CHAPTER TWO
The first thing Rory noticed was the smell. It was as if a hundred portable outhouses had been dumped in the street along with animal carcasses, trash, and just about anything else imaginable. As a Biblical Archaeologist with an emphasis in the First through Third Crusades, she was well aware of Medieval societal conditions. She’d studied it, wrote about it, inspected it, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. It was beyond belief. She held Kieran’s hand tightly as they entered the outskirts of the village, heading into the bowels of the berg.
The shacks that comprised people’s homes or businesses weren’t anything like she was used to. They were made of mud and straw, seated on foundations that were nothing like modern building foundations. And they were small; very tiny, like doll houses. Walls leaned, roofs pitched at odd angles, and she could hear voices and other noises as they walked along the dirty street. But it wasn’t English they spoke; it was something else, something harsh and crude. It was, literally, like being in another world. She was in ancient times and still struggling to grasp it. It was terrifying, disorienting and thrilling at the same time.
So she was in Nahariya in 1192 A.D., at least if what Kieran believed was true. Other than the fact that she was walking in animal dung on urine-slicked roads, there was another concern on her mind. She was still dressed in her khaki jeans and tee shirt, looking as out of place as one could possibly get in a twelfth century village. She need more appropriate attire in order to blend in, especially with her fair skin. But she was horrified at the thought of wearing clothing of this time. Vermin and lice were commonplace and she wanted no part of bug-crawling clothing. Still, she had little choice.
“Kieran,” she whispered as they tread quickly and quietly down a darkened avenue. “I need some appropriate clothing. People are going to have a heart attack when they see me in these clothes.”
He was in a mode that Rory had never seen before. His eyes were darting about, surveying all, missing nothing. It was the look of a hunter or the hunted. Still, he managed to understand what she was telling him, even passing a glance at her attire.
He grunted. “I have become so accustomed to seeing you dressed as such that it did not occur to me.” He paused, pulling her back into the shadows with him. “Hut has a wife. Perhaps she can give you something to wear until I can purchase clothing for you.”
She wrinkled her nose. “God, I hope it’s clean, whatever it is.”
“Beggars cannot be choosers. You will take it and be thankful for it until I can purchase something better.”
“I’m not a beggar,” she insisted, somewhat angrily. “And I won’t wear it if it’s crawling with bugs or any other little creatures.”
“You will wear it.”
“No bugs, Kieran.”
“Wear it or you will not like my response.”
She stuck her tongue out at him in the darkness. He caught it out of the corner of his eye.
“Do that again and I shall take it as an invitation.”
She leaned forward into his line of sight and stuck her tongue out at him blatantly, adding a sassy sound along with it. He looked at her sternly before breaking down into soft snorts.
“I accept your invitation. But later.”
She giggled as he pulled her out of the shadows and they continued down the avenue. Somewhere in the mud and filth, she managed to step in a huge pile of human feces and she groaned, trying to wipe her boot off as they continued to move down the street. Just as she managed to wipe most of it off in the dirt, Kieran suddenly veered into a large structure.
It was bigger than the small, leaning houses they had just passed. From what she could see, the building was two stories with a row of narrow, gaping windows on the second floor. The door wasn’t properly fitted and both light and sound poured through the gaps. When Kieran finally yanked the door open, she was hit in the face by the warmth and the smell.
The room was full of bodies, of people that Rory had only seen at Medieval fairs or in movies. They were dirty, scruffy, dressed in clothing that made her mouth hang open at the sight of it. Kieran pulled her across the hard-packed dirt floor towards the far end of the room, but it didn’t prevent her from staring at the collection of rabble.
Men who looked as if they had never bathed in their lives sat hunched over earthenware cups. There were a few women about, though it was a general term regarding the sex of the individual and not a compliment. They were, by far, the most dirty, disgusting creatures Rory had ever seen. They wore little more than layers of rags on their bodies; dark, swarthy women who turned their attention to her as she crossed the room in her indecent clothing.
In the corner, one of the women was up on the tabletop, her skirts thrown up and a man going to work between her legs. The woman laughed, the man thrust into her, and his friends crowed uproariously. They were all making great sport out of it while one of their friends near the window peed against the wall.
