Time to Love Again Page 2

  Sitting down at the computer, she got right to work, checking the material on the first floppy disk against Robert’s handwritten notes. Soon she was immersed in the old familiar world of eighth century Francia, the land that would by modern times become partly France and partly Germany. She could speak the language of that world, after a fashion, for Robert had tried his best to teach it to her.

  A few hours later, she stopped to stretch her muscles. While walking around the office wriggling her shoulders and flexing her fingers and wrists, her eyes fell upon a pile of printout material that Hank had left. On the top sheet was the word Time, followed by a mathematical equation that looked vaguely familiar. She picked up the paper, sinking back into the chair as she read it over, trying to make some sense of it. In spite of its apparent familiarity, the meaning of the formula was beyond her.

  “Space and time,” she muttered, frowning at the numbers.

  Recalling with a guilty pang that Hank wanted his papers left untouched, she reached across one of the new pieces of equipment to lay the sheet back on the pile. As she did so, her left hand accidentally brushed against the switch Hank had warned her not to touch. The mysterious piece of equipment hummed into life.

  “Oh, dear.” At first, India snatched her hand away from the switch, then, almost immediately, she leaned forward again to turn it off. But she froze before she made contact with it, mesmerized by the bright peach-colored glow now emanating from the screen in front of her. As she watched, the letters of the data she had been working on disappeared into the growing brilliance of that light. Within another second, the light had eclipsed the components of Hank’s entire system.

  India knew she ought to turn the computer off, but she could no longer see the switch, and she was afraid of an electrical shock if she put her hand into the light and started fumbling around. Still seated, she scooted the chair backward, wondering how best to deal with this unexpected problem. She thought about diving beneath the work station to find the plug and pull it out, but she wasn’t sure where the plug was -possibly behind a heavy section she wouldn’t be able to move – and she wasn’t absolutely certain there was only one plug. Hank might have arranged more than one electrical connection when he modified the computer.

  All of this she thought about within a moment or two, before she remembered the janitor. He would know where the fuse box was, or the circuit breaker, or whatever gadget kept electricity streaming into the infernal machine now filling the office with an eerie shade of golden peach. The janitor might be able to cut off the electricity before whatever was happening could wipe out Hank’s program and destroy all his work. She jumped out of the chair and headed for the hall, the peach light growing ever brighter behind her. Just as she stepped through the door, Hank appeared around a corner at the end of the hall.

  “What have you done to my computer?” he shouted, racing to the doorway to stare wild-eyed at the now-pulsating light.

  “It was an accident. I bumped the switch. I never meant to touch it. Oh, Hank, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Oh, my God!” he swore, his eyes still fixed on the light.

  “Can you turn it off?” India asked. “If I’ve ruined your program, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Which switch did you turn on?” Hank demanded, throwing his parka on the floor and moving toward the computer.

  “The one on this component.” Seeing that he was not afraid to get closer to the peach-colored light, India reached through it, eager to undo the damage she had already done.

  “Don’t touch it!” Hank yelled.

  But her groping fingertips had found the rounded top of the switch. She pushed at it. Nothing happened. She tried again, though she could see neither the switch nor her own hand, and she felt the strangest sensation, as if her arm was being pulled into the humming machinery.

  “What’s happening?” she cried. “Hank, you’re fading out. Where are you?”

  “India, get away from there!”

  Hank’s voice was fading, too, as though he spoke from an increasing distance, and she could just barely see him through the brilliant glow coming from the computer. Suddenly the air was sharp with the smell of ozone. She heard the crackle of electricity, and it seemed to her that numbers whirled about her head, forming and reforming into complicated equations.

  “Innndiaaa – “ Hank’s frantic shout drew out into a long, sad whisper of sound. From somewhere beneath her, blackness grew and developed, an aching, empty void through which she was falling…falling…

  “What’s going on here?” Willi stood in the open doorway, watching a singed and dirty Hank crawl out from between two sections of furniture. “I could hear you shouting from all the way down the hall. Did India blow a fuse? Where is she?”

  “Gone.” Pale and shaking, Hank pulled himself to his feet.

  “She hasn’t gone far,” Willi said. “Her purse and coat are still here.”

  “She went” – Hank took a deep gulp of air – “she went into the computer.”

  “What are you saying?” Willi’s puzzled expression showed just the beginning of fear.

  “She’s lost. Somehow she got mixed up in the program. She was working on her own data, and she turned this on.” He gave the offending component a hard smack with one hand. “I never thought it would actually work. It was just one of my far-out ideas. I left my new computations in here last night. I warned her not to touch the switch, but she did, and when she tried to turn it off, she vanished.”

  “Are you crazy?” Willi’s eyes were huge with dawning horror. “Or have you been reading too many of those weird scientific journals of yours? People don’t vanish into computers!”

  “India did. I saw it happen.” Hank passed one hand across his face as if he would wipe out that awful sight. “She said it was an accident. I’m not sure what she did in here before I arrived.”

  Willi opened her mouth, then shut it, breathing deeply through her nose several times to steady herself before she could trust herself to speak.

  “I am not going to waste precious time screaming or crying or having hysterics,” she said in a tight little voice. “You are going to bring India back. If I can do anything to help, I will.”

  “That’s just it,” Hank cried. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be fooling around with this machine.” Willi shook her head in disgust at his carelessness. Then she went to the table next to the keyboard, searching for anything that might offer a clue to India’s exact whereabouts. “Look here. I know this, it’s Robert’s notebook. And here’s one of his floppy disks.”

  “Yesterday she was talking about working on some of his notes,” Hank offered, moving to stand next to her. “There’s a date on it.”

  “Robert was such an old fuddy-duddy that he dated and cross-referenced everything,” Willi told him. “See? This floppy disk is labeled AD 777.”

  “And this empty sleeve is dated AD 778,” Hank added. “This must be the one she was using.”

  “Which means?” Willi asked, a hard edge to her voice.

  “If what I think happened actually did happen, India may well have been sent to the year 778,” Hank said, still looking down at the disk sleeve in his hand.

  “Henry Adelbert Marsh.” Willi’s voice was slow and deadly now, and no one hearing her could possibly doubt that she meant every word she said. “I don’t know what you have done with this stupid machine of yours to change it from an ordinary computer into this monster, or how you have done it, or what mad experiments you have been trying, but this I do know: You will bring India back from wherever you have sent her, and you will bring her back alive and healthy, or by heaven, you won’t live to see Christmas Day.”

  Hank looked at the short, plump young woman in her black leather outfit. Mythology wasn’t his field of expertise, but he knew an avenging fury when he saw one, and he believed Willi would do what she had threatened. Under her implacable stare he felt himself inundated by a wave of guilt.
At the same time, he experienced a burst of excitement. Was it possible that his far-out theory was correct? Could he make India reappear and then duplicate what she had done? If so, he would be the author of one of the great discoveries of all time.

  “I will do my best,” he promised.

  Chapter 3

  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, tha
t 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.”