Time to Love Again Page 4

  He lay beside her, pulling part of his cloak up and over them both. Suddenly, before she could protest or fend him off, he rose on his left elbow, his right arm still holding the hem of his cloak. His face was so close. …

  He tucked the cloak around her shoulder, then touched her hair. His callused, blunt fingers moved slowly across her cheek, one fingertip tracing the lower margin of her mouth, and then the bow of her upper lip. She caught her breath and held it, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare back into his fathomless eyes. He spoke her name, translating it into his own accent.

  “Een-dee-ahh.” The sound was a whisper, a promise, and an acknowledgment of the tension rising between them. His eyes were on her mouth now, where his fingertip still lingered, caressing the sensitive flesh there. She moaned, the faintest of notes, while she ached for the kiss he had not offered.

  Then his hand fell to her upper arm, encircling it, fettering her to his side with flesh that was like a manacle of strongest steel. He lowered his head, pillowing it on his arm, and in the firelight she saw his eyes close.

  “Good night, boy,” he said, and was silent.

  India lay stiffly, willing herself not to tremble because she did not want him to know how strongly he had affected her. She had never wanted any man but Robert, and their lovemaking had ended more than a year before his death, because his energy had been sapped by surgery and chemotherapy. She had put aside desire as she had put aside so much else at that time, refusing even to think about her sexual needs. And now, projected out of her own century into a time and place she could not yet locate exactly, she was panting with longing for a man she did not know, just because he had a magnificently muscled body, a commanding manner, and magical eyes that held her entranced every time he looked directly at her.

  Theuderic probably could not read or write; he certainly knew nothing of the art, literature, music, or history that had been so important in her own life; he was a bloodthirsty warrior without gentleness or good manners, and – heaven help her! – she wanted him. Having admitted it, she suffered through a dreadful few minutes, fearing for her sanity, until she decided that her inability to repress her unwanted emotions must be the result of what had occurred in Hank’s office.

  To keep her mind off Theuderic and his disturbing nearness, she made herself think about the computer that had caused her present predicament. She believed she knew what had happened to her. When she had accidentally hit the switch on the new component, a program Hank had left in the computer must have mixed itself up with the material she had been working on. The idea was fantastic, but her presence among a band of Frankish warriors was proof that there was validity to Hank’s theory about space and time, so there was no point in questioning that much.

  Now that she thought about it, she could remember exactly what part of Robert’s notes had been displayed on the computer screen when the peach-colored light first appeared. She had been studying the events leading up to the famous military disaster at the mountain pass of Roncevaux in the Pyrenees on August eighteenth of the year 778. That terrible day had been celebrated in song and legend through all the centuries since the entire rearguard of the Frankish army, the very flower of youth and courage, had died during an ambush.

  Marcion had mentioned Count Hrulund as if the man were still alive, favorably comparing Theuderic’s bravery and battle skills to those of the count. Hrulund was known to later ages as Roland, the king’s invincible champion and heroic leader of the rearguard at Roncevaux, and if he was still alive, then this was indeed a time before that fateful day.

  India concentrated, trying to recall every bit of the information she had been reading. During the year 777, Charles, king of the Franks – the man known to the twentieth century as Charlemagne – had secured his eastern border against the Saxons, though occasional flare-ups still occurred. That would explain the skirmish she had intruded upon. She knew now, after listening to Theuderic’s men talk, that it had been no real battle. Real battles, Marcion had told her, were larger and much worse.

  After a little more thought, she decided that the year was probably 778, and from the weather and the unleafed trees, the month must be early to mid-March. Theuderic had said they were headed for Aachen, which in her own twentieth century was on the border between Belgium and Germany.

  Now that she had worked out the approximate date and place, she did not feel quite so disoriented. She could do nothing about the fact that she had been forced to move from the spot where she had arrived in this time, but it was possible that Hank could find her anyway. She would keep her eyes and ears open for any indication that he was attempting to contact her. She told herself that all she had to do was stay alert and wait for his signal. And stay alive. That might be more difficult.

