Time Enough for Love (4 page)

“Come, my dear.” Lothaire smiled back at her. Adelaide tried to ignore his stained teeth, some missing along the side. Not so unusual in a man of his age, but nothing to relish, either.

Unlike King Otto, who had beautiful teeth. When he smiled at her, she felt she had died and gone to heaven.

Once more, Adelaide allowed her eyes to roam over the faces of those who had attended the ceremony. Otto. Where was he? Her gaze lingered briefly on each tall man, every blond, but there were no blue eyes to draw her in, overwhelm her with desire, heartache.

Otto, where are you?

Lothaire took her hand, and they descended the steps to mount their waiting horses. Again, the crowd roared its approval as the new couple nudged their steeds forward, then made their way to the palace for the feasting banquet.

*

In the receiving line, Adelaide forced herself to greet and thank people visiting from far-off lands: Normandy, Britannia, Byzantium, the Kingdom of Asturias, and Saxony. Even the Pope had sent an official representative. Her studies had served her well, for she was able to converse with most of the guests in their own languages, or in Latin. Finally, the line thinned, but she remained by her husband’s side, quiet, projecting an outer calm, her insides churning in turmoil.

Where was Otto?

She looked around, seeking him, feeling increasingly desperate because of his absence. She wanted to speak with him in German. Lothaire didn’t understand the language, and she yearned to tell Otto how she felt.
No, that is madness
. But… if only he would show himself, if only…

“Queen Adelaide.”

Unused to the title, she didn’t respond until she felt a touch on her arm. Agnes. Her dearest friend and confidante since girlhood, Agnes stood with a golden cup, her green eyes dancing, mischievous.

“Your tisane, just as I promised,” she giggled. “At least three hours before––”

“Hush!” Adelaide whispered, blushing.

“The drink is well chilled. It will help you with your heat, er, the heat of the day.”

“Agnes!” Adelaide tried to sound stern, angry. How could Agnes say such things with so many close by?

Her friend had fallen in love at fourteen with the lesser son of a noble, back home in Burgundy. The match was initially forbidden because he had no wealth to bring to the union, but when she found herself bearing his child, the marriage was done quietly and quickly. Since then, she’d borne him a second son and was only too happy to advise on the surest and most pleasant ways for this to come about.

Adelaide frowned. Until now, though, until she had seen Otto’s astonishing blue eyes, Agnes’s information had been factual, not literal. Not personal. Now, it was all too personal.

Beside her, Lothaire laughed at something whispered in his ear, then scratched absently at his crotch. With a shudder, Adelaide raised the glass and emptied it in one, long, determined pull, then handed it back to Agnes without a word.

“
Chère Madame.
”

The deep voice resonated to her very core, and she turned slowly to look at the man she loved. Otto.

“
Monsieur
.
Je
… we missed you at the ceremony,” she said. His eyes flickered toward Lothaire, then returned to hers.

Quietly, he spoke in German, “
Gnädiger Königin
… Gracious Queen, I was there, but I stood apart. Please, forgive me. My heart was not in it.”

Trembling, Adelaide lowered her gaze. “Nor was mine,” she dared to whisper in his tongue.

She heard his sharp intake of breath and looked up to see his anguish. Lothaire laughed at something again, and Otto cleared his throat, giving her a short bow.

“
Madame
, I will be departing for Saxony before nightfall. I have come to bid you farewell.”

Instinctively, Adelaide reached out and grasped Otto’s arm. “
Non
, my lord! You must not go so soon. Stay the night – I mean, the roads are crowded with brigands after dark. I would not see you harmed.”

Suddenly, she realized her husband had turned and was staring at her – at her hand! She quickly released her grip and forced herself to smile. “My lord husband, this is King Otto. He tells me he has plans to leave this evening. That would be dangerous! Please, persuade him to stay for the feast, the dancing, the night. Persuade him to stay at least until the morn.”

“I know King Otto already. We are old friends.” The two men bowed crisply, then shook hands. “And my wife is correct. Your subjects would see you return safely. Stay the night and break your fast with us. We may not rise at dawn,” those standing beside him chuckled knowingly, “but you must await us, nonetheless, that we may be better able to send you forth with quiet hearts.”

