breathless, excited to see him after making depressing plans all morning. "I’ve ordered bread, cheese, and ale served in the hall."
  

 
He looped an arm around her and gave her waist a tight squeeze. "Miss me?"

"You were only gone a few hours."

"You wound me. A man always hopes to be missed."

"I missed you. Every time you go, I miss you from the minute you ride out the gate until you ride into the bailey."

“Good," he said as they reached the table. He tossed his gauntlets down. A subtle change came over his jovial mood. He looked into her eyes not with sexual intent, but curiosity, as if she were a riddle he couldn’t quite solve.

"Rocky, I-" He cupped her cheek in his palm. "I--thank you for the meal." He flashed a quick smile and sat with his men.

For one fleeting instant, she thought he might say he missed her too. It’d be nice to hear.

Simon walked in and joined Stephen, seated at the end of the table. Simon-another bucket of cold water reminding her she'd have to lie to Alex and make arrangements to visit Hailes. Both deeds were bitter pills.

***

Before Dawn, Alex slipped from bed. He dressed in the faint glow of the dying embers in the fireplace. Shakira stirred once as he lifted the bar from their chamber door but didn’t awaken. Other than the guards on the gates, and those in the flanking towers, the castle slept. At the base of the staircase, he removed a torch from the holder and passed through the kitchen, out a rear door. The hurried footsteps of the guards on the wall came his direction. He stopped and held the torch high at an angle that showed his face. The men acknowledged him and returned to their posts.

He continued past the chapel to the family plot. He jabbed the torch handle into the cemetery’s soft ground and sat on the stone bench by his father’s grave. The torch flame flickered, lighting the engraving on the headstone.

Baron Charles Marion Guiscard

Died in the year of our lord, 1349

Fortiter et Fideliter

His grandfather’s headstone carried the family motto also. Both were courageous and bold in battle, fighting for king and country. Time was short and Alex was out of options. Only escape remained. The decision brought shame to them, to the Guiscard name.
 

Once he and Shakira crossed into Wales and out of the king’s immediate reach, he’d get word to Hugh. Hugh would have to take Madeline and Geoffrey someplace safe. He had family in Aberdeen. Alex would insist Hugh take his mother from the convent. They’d hate him for forcing them to leave their homes. Alex hated himself for bringing trouble to their doorstep. Maybe after the English victory at Poitiers, the king’s anger might wane and they’d be free to return to Somerset.

He’d be labeled a coward. There’d be no forgiveness from Stephen, or Simon, or Basil. Basil, his brother in friendship, would die believing the worst of him.

An opossum sniffed around the base of an oak a few feet from him. It waddled over to the spot of light from the torch and investigated Alex’s boot. When Alex wiggled his foot, the opossum withdrew. Lips drawn, baring his teeth, he stiffened, and flopped onto his side, mimicking death--
playing possum
.

“There’s no playing dead for me, little fellow, only real dead, or alive.”

Alex stared at the motionless animal, his mind on the decision. There’d be no turning back. He promised Shakira he’d work things out. If this was the only choice, so be it. He’d live with it. They’d live with it.

Rising, he wiped away the wet leaves that littered the top of the headstone. Then, he knelt on the damp ground to trace the letters of the motto.

Fortiter et Fideliter--
Boldly and Faithfully.

“Forgive me.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Her head spinning, still in her cloak, Shakira flopped backwards on the bed. Things had moved faster than expected. She imagined her first meeting with the abbess would take longer than three days to arrange. Wishful thinking.

What an eye opener the visit was. Of course, Abbess Turcotte's cozy quarters were comfortable with tapestry covered walls, blazing hearth, cushy chairs, and upholstered prie-dieux in the corner. Lest there be any doubt she was
the
Abbess, all the candles were expensive beeswax instead of noxious smelling tallow. Just as their stanchions were etched silver.

Their meeting had been perfunctory on the abbess' part and a case of tightly harnessed hysteria on Shakira's. Turcotte got the important business out of the way before she explained the tenets of the Order and they toured the abbey. She stressed how often the church is approached to accept unwanted wives and useless daughters.

"The church is poor and expected to fulfill many duties on a pittance."

Hyperbole was standard in courtrooms. Shakira saw Turcotte’s use of “pittance” for the hyperbole it was, church mumbo-jumbo to squeeze her for coin. Evidence of the abbey’s alleged poverty was nowhere to be seen in Turcotte’s living quarters. The silver stanchions alone would bring a pretty penny.
Sell
those
. It took Shakira’s considerable restraint not to speak her thoughts.

Payment was a sticky wicket. She only had a tiny bit of jewelry, everything else of value belonged to Alex and was accounted for. Under no circumstance would she surrender her wedding ring. If and when, the time came for her to enter the abbey, she'd secrete it in an intimate part of her person. The abbess was content with Shakira’s offering, Queen Philippa's wedding gift to her, a strand of black pearls, a meter in length, with ruby stations.

“I’ll provide them when final arrangements are made,” Shakira told the abbess.

Once the business portion of the discussion concluded, the obligatory warning speech followed. The wife had to be sure this was the life one wanted to pursue and not a capricious deed to punish a neglectful or harsh husband, Turcotte had said.

The tour of the grounds started off well enough. The tranquil beauty of the ivy-covered cloister bordered the monk's dormitory. Beyond lay the chapels, chapter house, and an infirmary with its own kitchen. Turcotte continued down a stone walkway past the buttery, the garderobes, and the fish ponds.

They stopped in front of a squat, plain building. "This is the nun's quarters and refectory. I'll show you the chamber you will occupy." She opened a rough oak door and stood back. "In the beginning, it's expedient to allow a secular petitioner a single chamber. The religious life can be a difficult adjustment."

Shakira ducked to avoid hitting the low hung lintel and then almost tripped over the short step into the cell. The drab room’s only natural light came from a tiny, poorly shuttered window, near the ceiling. At once, a musty, stale odor of mildew mingled with unwashed bodies hit her. The room where Dankworth held her hostage flashed through her mind. Shakira flattened her hand against the cold wall, closed her eyes to the memory, and breathed deep in spite of the unpleasant smell.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. I was just a little lightheaded for a moment."

Turcotte eyed her suspiciously. "Are you certain you are not with child?"

"Quite."

Calm again, Shakira continued her inventory of the quarters. The sparse furnishings consisted of nothing but a cot with a lumpy straw mattress, a scarred wooden table, one chair, and a candleholder. The stone walls and floor were bare, no tapestries here to insulate against the cold. Nor did a hearth exist to ease the chill. The chamber matched the temperature outside but felt colder. A shiver traveled down her spine and she wrapped the cloak tight around her. If she wound up here, she wouldn’t have to endure the liabilities of this century for long. She’d undoubtedly keel over from pneumonia before the year was out.

The abbey’s hushed atmosphere pressed down on Shakira as they walked back to where her escort of knights waited. Only the sound of tools in use and the shuffle of penned animals broke the quiet.

"Is everyone at prayer? I don't hear any voices and haven't since we left your quarters."