Mouth still agape, Rory smashed into the back of Kieran when he suddenly came to a halt. Peering around him, she noticed he had engaged in conversation with a large, flabby man who wore little more than a burlap tunic and ratty leggings. She stared at the clothing, the uneven weave and rough material. It was both fascinating and shocking, like wearing steel wool. She listened to the conversation although she still hadn’t gotten over her shock of the state of the tavern room. She was slipping back into disorientation again; this was real, dirty and as guttural as it got. She was beginning to feel nauseous.
“Are my possessions still in the room I rented from you?” Kieran demanded quietly.
The fat innkeeper nodded nervously, speaking a dialect of English that was barely understandable. It was obvious that it was not his native language. “I’ve not touched yer possessions, my lord. They are just where ye left them this morning.”
A strange gleam came to Kieran’s eye. “How long have I been here?”
The fat man looked confused. “How long…?”
“How long?” Kieran snapped, more loudly.
“Ye came only this morning, my lord,” the man stammered fearfully. “I’ve not touched yer possessions.…”
It was all Kieran needed to hear. He pulled Rory up the rickety stairs to the left, heading down a short, uneven hallway until he reached the last door on the left. He threw open the door, checked to make sure no one was in the room, quickly ushered Rory inside and closed the door behind them.
Rory stood near the closed door, feeling increasingly ill and disoriented as Kieran went straight for the small bed and began to pull things out from underneath it. He knew exactly where to go and what to do. An enormous satchel, saddlebags, and the magnificent sword that they had unearthed along with him were tossed upon the mattress. She continued to stand there in bewildered silence as he rummaged through everything as if checking to make sure nothing was missing.
“You realize that you’re in odd clothing, too, right?” she asked quietly.
He nodded, pulling wads of material out of his satchel. “Something I intend to remedy immediately.” He looked over and studied her closely for the first time since they had entered the town. She looked inordinately pale and he realized he had been rushing through all of this, focused on resuming a sense of normalcy. But his normalcy and Rory’s normalcy were not the same. He hadn’t been sensitive to her needs or feelings in the least. Setting his clothing down, he went over to her.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked gently. “Perhaps you would like something to eat.”
She waved him off. “Good lord, no. I don’t want to touch anything.”
“You are going to have to eat sooner or later.”
“Make it later.”
He didn’t push her. “Very well.” He kissed her forehead. “You will tell me if you change your mind.”
She nodded unsteadily and he touched her cheek, wishing he could comfort her more. But he knew from experience that this kind of disorientation would take time to heal. When he had awoken in a London morgue after eight hundred years of inactivity, his disorientation had been a miserable experience. She would not overcome this in a mere few moments although he wished he could spare her the time. But time, at the moment, was of the essence. He returned to his unpacking.
“If what Hut says is correct, then tonight the assassins will come for me,” he said. “We must be well out of this place in a hurry.”
“Was that fat guy Hut?”
“Aye.”
“The same one who buried you in the old Roman temple?”
“The same.”
Rory fell silent, digesting the information, taking the time to look around the room and trying to be very clinical about everything. It seemed to help her disorientation not to become swept up in the emotion of the moment. This time period was her specialty, her area of focus, and she should have been very detached and scholarly about the whole adventure. But she found that she could not be completely unemotional about it. Spying a stool near the sooty hearth that was really more like a hole in the wall than an actual fireplace, she went to it and sat wearily.
Kieran was digging through a massive leather bag, removing clothing that she couldn’t readily identify. But the longer she stared at the bag, the more she recognized it. It was enough to get her off the stool and over to the bed.
“Your satchel,” she said as she fingered the thick leather. “I remember when we found this on you. It was so brittle that we were afraid to touch it. But looking at it now, it’s new and supple. Amazing.”
Kieran ripped off the shirt he had bought at Fortnum and Mason, tossing it onto the bed and replacing it with a padded, linen tunic. He ran his hands over it, acquainting himself with something familiar. It was a satisfying feeling.
Rory was distracted from her fear and disorientation as she watched him transform from a twenty-first century man to a knight of the Third Crusade. In fact, it was a rather awesome experience. The only time she had ever seen him dressed in attire appropriate to his profession was when they had first uncovered his grave. She’d never even seen him in chain mail or armor. Now, he was becoming what he was born to be; a knight of Richard the Lionheart. The realization was blooming.
