Time to Love Again (3 page)

“I will do my best,” he promised.

India fell out of blackness to land right in
the middle of a puddle of mud and ice. When she tried to stand up,
someone bumped against her so hard that she was thrown to her knees
again, down into trampled wet snow and dirty water. A dark fog
enveloped her, making sight difficult. Her head ached and she felt
sickeningly dizzy. Around her sounded loud cries and the clash of
metal on metal. Wondering where on earth she was and what had
happened, she blinked a few times, shook her head to clear her
blurred visions, and then looked up into cold grey skies and
drizzling rain.

A rough hand grabbed her arm, jerking her to
her feet. An unshaven face was thrust into hers. She glimpsed a
rounded metal helmet before she closed her eyes against the glare
of a strange man’s angry gaze.

“Idiot! Where is your sword?” The man spoke
in a language she had heard only one other person use, but she
recognized it, and she understood a good part of it.

“Sword? I don’t –
sword
?” Her eyes
flew open again. This time the black mist that had kept her from
seeing clearly was gone. The dizziness was receding, too. The man
who had hauled her upright was just a little taller than she, with
dark brown hair showing beneath the gold-decorated rim of his
helmet. His face was square-jawed and hard, his wide mouth firm.
His upper body was covered with chain-mail armor and on his left
arm he bore a large, round shield. The man’s eyes fell upon the
necklace hanging around India’s neck.

“What message from Charles?” he demanded, the
language he was using making the name sound like a peculiar
combination of the French pronunciation
Sharl
and the German
Karol
. “Speak quickly, boy, there isn’t much time.”

“What message? I don’t understand.”

“You wear the medallion of a royal
messenger.” He seemed to think that explained something. He peered
more closely at her. “Answer me. Are you mad, or just ill? How did
you appear here so suddenly? Never mind that now. Stay next to me.
I’m bound to offer you what protection I can.”

“I don’t want or need your – oh!” India broke
off, gaping in astonishment as a warrior clad in a fur cape over
leather armor bore down on them, raising his battle-axe with deadly
intent.

“Hugo! Marcion!” The man beside her shouted,
and two more men sprang to his aid, swords bared and ready for
action. “Here’s a king’s messenger alone and unarmed. Keep him
safe.”

“What happened to your companion?” one of the
newcomers asked India. As he spoke, he slashed with his sword at
the man in the fur cape. The man jumped backward, raising his axe
again, circling their little group of four, looking for an opening
through which he could attack.

“I think I came here alone,” India quavered,
speaking in the language the men were using, not taking her eyes
off the man with the axe.

Everything was happening so fast, and she was
utterly confused by the strange sights and sounds. She saw that
they were standing in a clearing in the midst of a forest. Nearby,
a squalid-looking hut was burning, and she could distinguish men
struggling with sword and axe. She watched a long, sharp-pointed
spear fly through the air. Then she covered her eyes with her hands
because she had just realized that she was in the middle of a
battlefield.

For a minute or two, she entertained the hope
that she had somehow wandered into a meeting of one of those
societies that gathered periodically to recreate the Middle Ages
for a weekend. The idea was driven out of her mind by a scream.
When she lowered her hands from her face to see what had happened,
the fur-caped man was on the ground. This time she clamped her
hands over her mouth to keep herself from being sick, and she kept
her eyes tightly shut from then on, until the noise of battle had
ceased. Mercifully, it was soon over. India stood ankle-deep in
mud, in a state of terrified shock.

“You’re a weak-spirited lad,” said a low
voice.

She forced herself to open her eyes once
more, but she refused to look at what she knew must surround her.
She kept her attention on the grey-eyed man who stood before her,
the same man who had called her a king’s messenger.

“Cowardly,” the man said, frowning at her. He
looked her over from head to toe, his expression beneath the iron
helmet conveying a deep aversion toward one so squeamish. “A puking
child.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve never seen bloodshed
before,” she responded, grateful for once in her life that her
breasts were small, and doubly glad for the concealing fabric of
her loose tunic, which made her look as slender as the boy this man
imagined she was. Thinking she would be well advised to show some
respect to one so heavily armed, she added, “Please, sir, can you
tell me where I am and what has happened?”