The muscles along Otto’s jaw rippled with tension; the faint smile playing across his lips was formal and without warmth. “As you wish, King Lothaire.” He bowed again, then pivoted on his heel and left.

As soon as Lothaire resumed his conversations, Agnes was at Adelaide’s ear. “Who was that?” she gushed. “He is a fine-looking man… so, so large!”

Adelaide would have blushed at any other time, but now she simply felt numb. “He is the one for whom I wish the drink was meant.”

Agnes stood rooted, mouth open. “You never told me of him! When did you meet? Ah, that is why you wept in the night!”

Adelaide glanced furtively at Lothaire. “That is one half of the reason.”

The friends looked at each other for a long moment, then Agnes took Adelaide’s hands and held them, palms up. “As I have told you before…”

Adelaide tried to pull away. “I do not believe in palmistry.”

“No, please, my friend, listen to me. On the one hand you have duty, on the other, hope. Be honest before God when you say your devotions tonight, and mayhap one day He shall see that the two,” she closed the hands together, as though in prayer, “duty and hope, will become joined.”

A tear escaped and Adelaide quickly swept it away. “Do not make me cry.”

“Keep your eyes closed when all else is open, and think of the king…” She leaned in. “The blond king! You will be lifted to the stars, but be careful whose name you shout when it comes to that!”

“Agnes!” Appalled, Adelaide realized people were beginning to stare.

Lothaire looked up, a study of inquisitiveness, but Agnes simply grinned and winked at him, before waltzing away with the golden cup.

*

Alone in the heavily draped bed, Adelaide awaited Lothaire. In the darkened space, she could clearly see Otto’s face, his eyes, his mouth. She could feel the touch of his hand, and the taste and touch of his lips, although these last were only in her imagination.

The voices and laughter in the hall grew louder as the door opened, and she heard a few bawdy jokes, along with words of encouragement and inspiration.

She recalled their dancing, Lothaire’s soft, gentle, almost limp hand holding hers. So unlike Otto’s rough, firm grasp. Lothaire held her gaze, silent throughout the dance, a small, tentative smile on his lips, and her heart ached, thinking of the powerful German king.

The chamber door slammed shut against the ribald laughter. The sound of steps, then Lothaire pulled the curtain aside.

“Wife, let not the vulgar intrude,” he said, smiling.

Adelaide was surprised to see he looked calm, relaxed, even kind.

“My hope is that you will fear for nothing this night, my dear. I promise to treat you gently. I am very much aware of the difference in ages, and, er, experience. You are a lady, and royal in your own right, and I would never denigrate or debase my wife.”

“Thank you, my lord husband,” she croaked, barely able to get the words out.

He sat on the bed and began to undress. “Please, call me Lothaire in private. Our public lives must be formal, but we shall keep this room as a sanctuary to ease and familiarity.”

Adelaide couldn’t think of a response to this, but watched as he took off his belt and silk tunic, kicked off his boots, then pulled down his drawers. Dressed only in his undertunic, he rose and turned to her.

“Please, Lothaire, could we sleep with the curtains shut?”

He smiled. “Of course.”

The heavy cloth completely shut out the evening sun, and Adelaide could only hear and feel the movement beside her. When it stopped, she sensed the warmth of his body near her. A touch against her belly, his hand moving like a whisper to find her face. He turned her head and covered her mouth with his. The hand moved again, this time to her breast.

Oh God, Lothaire! Please, please, stop! Stop touching me!

Adelaide squeezed her eyes shut, tried to see Otto, tried not to bite off the tongue that explored her mouth. She jerked involuntarily when his hand yanked at her nightdress, then dove between her legs. Agnes had never said anything about this!

When he moved over her and his soft middle pressed against her, she knew what was coming and tried to prepare for it. But when he brusquely shoved her thighs apart with his knees, she could only grip his forearms, and grit her teeth.

The pain tore through her, and she heard herself cry out, then pushed her fist into her mouth as the tears streamed down her cheeks.

Otto. She couldn’t see Otto.

Lothaire moved on her, thrusting once, twice, thrice, on and on, until finally he bellowed and collapsed against her, sweaty and breathing hard.

Adelaide waited, but he did not move. Not until she nudged him aside. He was asleep.