  Beside her Theuderic stirred, moving closer. She did not have to lift her hand far to touch the hard links of his armor. So many circles of metal, hundreds of them, individually forged and linked together. And, she had read, so expensive were they during this period of history that only the richest nobles could afford chain mail. Her captor was no ordinary warrior then, but someone of importance. She touched the edge of his sleeve, feeling the smooth hardness of circle upon circle. His simple brunia was a work of art. It was heavy, vet he bore its weight easily. He could even sleep in it, a feat she could not imagine achieving herself, though on second thought, she wasn’t certain Theuderic really was asleep. If an alarm were given, he would probably be on his feet, sword in hand, within a second or two. If she tried to get away from his camp, he would stop her escape before she had left the cover of his cloak, even if she were able to remove or cut through the rope that bound them together. The thought of what he might do then made her remove her hand from his sleeve. The damp of the earth had seeped through the cloak, chilling her. She trembled a bit in spite of her efforts to stop her reaction to the cold.

  With a deep sigh, Theuderic moved again, stretching his arm across her waist. Was it for warmth, or just a way of reminding her not to try anything foolish? Smothering the tears she refused to shed, she turned toward him, seeking the heat of his sturdy body. Both of his arms enfolded her with surprising gentleness. Feeling oddly comforted, she snuggled her head into his shoulder and slept at last.

  Marcion offered to carry her on his horse the next day, but Theuderic would not allow it.

  “So long as I am your leader, this boy is my responsibility,” he said.

  When Marcion shrugged his shoulders and made no argument, India thought about Theuderic’s leadership of his band. Marcion and Hugo were obviously his closest friends, but they all seemed to be on good terms, and no one showed the least shyness about expressing his opinion on any subject. Theuderic listened to each man, let them settle any personal disagreements among themselves, and gave direct orders only when necessary. It was a singularly democratic arrangement, yet when Theuderic barked out a command, it was instantly obeyed. Clearly he had the respect and trust of his men. Perhaps there was more to him than pure physical strength and steely determination. While she considered this possibility, Theuderic, mounted and with his shield slung across his back, leaned out of the saddle, extending a hand toward her.

  “Put your foot on mine and give me your hand,” he said. “I’ll lift you up.”

  She was awkward about it, nearly falling before he caught her and sat her in front of him in the way she had ridden the day before.

  “Stiff and sore, are you?” he asked, smiling a little. “It happens to everyone in the beginning. It will wear away as the day goes on, and as you grow more used to riding.”

  Once she had found her balance, he released her to take the reins in both hands, so that she was enclosed by his mail-clad arms. The temptation to sink back against his chest and rest her head on his shoulder was almost irresistible. Recalling how she had awakened that morning wrapped in his arms and his cloak, to find him watching her through eyes like silver water, and how he had sat up without a word, pulling aside his garments to unfas
ten the knot of the hide rope so he could rise and stride off through the forest, still without speaking to her, she wondered how she could survive another day so close to him.

  “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if I rode behind you?” she asked, thinking that arrangement would be infinitely easier for her, too.

  “I want you where I can see you,” he replied. “If you vanish in an instant, in the same way you appeared, I want to know it at once.”

  “Is that how it seemed to you?” she asked.

  “You arrived out of the air,” he said. “One moment you were not there, and the next moment, you were. The others think you heard the sound of fighting and ran onto the field in confusion, while they were looking elsewhere. Only I saw the true manner of your coming.”

  “No wonder you don’t trust me. I’m surprised you didn’t kill me at once.”

  “I would have,” he said, “but I saw the medallion.”

  “I am human,” she told him, fearing what he might believe. “I am flesh and blood and bone, as you are. I should not be here, I will return to my own home as soon as I can, but while I am here, I mean no harm to you or your men, nor to anyone else.”