Rory ran her fingers over the rough linen tunic, inspecting the textile as Kieran tried to dress around her. He pulled off his jeans and pulled on a pair of leather breeches, trying to retrieve a pair of boots from his satchels as Rory studied the leather. He finally gave up trying to pull the boots on as she inspected the seams of the breeches, the stitching on the tunic, clinically analyzing what he was wearing. When she finally glanced up at him during the course of her inspection, he was smiling at her.
“What?” she asked. “Why are you grinning?”
He shook his head, kissing the hand that was on his shoulder. “Because you inspect me as one would a prized stallion,” he said, finally going to his knees and, once again, rummaging under the bed.
He began to pull forth a bucket-shaped helm, some kind of padded, leather vest and a huge pile of mail. Rory stepped out of his way as he brought the heavy mess onto the bed. Then she stood there with mounting awe as he began to dress himself in his battle armor.
“Oh… my God,” she breathed. “Your chain mail.”
He looked at her, unsure why she seemed so amazed. “Indeed. Why do you look that way?”
As she watched him pull the hauberk over his head, tears filled her eyes and it was clear she was very emotional. She put her hands to her lips, folded, as if praying, watching every move he made. She was suddenly seeing him through new eyes, a Knight of the Realm as he was always meant to be. It was her Kieran, now in his element.
“Because,” she struggled to speak through the lump in her throat. “Of course I always knew you were a knight but I never… it’s just really dawning on me, that’s all. When we dug you up, you weren’t wearing your armor. Seeing you like this… my God, it’s just too fantastic to believe. It’s unreal.”
He eased his rushing motions yet again and cupped her face in his enormous hands, focusing on her. As difficult as it had been for him when he had awakened in her time, he knew well what she was feeling. Her shock of ending up in his time was probably much worse and it was only going to grow more brutal. She was educated and smart, but she truly had no idea what she was in for. All of the education in the world would not prepare her for the reality.
He gently kissed her forehead. “I am sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I know this must be difficult for you and you are showing extreme resilience. I am very proud of your strength.”
She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she murmured, her gaze moving over the mail hood resting on his shoulders. “Don’t worry about me. It’s just that this is a truly amazing experience for me, Kieran. To see you as you really are, as you were meant to be… I never thought I would see that, not ever. But I am and it’s overwhelming.”
He wasn’t sure what to say to that so he kissed her forehead again and dropped his hands, returning to the mail and pieces of armor that he had placed carefully on the bed. She came up behind him, inspecting the helm closely.
“I remember this thing,” she said slowly, running her fingers over the bucket-shaped helm. “It was buried with you.”
“Hut was most thorough in burying my possessions.”
“In about a hundred years, knights are going to be wearing entire suits of plate armor just like this helm.”
He lifted an eyebrow as he slipped on the heavy, leather vest that covered his chest like a bulletproof Kevlar vest. “Why?”
“Better protection.”
He grunted in disbelief as he fastened the straps on the vest. “I am not sure I would wear a suit of metal. It would be difficult to move, I would think. Heavy, too.”
She shrugged, watching him finish with the leather vest and move for the massive coat of chain mail on the bed.
“Some of them were ridiculously heavy,” she agreed. “But this coat of chain mail is heavy. It’s got to weigh fifty pounds.”
He pursed his lips as he took the mail coat from the bed and began to put it on as one would put on a heavy sweater; arms first.
“It is not cumbersome or heavy,” he informed her flatly. Then he ran his hands over it to smooth it down, his expression turning wistful. “I have missed it.”
As unsettled as she was with the apparent time shift, he was equally as comfortable. Now that he was back in his element and his strength, his sense of urgency was gaining power. It was as if he had never left as an odd change seemed to overtake him. The mannerisms rooted to this time in history were seeping back into him, turning him from a twenty-first century transplant back to a twelfth century original. The knight, the trained killer and protector, was rapidly returning.
Rory stood back, watching him as he positioned the mail coat. It hung to mid-thigh and covered both arms beyond the wrists. He pulled another tunic over the top of it. She was so involved in watching the lines of the chain mail and the way it fit his body that it took her a moment to realize he had pulled on a scarlet tunic with three rows of yellow, royal lions on it. It was well-used but unmistakable. Her hazel eyes widened.
