Twelfth Night

  Twelfth Night

  By Flora Speer

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2011 by Flora Speer

  Copyright 1993, by Flora Speer

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  Cover Design Copyright 2011,

  By http//:DigitalDonna

  Chapter 1

  Farmington, Connecticut

  December 23

  “Just where do you think you are going?’ Lucinda Carstairs glared at her older sister. She kept her voice low, but Aline could tell Luce was angry. So was Luce’s husband, Bill, who pushed his bulk in front of Alice to block her exit from the dining room.

  “Come on now, Ally,” Bill said. “You can’t walk out on your own grandfather’s funeral. It wouldn’t look right.”

  “I am not walking out on the funeral,” Aline replied. “I was there at the church and at the gravesite, and I have been here at your house for more than three hours. I’ve had enough of polite condolences and small talk – and entirely too much of dainty sandwiches and cookies and tea. Gramps would have demanded a slice of roast beef on rye and a glass of good Scotch whiskey.

  “Luce, it’s nothing you’ve done, or you either, Bill. It’s just that I need to be alone for a while,” Aline added, feeling guilty for her imminent defection from the social duties her sister expected of her.

  “But I have someone here I especially wanted you to meet,” Lucinda protested. “A man I just know you will like.”

  “Not today,” Aline cried. “Good God, Luce, can’t you stop the matchmaking even for Gramps’ funeral? I’ve told you at least a hundred times, I do not want to get married again. Once was more than enough.”

  “Ally, you don’t understand.”

  “Let her go,” Bill advised when Lucinda would have continued to argue. “Any man who meets her when she’s in this mood will only turn tail and run the other way.”

  “Has anyone ever told you,” Aline hissed, all patience gone, “that you are the most insensitive couple in the history of the entire world?”

  “Aline!” Lucinda glanced around to see if any of her guests had noticed her dismayed exclamation. When she spoke again, she lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I don’t understand why you’re being so difficult. Gramps was almost ninety-three, he lived a full life, and he was ready to go. He told us so on the day he died. We all knew he couldn’t live much longer. He – and I – accepted the inevitable. Why can’t you?”

  “You’re right, Luce,” Aline said. “You don’t understand. You probably never will. Thanks for your efforts today. It has been a lovely party, but it’s time for me to leave.”

  As Aline hurried out of the dining room she brushed against a man she had never seen before.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, assuming he was some friend of Bill’s and unwilling to pause lest Luce or Bill should come after her.

  “I say, aren’t you –“

  Aline was too eager to be gone from her sister’s house to stop and chat. Grabbing her cape off the Victorian coat rack by the front door, she ran across the porch and down the steps. Only when she reached the street did she stand still long enough to put on the cape. Shivering in the cold December wind, she pulled the billowing folds of heavy grey wool around her, then fastened the silver clasp at her throat and drew up the hood.

  Gramps had given the cape to her. Every time she enfolded herself in it, she felt as if his arms were circling her, holding her safe and warm. The cape was almost all she had left of him. Almost, but not quite all. For there was another legacy from Gramps that still survived: the illuminated Book of Hours he had purchased in Europe early in the century. When he learned he did not have long to live, Gramps had taken care that his most valuable worldly possession would be permanently kept in a safe place where others who cared about its beauty as he and Aline did could see it and use it for historical or art research.

  As firmly as the grey wool of the cape sat upon Aline’s shoulders, so the desire came over her to see the book again. If she could hold that beautiful object in her hands once more, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so lost and alone. Perhaps some part of Gramps would cling to the book and, like the cape, it would comfort her.

  She hurried to her car. Surprised to see a dusting of snow on it, she brushed the flakes off the windshield, then opened the door. Before getting into the car she glanced upward at the heavy clouds that seemed ready to open and engulf the world in white.

  The Victorian Gothic architecture of the college library remained unchanged since Aline’s days as a student. At the windows, pointed arches framed small, diamond-shaped panes of glass. Overhead, dark wooden beams traced the higher arches that supported the ceiling. Two rows of oak tables with sturdy matching chairs marched down the length of the room.

  “The architect tried to make this place look like the great hall of a medieval castle,” Gramps had told Aline during one of their many visits. “He didn’t succeed, though.

  There are too many windows and no big fireplaces.”

  Personally, Aline had always though the library more resembled a Gothic church.

  There was nothing medieval about the young woman at the librarian’s desk just inside the entrance. Perhaps in honor of the season, she was dressed in bright red from her turtleneck sweater to her miniskirt and opaque tights to her spike-heeled suede shoes. She was also thoroughly modern in her abruptness.

  “We’re closing in one hour,” she said.

  “I don’t intend to stay long,” Aline replied. “I just want to see one of the rare books.”

  “You’ll need permission from the head librarian.”

  “I have this.” Aline presented the special library card Gramps had obtained for her when he donated the book to the library under the sole condition that Aline could have free access to it.

