Spirited Away (17 page)
"I vow I tried not to."
Andi turned her head back to her work and continued her brushing and blowing.
Ah,
Tristan thought.
She's angry.
He supposed she had a right to be. Mayhap in time, she'd realize he'd avoided her for noble reasons. 'Twas misery, the knowing of someone only to lose them in the end. Torturous. "Have you found something of interest there?" He squatted down beside the pit.
With gloved hands, she gently lifted the bone, placed it in a see-through satchel of sorts, then set it aside. "The remains are those of a man, approximately between the ages of thirty and seventy. His skull had a hole in the side big enough to stick my hand through. It was wrapped in a yew vine, and actually, I believe the vine was probably wrapped around his neck, too. But as the root system grew, it maneuvered the skeleton. There was a loose sort of garrote hanging from the skull."
"Yew vine? Saints alive. 'Twas rumored in my day that witches used the vine of yew for many a reason." He cocked his head. "You can tell that, just by looking at an old bone?" She never ceased to amaze him.
"Yeah." Lifting herself out of the cutaway, she stepped out of her weatherproofs and laid them on a patch of grass. With a bold stare, she blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes. "Ever hear of a man being clobbered over the head here? Witches burned at the stake, perhaps?"
He frowned. "No. Not whilst I was alive, anyway."
She stared at him a moment. "Why are you here now? I thought you were too busy. Appointments and such. You told me just to do my job, remember?"
"Aye, but that busybody steward of mine advised me to speak with you."
He could have sworn he had seen her face fall. "I see." With a shrug, she began to gather the clear sacks containing the bones. Carefully laying them in a box, she lifted one back up for inspection.
"This is a pelvic bone. Well, two parts to equal one. It was cracked in half." She pointed to a narrow area. "The female anatomy, especially after childbirth, tends to differ in this particular region than a male. It is noticeably wider, which is why I feel this is a male. I'd have to take a few measurements to be sure, though." She laid it back down and lifted another. "This is a femur bone." She touched the top of her leg. "From here, you can determine the approximate age range by how much the bone is worn down at the end, where it meets the socket of the hip. Since there appears to be a great deal of rub-marks—bone scraping bone due to lack of cartilage—my guess would be an older male, mid-sixties, maybe. There are porous traces, as well. Signs of arthritis."
"Damn. You are a tenacious wench, Dr. Monroe."
A smile tipped her mouth; then she turned and gathered her tools. "I know my bones, Lord Dreadmoor."
How utterly fascinating the woman was. Her eyes all but sparked flames whilst she was talking about the old bones. It gave him further cause to trust her with Dreadmoor's secrets. "I believe it would be of help to you if you were to know the tale of how this"—he waved his hand around
—"came about."
Andi looked back up. "Do you mean it?"
If he'd had a heart in his ghostly shell it would surely have beaten him senseless at those simple, innocent words. And the look on her face? 'Twas nigh onto doing him in. "Aye, girl, I mean it. Now remove yourself from this unholy grave and let us have speech. I haven't the patience to wait for you all day."
She grinned. "Yes, you do." Turning, she stacked her tools into her pack, slung it over her shoulder, and hefted the box containing the bones. Quickly, she secured the tarp over the grid.
Cheeky wench.
Raking a hand through his hair, he watched her gather her belongings. Damn his unlife. "Forgive my useless state. Never would I allow a maid to haul such a load."
The smile she cast him nearly brought him to his knees. "Thought I was a wench." Her grin widened. "Just kidding. I'm really used to it. Besides, I'm dying to hear your story." Her cheeks reddened. "Oops. Sorry."
Tristan fought a chuckle. "No doubt." He walked beside her, silence stretching between them, and he noticed how Andrea turned her head more than once to cast a sideways glance in his direction.
Finally, she shook her head, causing her hair to bob like a horse's tail. It intrigued him.
She
intrigued him.
"This is just so fantastic. I find myself thinking about nothing else. It's"—she glanced at him—"you are amazing, and you go against everything I believe in."