“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “It… it…”
He fussed with the tunic, oblivious to the shock in her tone. “What is wrong?”
She didn’t reply. When the wait became excessive, he turned to look at her only to find her standing there with tears spilling down her cheeks. He immediately stopped what he was doing and went to her.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart,” he crooned softly as he wiped at the tears on her face. “Why do you weep?”
She sobbed, pointing at him; it sounded like a squeak. “Richard,” she managed to spit out. “You’re wearing Richard’s tunic.”
He wasn’t quite sure why she was crying about it. “Aye, I am.” His brow furrowed. “Why? What is wrong with it?”
She shook her head, still sobbing. Kieran wasn’t exactly sure how to comfort her, not knowing why she was pointing at him and weeping, when she sniffled loudly and struggled to compose herself.
“The history I am witnessing is beyond comprehension.” She tried to put her amazement into words he could understand. “It would be like… like when you were presented with Christ’s Crown of Thorns. The sheer value of the object, of you holding and touching the object, is something so deep and intensely personal. Do you remember how you felt when you saw it for the first time? The reverence and spiritual power? As you stand there, you are a knight under the command of King Richard of England. In my time, he was perhaps the most legendary king England has ever had with rare exception. His legend has reached almost mythological proportions and now I’m actually seeing the reality of it. It’s living, breathing history, Kieran. I’m not sure if you can understand how powerful that is to me, as a student of history.”
“An archaeologist.”
“A Biblical Archaeologist with an emphasis in the First through Third Crusades.” She winked at him when he gave her a half-grin as he continued to busy himself with dressing. She watched him a moment, cocking her head in thought. “Tell me something. Who is the military commander, other than the king, that you admire most?”
He looked up from fastening a leather strap on his torso. “Anyone?”
“Anyone.”
He wriggled his eyebrows thoughtfully and returned to the uncooperative strap. “I fostered with an old and wise knight who was fond of military history,” he said. “He told me the story once of the Spartans, of King Leonidas and how he held his Spartan army against ten thousand Persians. I always admired a man who would face a battle with such overwhelming odds against him.”
“Then you can understand that King Richard to me is like Leonidas to you. It’s a pretty overwhelming prospect.”
He, indeed, understood what she was telling him and he kissed her gently on the forehead, then on her salty lips. “I look forward to introducing you to our king,” he said. “He will like you a great deal.”
Her mouth flew open in shock. “My God!” She grew animated again. “I never… oh, my God, I never thought I would meet him. It never even occurred to me.”
“Of course you will meet him.”
She waved her hands excitedly, like she was flapping wings. The tears were rapidly forgotten. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she jumped up and down a couple of times. “Seriously? I can’t believe it!”
“Try not to burst into tears when you are introduced.”
She stopped jumping and scowled. “Oh, shut up.”
“He might think you an emotional idiot and it would reflect badly on me.”
“Screw you, buddy.”
He laughed loudly. He had spent enough time in her era to know what she meant. He turned back to the possessions he had spread out on the bed, finishing smoothing out his tunic before reaching for his gauntlets. Rory wiped away the last of the tears off her cheeks, her interest in his attire gaining strength as she walked up behind him to inspect the tunic. Kieran could feel her behind him, running her hands over him, and he stood in place patiently long after his gloves were secured.
“Are you finished inspecting me?” he asked politely.
She nodded, though she was intrigued by the thick-threaded weave of the tunic and the uneven scarlet dye job. The yellow lions were woven in with yellow thread in a surprisingly accurate design. It was a durable, lovely piece.
“It’s like a football jersey,” she muttered thoughtfully.
“Football?”
“Yes, you know,” she made motions with her hands like she was throwing a pass. “American football. Things like jerseys and uniforms for sports teams got their start with tunics like this.”
He shook his head. “I do not remember witnessing any American football. But I do remember the rug… rugly players we met up with once. Barbarians, as I recall.”
She smiled. “It’s called rugby,” she corrected gently. “They wear uniforms when they play, too.”