I don’t understand… I don’t understand
. What was Agnes speaking about? Adelaide had felt nothing but pain and revulsion. And she had not been able to see Otto at all. The passion, the heat the German king had stirred within her from the moment they’d first touched was nonexistent with this man, with her husband. She hadn’t seen or felt anyone but Lothaire.

In her cell, Queen Adelaide wiped away her tears, willing away the agony of remembrance. She had eventually come to terms with her feelings toward the act, but had never been “lifted to the stars” as Agnes had promised.

But then, she reminded herself of the wondrous blessing that had come from her marriage to the weak, kind, gentle, ineffectual Lothaire.

Emma. Her precious daughter, an innocent three-year-old, facing capture and death should Berengar prevail.

Adelaide curled into a ball, but sleep eluded her. A vision of Otto rose in her mind. And she knew then, somehow, she knew he was already on the march.

He would come.

It was a gorgeous sunset, but Gwen didn’t have time to enjoy it. She wiped sweat from her forehead as she bent over the stream and wrung out Warinus’s tunic. Laundry day. The weather had grown warmer as the calendar slipped past the first days of summer. In fact, it had grown downright hot this week, so much so she had taken off her monk’s cowl, replacing it with a simple shift and apron. Her companions were well beyond their shock at finding out she was a woman, and she no longer hid behind the name Brother Godwyn, or needed her cowl for anything more than warmth at night.

Pounding wet clothes on the rocks had its advantages – it took care of all kinds of frustrations. No news about Adelaide’s imprisonment. No end to their tunneling. No word from Alberto. No sex.

And all this, every fear, every danger, even every ounce of love she felt for Alberto, was due to the most improbable occurrence – time travel. It still seemed unbelievable that it had happened. She felt a sudden stab of melancholy, missing her family, California, her world. She used to find comfort in her language studies during difficult times, losing herself in the beauty of archaic poems, but she’d shut them out of her mind, because they hadn’t been created yet. She couldn’t write them down, or even recite them, since she wouldn’t risk the consequences of anyone discovering them before their time.

She sighed and turned her thoughts back to the present. Father Warinus, Barca, and Ranulf were feverishly tunneling to gain access into the castle dungeon by widening the unguarded latrine chute. So far, it seemed they’d made little progress. The deeper they dug, the more difficult the task; in addition to the ever-present sewage, rocks and tree roots barred the way. Ranulf was the only one thin enough to get inside and still have room to work, and his moods were black when, on occasion, refuse was dumped without sound or warning. Thankfully, Father Warinus had managed to weave a wide-brimmed hat for Ranulf to wear as protection.

Gwen spent most of her days keeping watch and spreading the tunneling debris beneath plants on the hillside, so no stray eyes could detect their work. In the evenings, Barca had begun training her to use weapons. Both tasks were hard, and each night she fell into her bedroll exhausted, her muscles aching, her mind welcoming the escape provided by her dreams.

But during the day, there was no stopping her worries. How was the queen? Where was Alberto? Had the battle begun with that bastard Berengar? What if Alberto had already been defeated?

How could I cope if he…?

Gwen shut her eyes against such dark thoughts. They hadn’t received any news, and she was only left with Father Warinus’s pep talks and nightly prayers, but had been unable to find consolation.

Alberto, I have found something so powerful with you. Do you feel the same? Where are you? You’ve given me something to cling to, something to believe in. How will I cope if the worst happens? I don’t know, I don’t know.

Gwen shook her head. She wouldn’t allow herself to wallow in regrets or fear. They had to keep digging. They had to get to Adelaide before it was too late.

We’ll save Adelaide. Alberto will be fine.

I’ll see them both again.

Footsteps alerted her and she turned to see Barca approaching. She straightened her back, glad for the reprieve from washing clothes. Wiping her wet hands on her apron, she rose. “I could use some help, if that’s why you’re here.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he shook his head. “We need provisions. Ranulf has not the time for hunting, and I have not found anything of late in our traps. Alas, our supplies will last but two or three days more.”

Gwen nodded. “True. But how do we get more provisions?”

“The village,” he replied simply. “Father Warinus knows the layout. We thought to sneak in tonight and find what we need. The skies shall be favorable for stealth, since the moon––”

“Wait. Father Warinus can’t go,” Gwen interrupted. “He needs his rest. This is wearing on him, and I don’t want him to get sick. I’ve been to the village before. I’ll go with you.”