  “I chose that particular library in part because it’s close to where you live,” Gramps had told her. “You’ll be able to visit the book whenever you like, but you won’t have to worry about keeping it clean and free from mildew or bookworms, and the new vault they’ve installed ought to be safe from thieves.”

  The librarian took the special card and looked closely at it. She seemed impressed by what she saw.

  “The rare book room is through there,” she said, indicating the door at the far end of the library, “or you can just use the big room As you can see no one else is here this afternoon.” She disappeared on her errand to retrieve the book from the basement vault.

  Aline did not like the rare book room It was small and dark, the walls filled with glass-enclosed, locked cases, the air heavy from constant recycling. She chose a table in the main room. After dumping her purse onto a chair and draping her cape over it, she glanced toward the windows. A few flakes of snow were drifting downward.

  “You’re supposed to wear gloves while you handle it.” The librarian placed a box in front of Aline. On top of the box lay a pair of thin, white cotton gloves.

  “I know. I won’t forget.” As the librarian moved away toward the circulation desk, Aline opened the box and pulled on the gloves. The dirt and oils on human skin could damage the ancient vellum; Gramps had never handled the book without clean gloves.

  Aline lifted the book out of its acid-free nest, holding the medieval relic reverently in both hands. Originally created as a gift for a noble lady, the B
ook of Hours was intended as a guide during daily church services. It also contained prayers for private devotions. Every letter of each Latin word was gracefully formed, the ink still unfaded after almost nine hundred years. But, though the lettering was beautiful, the illuminations were the true glory of the book. In addition to elaborately decorated capital letters and margins at the beginning of every prayer, the book contained a series of miniature paintings, each depicting a month. Aline had always loved the brilliant blues and greens and the tasteful accents of real gold on the robes of the painted nobles shown in the miniatures.

  “Blue was the color of the Middle Ages.” She could almost hear Gramps’ voice at her shoulder, as if he were once more looking at the book with her. “Never before or since has there been a pigment so clear, so pure, so long-lasting. That blue makes my old eyes rejoice.”

  Rejoice. Spreading her hands, Aline let the book fall open where it would. Rejoice, she thought again, and began to smile, for she was looking at the scene for December.

  Beneath an improbably blue sky, gaily dressed nobles and peasants together were dragging a Yule log across a snowy landscape toward the entrance to a great, turreted castle. The castle doors were open wide and through the opening Aline could see a fireplace already blazing with orange and red flames. Beside the fire a noble lady sat, wearing a green gown and a crisp white headdress. In her hands she held a book. It was, of course, the very same book Aline was holding. She recognized the gold design on the cover. Behind her, Aline imagined she could hear Gramps’ ghostly chuckle.

  “Don’t ever think the monks who made this book were all solemnity and prayers, Aline,” he had told her once. “Those medieval folk had a fine sense of humor.”

  A chill draft blew across the back of Aline’s neck. Setting the book into its box, she took up her cape and pulled it across her shoulders. Then she lifted the book again to examine the December page more closely. In the painting there was a figure following the men with the Yule log, a boy with his arms full of holly and evergreens.

  “A medieval Christmas lasted for twelve days and twelve nights,” Gramps’ voice said in her memory. “Castles were decorated with greenery. There was usually plenty of food available. The harvest was over, the animals for whom there wouldn’t be enough fodder to see them into spring had been slaughtered and the meat cut up and preserved by salting or drying. The sausages had all been made from the leftover scraps of meat and the innards. Work in the fields was finished until spring, so people had some free time and they were ready to celebrate. Even the worst winter weather couldn’t stop them.

  Being snowed in meant nothing to those hardy medieval folk. They had everything they needed to get through the winter, right there in the castle storerooms and cellars. They knew how to work hard and how to enjoy life.”

  Rejoice. Celebrate. Enjoy life. Gramps had gone on to describe the feasting, the riotous games and dancing, the hilarious foolishness of Twelfth Night. Aline smiled again, recalling his stories.

  “I remember, Gramps. How could I ever forget?” But the memory made her eyes misty. Fearing to allow a salty tear to drop onto the precious painting and damage it, Aline lifted her head to look up from the brilliantly colored December page to the window a few feet in front of her. Great, fat flakes of snow were coming down fast.

  “I really ought to start home before the roads get too slippery for driving.” But she did not move. She sat with the Book of Hours in her hands and her gaze on the falling snow. Her eyes were dry now, but the diamond-shaped outlines of the glass panes were blurring. Aline blinked once, twice. The pointed stone arch surrounding the window began to waver. She blinked again. The window, the arch – in fact, the entire row of stone arches and windows along that side of the library – began to dissolve.

  The wind caught at her cape, nearly pulling it off her shoulders. Aline clutched at it. She was standing – standing? – beneath darkening grey skies in an open field and the wind was blowing hard. The library had disappeared, the Book of Hours was gone, and her hands were bare of the white cotton gloves she’d been wearing.