“First tell me who you are and how you came
here,” the man replied. “What were you doing alone in this place
where no unblooded lad should be?”

“My name is India Baldwin,” she began.

“
Baudoutn
? The man stepped closer to
her. “If this is some trick, I’ll have you flayed alive.”

She thought he probably would. He was
frowning at her again, and she felt a thrill of fear. His arms
beneath the chain mail
brunia
were heavily muscled, and the
broad, double-edged sword he balanced lightly in his huge right
hand was plainly no toy.

“I don’t know how I got here,” she informed
him. That was true enough, for she did not understand the theory or
the mechanism of what had happened to her in Hank’s office. She
could only hope that Hank would be able to reverse his computer’s
effect on her and quickly remove her from whatever this place
was.

“I saw a man in this condition once,” said
the warrior Marcion, a handsome fellow whose curling dark hair was
revealed when he pulled off his helmet. “That man was struck on the
head in a fight. When he woke up, he could recall nothing about his
own life, not even his name, until the swelling went away. Have you
been hit on the head, boy?” His voice was not unkind, but when he
reached out one hand to feel her scalp, India shrank away from him.
Catching the hard look of the grey-eyed man who seemed to be the
leader, she thought better of her reluctance and let Marcion search
her head for bumps. He gave her a friendly smile before he ran his
hand through her hair.

“Well?” the grey-eyed man asked when his
friend had finished.

“No swellings.” Marcion grunted, mystified by
his findings. “But have you noticed his face is painted?”

“A Greek, then,” said the large-boned man
called Hugo. “Byzantine men paint their faces and go clean-shaven
like this stripling.”

“He’s a noble,” said Marcion. “Look at his
hands. No ordinary person would have such clean nails. Nor has he a
scribe’s ink stains on his fingers, though there’s the bump on his
right middle finger that all scribes have.”

“A painted boy who claims the name of
Baudouin and who can write,” mused the leader. “Which Baudouin,
boy? Of Noyon, or of Bordeaux?”

“Neither. I spoke of Robert Baldwin,” India
told him. “He was my – my master.” Something in the expression of
those unnerving grey eyes told her she ought to continue the
deception and let these men believe she was a boy. The thought of
what a heavily armed band of warriors, fresh from battle, might do
to a defenseless woman was too horrible to consider. India saw a
vast abyss of time and terror opening before her. Where was Hank?
When would he retrieve her?
Could
he retrieve her, or would
she be stuck here – wherever
here
was – forever?

“And where does this
Robair Baudouin
live?” asked the leader, his voice oddly soft.

“He does not live.” India decided her safety
lay in staying as close to the truth as she could. That way, she
might not be tripped up in too many lies. “My master is dead. It
was he who gave me this pendant.”

“Ah, of course.” Marcion smiled at her,
nodding his curly head. “A loyal retainer, carrying out the final
command of his dying lord. Now, that makes sense. And you got lost,
didn’t you, lad? Who wouldn’t in this forsaken land? You’ve strayed
into Saxony, boy, and just now you stumbled into one of those
skirmishes the Saxons love to begin whenever they see a few Franks
approaching. They will accept the True Faith in time, but until
they do, we occasionally have to teach them a lesson in Christian
forbearance.” He looked out over the body-strewn field, nodding his
acceptance of the story he had just woven around India’s presence
there.

“Who was this
Robair Baudouin
?” asked
Hugo. “And why would a Greek be serving him?”

“I took a sacred vow,” India responded,
telling herself this was the truth, too. “I swore to remain with
him until one of us died.”

“And on his deathbed, he gave you a final
mission?” asked the leader. “Or did he die in battle?”

“It was a long and painful illness,” India
said, adding the rest of the truth without further prompting. “He
bore it bravely and died at peace with God and man.” Unexpected
tears threatened to overcome her, but she set her teeth and
swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

Hank, where are you
?
Get me out of
here before I say or do something that makes them kill me. Or
before they realize I’m no boy, but a woman. Please, Hank.
Please
!