  “That may be true, but it is no explanation for your appearance among us. Your mere presence may cause harm, whether you mean it or not.” He fell silent for a bit, as if considering something, then spoke again. “I have heard stories about odd-looking men who come to Francia in vessels that fly through the air. The stories say these men live in a land called Magonia. Is that your home?”

  “No.” She twisted around to look at him. “I have never heard of such a place, nor have I read or heard of that story.”

  “Where is your home?”

  “I live in Cheswick.” That was safe enough to admit. It would mean nothing to him.

  “Where is this Chess-veeck? Did I say it properly?”

  “You came very close.” She smiled when he repeated the word. His hard face softened just a little, the corner of his mouth quirked upward in a half-smile, and there was real laughter in his eyes. She added, “Cheswick is far from here, a journey of many long years.”

  He studied her face, the laughter fading from his own. She was sorry to see it go.

  “Once again you tell me the truth,” he said, “and once again you evade speaking all of it. Why?”

  “Sometimes the truth can be dangerous.”

  “To you or to me?”

  “Not to you,” she said, wishing she had kept her mouth shut.

  “Can you be sure of that?” he asked. “Can I be sure of it?”

  “Please don’t ask me any more questions. I have told you what I can.” She had been looking at him all this time. Now, unwilling to meet his steady eyes any longer, she turned her head forward again, and he fell silent without promising that he would make no further inquiries of her, leaving her to believe it was only a matter of time before his questions began once more. She thought a man like Theuderic would not give up until he had the information he sought.

  They were traveling through a particularly thick section of the forest that covered vast stretches of the northeastern lands, and care was needed to be certain they did not lose their way. But though Theuderic did not speak to her again, she could not ignore him. With every step his horse took, his legs brushed against hers, and his arms on either side of her were like steel bars. If she moved so much as an inch, her back was pressed to his chest. She heard every breath he took. As the hours passed, she became more and more aware of him and more and more frightened of what she was feeling. She was greatly relieved when, some time after midday, Hugo created a diversion for her thoughts.

  “A rabbit on a spit would taste good tonight,” Hugo said. “I’m weary of bread and dried venison. If I remember this part of our path correctly, the trees should thin out in a little while. What do you say, Theu? Shall I lead a hunting party?”

  “Can you hunt and not get lost?” Marcion put in, taking a thump of Hugo’s great fist on his arm for the quip.

  “Take Eudon and Osric with you,” Theuderic agreed. “Marcion, you stay here with us.”

  “Ha! He thinks you’d be the one to get lost, my friend,” said Hugo to Marcion, laughing. He pulled his horse to one side, waiting while the others rode on. India looked back as the three Theuderic had designated moved into the trees at an angle to the path they were following.

  “It would be easy enough to get lost here,” she remarked.

  “Not Hugo,” Marcion told her. “I tease him, but he’s a fine hunter. I can taste that rabbit already.” He smacked his lips in a comical way.

  “You aren’t a Frank, are you?” asked India, regarding his close-cropped black curls and wiry frame. Perhaps conversation with this pleasant young man would help to take her mind off Theuderic’s tantalizing nearness.

  “I am a Lombard,” Marcion told her. “I was brought to Francia five years ago after Charles conquered Lombardy and deposed King Desiderius. In the past, my father was one of Desiderius’s most valued counselors, so I was made a hostage for the future good behavior of the rest of my family.”

  “You are a hostage?” India must have looked stunned by this information, because Marcion laughed and nodded his head in a reassuring way.

  “It has been a most enjoyable time,” he said. “I was immediately given into Theu’s keeping, and we have become friends over the years. I have made many friends in Francia, not least of them Charles himself, and I have learned much from the Franks. Their king is a great man.”

  “How old are you, Marcion?”

  “I will be twenty-one at the end of August,” he said. “Then it will be time for me to cross the Alps and return to Lombardy. Charles has arranged a marriage for me with the daughter of one of his nobles. I will miss Francia, but it will be good to see my parents again and to show my home to my new bride.”

  While India was assimilating this agreeable picture of a hostage’s existence, so different from the twentieth-century image of such a life, and trying to gather her courage to ask Theuderic if he was married or betrothed, their progress through the forest was halted by shouts off to their left.