“No, I have my orders.” Barca’s voice was firm.

“Barca, Lord Alberto said nothing about sneaking into the village. I’m going.”

“My lord ordered that I keep you safe.”

“Nothing about what we are doing is safe. Warinus is tired – that wouldn’t be safe,” Gwen argued. “Ranulf is the only one who can quarry any more, and if he goes tonight, he’ll be too tired to work tomorrow, and that would delay us too much, which wouldn’t be safe, either. So, when do you want to leave?”

Barca sighed in exasperation. “Now,” he grumbled. “We must be in and out of the village before the moon rises.”

“Good. I’ll tell the others, then we can go.”

“I’ve already told them,” Barca stated flatly, holding out a knife to replace the one she lost when she’d used her monk’s disguise and lied her way through Garda’s gate to discover Adelaide’s actual location. “I have your short sword, too. You’ll want them both. And wear your cowl.”

Gwen gazed at him quizzically.

Barca shrugged. “If things go badly, I would rather your captors believe you are a holy man, and one who has the capacity to defend himself.”

“Didn’t Alberto forbid my fighting for safety’s sake?”

He grinned. “Yes, and he will probably have my head for this. However, I knew you would have it no other way. Let’s be off.”

Nodding, Gwen was careful to hide her smile. She appreciated his acceptance of her and knew it was not an easy thing for the medieval mind. She strapped on her weapons and trotted after Barca. They passed through the woods and eventually came to the outskirts of Garda. By the time they arrived it was very late, and the hamlet stood dark and quiet.

They watched for patrols from the fringes of the forest, then, seeing nothing, they moved with stealth between the outlying buildings. Making their way toward what looked to be a smokehouse or storage shed, Barca didn’t bother trying the front door, but headed for the back of the structure and tested a rear door and window. Both were locked.

Gwen saw Barca draw out a short dagger and start chipping at the wood around the door’s hinges. Moving away to keep a lookout, Gwen grew increasingly nervous, the sounds of the soft pick-picking seemingly amplified by the gloom.

Soon, a tiny rock scudded in the dirt near her feet, and she could see Barca waving her back to the door. As she neared, Gwen saw it leaning drunkenly against the outside wall, detached and devoid of its ironwork.

“Let us hope we have indeed opened the larder and not the jailhouse,” Barca said, motioning her inside. “At least, its smells are promising––”

Fierce cries pierced the night.
Shit! The villagers!
Heart pounding, Gwen heard the scraping of metal on metal and spun to see Barca withdraw his sword.

She pulled out her weapons, too, ready to fight, but Barca yelled at her, “Get behind me!”

Gwen did as she was told. Shapes crept toward them, starlight faintly glinting off helmets, swords, and shields. She tried to get a firm grip on her knives, but her hands were wet with perspiration. She wiped one on her cowl, then the other. Still, the shapes moved forward, forcing them against the wall.

Their attackers sprang at them.

Barca swung hard, striking a man, who screamed and dropped in a heap. The others came on, undeterred. He jabbed again, driving his dagger into the stomach of a second man, then leapt, swinging, swiping, both arms moving like a deadly windmill. His ferocity, his ability, made the others draw back, and Gwen could hear his labored breathing.

Moans ushered from the fallen bodies, but Gwen didn’t look to see why, keeping as close to Barca as she dared, as he inched his way toward the tree line. The air smelled of death, foul and gross. Her mind flashed back to the first time she saw Alberto, when he used his blade to save her from near-rape at the hands of murdering thieves.

Then the attackers lunged again, this time encircling the pair, and suddenly Gwen came face to face with a long blade and a set of fierce eyes backing it up. Barca was fighting again and she could sense his struggle, his effort, his focus elsewhere.

She was on her own.

Leering, the man came at her. “Thieving worm, we have been watching for you. You’ll not steal from us again,” the tip of his sword made little circles just off the end of her nose, “and you’ll know the sharp end of my blade before we bundle you off to Castle Garda.”

Gwen fell back. She could hear Barca, still fighting, but he was farther away now; she’d lost her cover. In a flash, she saw the flat of her assailant’s sword headed for her temple. Fear left her then, and, furious, she ducked and charged, weapons first.