“To whom did this master of yours, this
Robair Baudouin
, send you?” asked the leader.

“What?” India stared at him, completely at a
loss. She had no idea what to say next.

“It doesn’t matter where he was supposed to
go,” Marcion countered his leader’s probing question. “He’s lost,
and he’s wearing the royal medallion. We are obligated to protect
him and see that he’s sheltered and fed. You can tell he’s not
himself yet after wandering into battle by accident. I can’t blame
the lad for that. I remember how I felt after my first experience
in war. We’ll take him along with us, and when he’s fully
recovered, we can set him on his way again.”

“What if we are going in the wrong direction
for him?” asked Hugo, who seemed to be having great difficulty in
sorting out all that had been said. Raising both hands, Hugo
removed his helmet to scratch his head in puzzlement.

“That’s ridiculous,” Marcion retorted,
laughing. “No one would go deeper into Saxony without an army. You
weren’t going to Saxony, were you, boy?”

“I had no intention of being m Saxony at
all,” India responded with fervor.

“Nor should we be here, now that we’ve put
down this minor revolt,” remarked the leader. “Hugo, bring the
horses. Marcion, find the others, report to me on who’s wounded,
and discover if we’ve lost anyone. And you, boy, come with me.”

“Come where?” India stayed where she was,
afraid to move, fearing that if she left the spot where she had
first landed, Hank might never find her again.

“Were you so disrespectful to your late
master?” snapped the leader. “Do as I say and don’t question
me.”

“Obey him,” Marcion advised, giving her a
friendly push on one shoulder. “The Firebrand has a hot temper.
Don’t rouse it.”

“Firebrand?” India repeated, knowing she’d
heard that nickname recently, but uncertain where.

“We call him that for the ferocious way he
fights, too. In the heat of battle, there is no one like him.”
Marcion spoke with deep and open respect.

“Does this paragon have a name?” asked India,
eyeing the man who stood waiting impatiently for her to jump to his
command.

“Don’t you know him? He’s Theuderic of Metz,
fiercest warrior in all the Frankish armies, more than equal in
valor to Count Hrulund himself. All right, don’t flare up at me for
praising your prowess, Theu. I’m going now. I will obey.” With a
wave of one hand and a laugh, Marcion suited action to his words,
heading toward the field where a group of men was working. “I will
collect everyone. It looks to me as if we haven’t many wounded to
worry about,” he called back.

Theu
?
Firebrand
?
Count
Hrulund
? India knew this could not be happening. It could not!
But it was happening, and Theuderic of Metz had plans for her.

“Since you have no horse and since I do not
trust you in spite of the royal sign you wear,” Theuderic told her,
“you will ride with me, on my horse.”

“I am not accustomed to being called a liar.”
India faced him with her eyes blazing, determined not to move.
“Furthermore, I do not wish to ride.”

“I could tie you to my horse and let you walk
behind us,” Theuderic offered politely, a faint smile lurking at
the corner of his mouth, “but just on the chance that a word or two
of what you have said here is the truth, I am prepared to be
generous and let you ride. I must admit, you sounded as if you did
care about this Baudouin whom you claim was once your master. And I
feel certain the story of how you got that medallion will prove to
be an interesting one. You can tell it to me later. We are best
gone from here quickly.”

“What, are you afraid of a few Saxon
savages?” She did not know why those insulting words passed her
lips. She had never spoken so to any man before, but something
about this bold warrior with his cold and arrogant stare infuriated
her. He had called her a coward and a puking child. Considering
what she had been through in the last couple of hours, she thought
she deserved better treatment than that. She had not been sick at
the sight of blood, she had not fainted or screamed while the
battle raged around her. And she had managed not to lie. Twisting
the facts a little to save her own skin was not a lie, it was a
necessity. This crude man could never understand what had happened
to her. In fact, if she tried to explain the truth, he would
probably think she was mad or bewitched. Either way, she could be
locked up – and possibly be put to death.