"What mean you?"
"Well," she said, sidestepping a rock. "I investigate ancient bones and crypts, buried medieval treasures, old fortresses. And now"—her gaze drifted off—"I have to wonder if the bones I collect and send to the forensics lab belong to the ghost of someone standing right next to me."
He understood. How strange it all must be for her. "Aye. 'Twas odd for us, as well."
"God, I can only imagine." She mounted the steps and pushed open the great double doors.
With a frown, he followed her inside. How it chafed him to have her open doors. He should be the opener of the bloody doors.
Gently setting the box of bones against the wall, she slipped her pack off and turned around.
"Dragonhawk and his legendary knights." She shook her head. "Unbelievable. You're really him."
With a nod, he gave her a low bow. "None other."
"Were you always a show-off, or is that a new development?" she said.
"You are passing cheeky, Dr. Monroe. Is that a new development?"
She gave a short laugh. "Claimed, and proud of it. Now, what's given you the change of heart to confide in me?"
"As Jameson so graciously pointed out, 'twould be beneficial to us both if you knew how I came to be in this ..." He searched for words. "State of existence. Now, find yourself a seat by the hearth and prepare yourself, lady, for I vow 'twill be a tale unlike any other you've ever heard. And 'twill be a tale for your ears only."
* * *
A miracle.
And she was here to witness it.
Pulling her legs under her bottom in the comfortable chair Jameson had dragged up next to the massive fireplace, she inclined her head. Tristan seemed nervous, unsure, as though he felt uncomfortable telling her the occurrences that placed him seven centuries into the future.
Nervous probably didn't even begin to describe it.
"You promised me a grand tale, Lord Dreadmoor." She grinned when he scowled at her for using his title. "I vow I've not the patience to wait on you all evening."
That won a chuckle from the big knight. Still, he continued to pace before her. "Aye. I'm stalling.
'Tis an uneasy thing of sorts, the telling of this." He turned a look on her and the corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. "And do not call me Lord Dreadmoor. It annoys me fiercely."
"I know. Proceed." She smiled. "Please."
He raked a hand through his long, dark hair. "Very well, you persistent wench." Drawing a deep breath, he started. " 'Twas the Year of our Lord, 1292." He shook his head. "So long ago, aye?
Would it had been only my life snatched away." He paced, back and forth in front of the hearth, his face lined with memories. "Half of my garrison and I had just returned to Dreadmoor from the wedding of a cousin. We had caroused and drunk for three days solid, and I was passing less than my usual best, I can assure you. Someone must have knocked me senseless whilst I slept in my bed.
When I came to I found myself shackled to the dungeon wall. My captain and young Jason lie slumped on the floor not far from me. They were near dead, if not already."
A flash of pain seized his features, and he scrubbed it away with a swipe of his big hand. At that moment, Andi's heart ached for him.
"My murderer taunted me and I vow I would have ripped him in twain with my bare hands, had I been able. The whoreson mumbled a chant of sorts, and I knew then 'twas a curse, although at the time I didn't believe in such."
Tristan turned and faced her. "The unholy look in his eye is one I can still see before me." He took two long strides and stood in front of her, towering over her as she sat, curled in her chair. "He ran me through with my own blade, Andrea. I stared him in the eye until I could no longer see. And it is that bloody sword I've long wished to have back in my possession. For ... whatever reasons." He shook his head again. "But it seems 'tis never meant to be."
Andi stared up at the powerful man before her. A ghost, yes, but even in unlife, power radiated from him like a fierce electrical current. His profound stare caused her to shudder, and she fought the urge to squirm in her seat. She felt as though he could see clear through her skin, muscles, to her soul. "You were killed in the dungeon?"
"Aye."
"Oh my God." She glanced around. Centuries ago, Tristan was murdered in this very castle.
Unbelievable.
"You say the murderer showed himself. Was it someone you knew?"
Another glint of pain; then it vanished. "Aye. 'Twas my foster father, Erik de Sabre."
She nodded. "What happened to make him hate you so much?"