Her short sword hit him, bouncing off something hard, badly jarring her arm, but she fought on. Gwen grit her teeth, blocking thrusts, slicing. She nicked her assailant, then blocked another thrust. Arms leaden, her willpower ebbing, she grimaced, swore, but fought on.

Suddenly, she saw an opening and jabbed lower. Her blade met resistance, then she felt something give, the sensation strangely familiar, like a knife plunging into cold butter. Time seemed to slow as she watched the man fall back, slipping off her blade with a look of surprise, gurgling as foam bubbled from his lips.

Another cry roused her, and she turned to see Barca tumbling to the ground.

“Run, my lady,” he groaned.

Panicked, she froze, not knowing what to do.

“Jesus, run. Run! Save yourself!”

She bolted for the dark safety of the forest’s edge, but something snagged her ankles, pulling them, yanking them out from under her, and she fell hard. Pain shot through her back as hands pinned her shoulders, a knee ground into her spine.

Gwen lay stunned, unable to move, then a fist came at her head and the world went black.

*

Gwen didn’t know where she was, or care; time and space had vanished, cocooned as she was in a dark, quiet place.

Far off, she heard someone speak, “Awake!”

It seemed an eternity before Gwen found the strength to open her eyes. It was night and she rested on a stone bench, the scent of thyme filling her nostrils.

“Awake!” a woman’s voice called out again.

Gwen turned and saw a beautiful blonde, the glimmer of moonglow soft on her hair. “Adelaide, is that you?” she whispered with a smile.

But no… I thought… Willa cut off Adelaide’s hair.

Gwen’s smile faded as her brain scrambled for understanding. Then pain flared in her wrists; her hands were bound behind her back. Memories of the village, Barca, and the attack by Berengar’s soldiers surged to mind. She looked at the woman once more.

Her thoughts shattered like ice, then crystallized to form one word – bitch!

Willa moved within touching distance.

“You will make a beautiful corpse,” Willa said, her voice creepy, oddly sensual, and almost purring with delight.

Gwen tried to raise herself off the stone bench, determined to fight, but her head started to pound and she fell back, gagging, weak, her stomach convulsing.

Willa threw back her head and laughed.

Gwen felt the burning need to lash out, but all she could do was stare in horror.

“Helpless as a newborn kitten, aren’t you?” Willa asked. She touched Gwen’s hair, rubbing it between her fingers. Gwen jerked her head away, but Willa held on. “Hmm, wouldn’t make much of a braid. Short hair served you well as Brother Godwyn, but now it merely makes you ugly.”

“You’re the ugly bitch, not me.”

Shrieking, Willa wrenched Gwen to her feet. “You are the bitch! How dare you trick me. How dare you assault my lord husband! Berengar deserves your respect!”

“That murderer? Never!” Gwen struggled as Willa kicked and punched her toward the darkest space in her garden, a spot hidden from the moon, deep and menacing.

Grabbing her by the hair, Willa forced Gwen to a halt before what looked like a large birdbath. She pushed Gwen’s head down, until she was a nose-length from the water. “Look. Tell me what you see, you miserable whore-monk.”

Gwen shuddered, seeing only Willa’s scowl, her narrowed eyes and tight lips reflecting back from the water’s surface. Then she saw Willa raise a clenched fist, and she closed her eyes against the blow.

“There, what’s that?” Willa asked excitedly. “You can see them, can’t you? Tell me who they are.”

Gwen looked, but saw nothing.

“Alas, wretched whore.” Willa lowered her fist and leaned close, her voice taking on a falsely gentle tone. “There is no escape for you. Yet, I promise I shall make your end swift, if you answer all of my questions. Now do as I say! Tell me what you see.”

A cold sweat broke over Gwen’s face as she tried to ignore the feverish rants in her ear, concentrating instead on her own breathing, striving for calm.

“Tell me!” Willa repeated, her grip tightening, cruelly twisting Gwen’s hair.

Cringing, Gwen focused on the water, black as the sky. Beyond Willa’s reflection, there was only the faintest trace of stars shimmering on the surface. Nothing more. She couldn’t see anything else. What the hell was she supposed to see? Should she make something up?

“Where is this place?” Willa asked.