  “What’s happening? Where am I?” A blast of wind nearly knocked her off her feet. Aline stumbled on uneven ground. She stared at the earth beneath her feet.

  Ruts. Deep ruts frozen into a mud road.

  She was so confused and the wind was blowing so hard that she did not hear the horses until they were almost upon her. Great, galloping beasts pounded down the sides of the road, avoiding the dangerous ruts that could trap and break a horse’s leg. With a frightened scream Aline threw herself to one side. The dead grass at the edge of the road was slippery with frost and the first thin layer of snow. She almost slid under the hooves of the lead horse. Its rider pulled hard on the reins and the horse reared upward. Aline saw flashing hooves, bared equine teeth, and the shadow of a black mane.

  “What the devil are you doing out here on the road?” demanded a hard, masculine voice.

  “I don’t know,” Aline stammered. “I think I’m lost.”

  “You’re no peasant, not with that noble accent, not with a silver clasp on your cloak. Where are your servants?”

  “What servants?” Aline’s teeth had begun to chatter. “It’s freezing out here. Can you tell me where I might go to get warm?”

  Behind the man who had spoken to her, a troop of horsemen now drew up to await the pleasure of their leader. Through the snow and the gathering darkness Aline could just barely see them. They were well muffled into their cloaks, but here and there she noted the gleam of metal.

  They were wearing armor. The leader had a sword belted at his side. From his mounted height he looked down at Aline while his men waited and her confusion grew deeper.

  “In this countryside, there is only one place for a lady to go,” the man said. “You will ride with us to Shotley Castle. Give me your hand and put your foot on mine.” He edged his horse closer to Aline and bent toward her, extending his hand.

  Aline had never been on a horse in her life and she was terrified of this particular huge, restless creature. Yet something in the man’s voice made her obey his command.

  She put her hand into his, and when he lifted her upward she placed her foot on his mailed boot, momentarily resting her weight there. Then, in a flurry of cape and skirt she was seated before him. The horse moved forward suddenly and Aline thought she would fall to the ground. Her gasp of fear brought a pair of strong arms around her.

  “Have no fear, I’ll keep you safe,” the horseman told her.

  “How far away is this Shotley Castle?” she asked, wondering if she would be able to stay on the horse for more than a few feet.

  “It is not far.”

  “That’s hardly an answer.” Perhaps there would be a telephone at this so-called castle, and she could call Luce for directions on how to get home. Then she realized she didn’t have her purse, and thus no money, no identification… nothing except the clothes she wore. “When we get there, will they let me stay?”

  “I have no doubt of it, my lady”

  “Who are you?” she asked, struck by the term my lady. “Where am I?”

  “I am Adam of Shotley, baron of that castle, returning from my forty days of service to my king. You are on my road. Now, my lady, tell me your name and what you are doing alone on such a night.”

  “I’m Aline Bennett. Where is Shotley Castle?”

  “Just a short distance along this road,” he answered. “We will be safe at home before the worst of the storm strikes.”

  “No, I mean in what state are we? Where are we?” She couldn’t remember leaving the library, but perhaps she’d gotten lost in the snowstorm and driven her car off an icy road. She could have hit her head. She might have a concussion. That would explain why she was so confused. But she didn’t have a headache and she wasn’t thinking in a confused way; it was just that her surroundings had shifted with a suddenness she couldn’t understand.

  “State?” Adam of Shotley sounded puzzled by her que
stion. Aline wished she could see him clearly but, like Aline and his men, he had raised the hood of his cloak against the cold, and the light was by now so dim that his face was only a pale blur in the shadow of dark fabric.

  “Do you mean, what country are you in? This is England,” he said. “How could you not know that?”

  “I guess I really am lost,” she said, trying to hide her growing fear with flippancy. “The last time I checked, I was in Connecticut.” How could she have crossed the Atlantic without knowing it? What in the name of heaven was going on?

  “Were you set upon by thieves, here on my land?” Adam asked. “If you were, I promise, I’ll find the brigands and see them publicly hanged.”

  “Hanged?” she repeated, stunned by this idea.

  “I assure you, where a lady’s safety is concerned, I will not be remiss. Did they harm your servants, or did the varlets run away, leaving you to the mercy of outlaws?”

  “Wait, please!” Aline cried. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “I am saying that in my barony I will have justice, and safety for all women.”

  “You needn’t hang anyone on my account, “Aline said, still trying to make sense of this insane conversation. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but whatever it was, I don’t think it was a hanging offense.” She paused a moment, trying to organize her thoughts. “I don’t suppose you could tell me what day it is, could you?”

  “Certainly. It is but two days before the holy Christ Mass, which is why we are in such a hurry to reach home.”

  “December twenty-third,” she murmured. “Well, that’s correct, at least. You mentioned a king you were serving?”

  “King Henry,” he replied.

  “Which Henry?”

  “He is the first of that name. Do you know another King Henry?”

  “Eight of them, in England,” she responded wryly, adding, “Forty days of service to King Henry I?”