"I learned then that his son, only fourteen at the time, had slipped into the fray of a battle with an angry lot of thieves. The lad had followed us, wanting to join the Dragonhawk knights. He was killed, and Erik blamed us. It stunned me, to awaken in those chains, then to see him stand before me. He'd been like a father to me, to all of us."
"All?" she asked.
He nodded. "My knights all fostered under Erik. We trained together, fought together. That is how we all came to be."
That fact twirled around in her brain, processing. "But what does finding your sword have to do with any of this? And if you knew Erik was your killer, why didn't you just show yourself to your family and tell them?"
Tristan took a deep breath. "One question at a time, my impatient lady. I vow my head aches with the thought of the bombardment you'll no doubt hurl at me from here on out." He began to pace again. "Because, Andrea, the fool cursed me. I lay in something akin to what some believe purgatory may be like, for quite some time. A state of nothingness, blackness, never seeing, never hearing, never moving—yet conscious." He looked down at his hands, then back to Andi's face. "
'Twas torture. When I finally awoke, I found myself in the same rancid hole of a dungeon I'd died in. I remembered nothing except what had happened to me. Kail and Jason had awakened, as well.
We soon realized over two hundred years had passed. And that we hadn't been the only ones who had suffered that night."
Andi slid forward in her seat. "The garrison."
He nodded. "Aye. The garrison. All twelve of them. In the dungeon with us."
She inclined her head. "Erik murdered them, too? How did one man kill so many?"
"The sneaky bastard used Tristan as bait and lured us all into this dank place."
Andi jumped and peered over the back of her chair. One by one, men in chain mail began to materialize. They slowly walked toward her and Tristan, forming a circle around the chair she occupied. Fourteen knighted warriors in all.
Tristan made the fifteenth.
The air drained from Andi's lungs in a long, silent sigh. The legendary Dragonhawk and his knights faced her. An incredible urge to sink into the cushions of her chair washed over her. She gave them a hesitant smile. "Um. Hello."
"Do not fear the lads, lady. They won't harm you."
Andi nodded without saying a word. She recognized most of them from the morning of the joust.
Their expressions varied somewhat, but all revealed one common factor: immense inner strength.
"How did so many warriors fall victim to one solitary man?" she asked.
The one knight who'd spoken inclined his head. "Erik locked us in the dungeon. All of us."
"Aye," another said. "We knew naught of his deception and trusted him with our lives. Once we were all inside, trying to recover Tristan, he threw the bolt and locked us in. Bloody bastard."
"There was no one left to challenge him," a young knight said. "No one, save the cook and a few serving maids. They soon fled."
Tristan moved to stand next to Andi's chair. "Lady, these mannerless whoresons are Stephen, Richard, and the pup there is Gareth."
All three gave her a slight nod.
Tristan introduced the others, one by one. They studied her with interest, regarded her intensely, each giving a nod but remaining stoic and silent.
Tristan grinned. "I can see you're nigh onto bursting with questions, but I'll finish the tale and then you may barrage us."
She nodded, urging him to continue.
"The only soul around was an aging man named Alfred Jameson, and his family. According to the Jamesons, my sire hired them to remain at Dreadmoor. The keep had taken on a rather ... perpetual marque of being haunted and plagued by witchery and evil. No one wanted to set up residence—no one even tried to lay siege." He winked at her. "A superstitious lot, we medievalists. But little did the Jamesons know that I, accompanied by fourteen others reputed to be dead for more than two centuries, would show up, demanding an audience. I daresay 'twas great sport."
Several of the knights chuckled.
"I knew there was a connection." Andi remembered accusing Jameson of looking like Batman's butler, Alfred. "You mean that was one of
our
Jameson's ancestors?"
"Aye, the very same. His family has worked here ever since. Alfred kindly showed me an odd missive which had been found by the first Jameson family. Although thinking it odd, they'd placed it in the vault with my uncle's copy of the plans of the keep, kept safe under a lead pane, and left it there. Then I had shown up. They gave it to me, posthaste."