  “Move behind me,” Theuderic ordered her. “I can’t fight with you sitting in my lap.”

  He started to swing her up and around, but before he could lift her, Osric burst out of the trees on a lathered horse.

  “Theu, it’s Eudon,” Osric shouted. “He’s been gored by a boar. Hugo said to come at once. He didn’t want to leave Eudon alone.”

  “Lead us there.“ With those terse words Theuderic pushed India back into place in front of him and dug his heels into his horse’s sides. He and the rest of his men followed Osric through the trees.

  They found Hugo bending over his companion, who was lying on the cold earth. Theuderic leapt off his horse to go to them. India, left to her own devices, tumbled to the ground without assistance. Averting her eyes from the huge boar that lay a short distance away, impaled by Hugo’s spear, she ran toward the wounded man.

  “We never saw the beast till it attacked,” Hugo told Theuderic. “Eudon and I had dismounted to track a pair of rabbits. Osric was keeping watch. He shouted as soon as he saw the boar, but it was too late. It charged out of the bushes and gored Eudon in his right buttock.”

  “Better his buttock than his belly,” said Theuderic, bending to inspect the damage. “You were fortunate this day, my friend. This is just a grazing cut.”

  Coming up behind Theuderic, India saw that Eudon’s wound was a slash along the side of his buttock.

  “I thought boars always charged their prey head-on,” she said, with images of pictures of medieval hunts in her mind.

  “They do,” Hugo told her. “This would have been a death blow had Eudon not turned aside when Osric shouted.”

  At this point Theuderic spared a glance for the boar, another for Hugo.

  “A good, clean kill,” he said appreciatively. “Neatly spitted.”

  “Now cook it,” came Eudon’s vo
ice through gritted teeth. “I plan to eat its heart. Give the liver to Hugo; he’s earned it.”

  “Before you eat anything,” Theuderic told him, “we are going to cauterize that wound. Osric, tell the others to find some dry wood and start a fire. Hugo, get the bandages.”

  “No,” India protested. “That’s barbaric. Can’t you just wash it with wine, or with clean water?”

  “If we had brought any wine with us,” Theuderic said, “we’d have drunk it long ago. It’s not a deep wound, but a boar roots up its food from the ground, so its tusks are dirty. If we don’t cauterize it at once, Eudon will die of the poison that was on the tusks. If you don’t want to see how we treat him, I suggest you keep out of the way. I’ll assign someone to guard you.”

  “There must be something I can do for Eudon,” she insisted. “I tended my master in his last illness, so I am accustomed to caring for the sick. Let me help.”

  “Eudon is not sick, and he’s not dying. He has been wounded. There is a difference,” Theuderic told her. “But perhaps you can be useful here. You don’t look strong enough to hold him down when the moment comes, but you can help me to undress him.” His face was perfectly serious, with no hint of humor, but India was certain that in his heart Theuderic was laughing at her, expecting her to dispute his suggestion with sudden modesty.

  “Do you want everything off?” she asked coolly, telling herself that a man’s body held no mystery for a woman who had been married.

  “Just pull his tunic up and remove his breeches and underdrawers,” Theuderic replied, watching her closely.

  Determined not to betray her female status, India reached boldly forward to lift Eudon’s tunic and undershirt so she could tug at the cord that held up his coarse woolen breeches. Removing them was an unpleasant process and took some time, for Eudon, though he tried to help her, was in considerable pain and was loath to move in any way that might cause more discomfort. Theuderic let her do the job by herself, waiting until she had the breeches down around the man’s knees before he knelt to remove Eudon’s cross-gartered stockings and unlace his shoes. Eudon wore linen underdrawers, torn and bloodstained like the breeches, and these India also removed, leaving him lying on his left side with his remaining garments hiked up to his waist, half naked in the cold dampness. Theuderic spread Eudon’s own cloak, and he and Hugo moved the man onto it.