She followed him around, picking at the tunic as he reached for his magnificent sword. He almost slapped her with the big, leather fastens as he secured the scabbard about his waist and right thigh. Kieran was caught up in the moment of being back in his own time, comfortable for the first time in eight hundred years with where and who he was. But he wasn’t so caught up that he couldn’t spare time to grin at Rory’s fascination. She was quite humorous now that her shock at the situation was settling somewhat. He tried to work around her as she clinically examined him. He ended up just bumping into her. Finally, he sighed.
“Sweetheart, I realize you are consumed with all of this,” he said with restrained impatience. “But it is extremely important that we leave this place. I have much to do and as much as I would like to spare you the time to examine every inch of what I am wearing, we simply cannot delay. I need for you to stay out of the way while I get organized.”
Rory nodded, her eyes still on his tunic, but she did as she was told. Silently, she stood back as he gathered all of his things and shoved them back into the satchel, including the modern jeans, shirt and the highly prized work boots he admired so much. When he had all of his possessions together and was fully dressed in his mail and armor, he turned to face Rory.
She was standing quietly and was rather pale as she gazed back at him. He looked at her a moment, studying her lovely face, seeing that she was calming. But she still didn’t look particularly well. Truth be told, he could still hardly believe what had happened. But he was exceedingly grateful for whatever Fates controlled their destiny. He was ready and willing to resume where he had left off. He went to her and put his enormous hands on her shoulders.
“I am going to find you something suitable to wear,” he said quietly. “You will stay here and not leave this room. Is that clear?”
She nodded. “I know,” she replied. “It’s not safe for me to wander around alone.”
He grunted and dropped his hands, kissing her as he fussed with his gloves. “Safe, indeed,” he muttered, heading for the door. “Remember that this is not your time. There is no law as you know it and the characters you will come across have no morals and even less restraint. You must be cautious more than you have ever been in your life.”
“I survived going to school in South Central Los Angeles for eight years.”
“This is not Los Angeles. This is beyond your imagination.”
She shrugged in agreement, moving for the bed as if to sit. But she peered closely at it, realizing there were vermin on the coverlet, and wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Rory moved to the center of the room, away from the crawling bed. She waved her hands at him. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
“Throw the bolt on this door when I leave. Open it for no one.”
She nodded, once more, in silence. Kieran blew her a kiss with his fingers and quietly quit the room. He was filled with a sense of purpose and seemed preoccupied, too preoccupied to coddle his lady. But she didn’t blame him and she truly didn’t give his manner much thought; she was more concerned with throwing the poorly made bolt. It took her a few tries to secure the old, iron rod, mostly because she was inspecting how it was made before she actually secured it. She pinched her finger on it, hissing in pain as she shook out the pinch.
It was oddly still now that Kieran was gone. Rory stood next to the door, looking around the cold and cramped room, a huge sense of shock sweeping her. She moved away from the door with her hands on her mouth.
“Oh, my God,” she hissed, eyeing the details of the shabby, poorly made walls before her gaze came to rest on the bed again. “This is crazy. I just can’t believe it.”
She was staring at the bed with its very crude fabric cover. She suspected it was some kind of linen but she wasn’t going to touch it to find out. His leather satchel was on the bed and she put it on the floor, away from the crawling bugs. There was a small, crudely built window covered by some kind of ratty cloth and she peered from the opening, feeling the cool sea breeze on her face and smelling the salt. It was a familiar scent and helped her disorientation. The sea, all over the world or in any time, always smelled the same.
She struggled to push the disorientation aside completely and focus on the here and now. It was important that she come to grips with whatever had happened. She touched the window frame, feeling the crudeness, seeing the lack of craftsmanship. Fat iron nails held the wood together. Then she smelled it; it smelled like raw, untreated wood. Whatever she was feeling, the truth was real in her fingers and her nostrils. Everything was real.
With a sigh, she turned away from the window and wandered back over to his satchel on the floor. She sat down beside it, careful not to drag her butt on the rough-hewn floor planks; all she needed was a massive splinter to get infected. To keep busy and, perhaps, reacquaint herself with Kieran’s possessions that she had only seen after they had been buried for eight hundred years, she began to carefully rummage through his bag.
The first thing she came across was a dirk. It was finely crafted and extremely sharp. She took it out and inspected it, not remembering the weapon from the inventory list she and her colleagues had made of the possessions Kieran had been buried with. She suspected that Hut may have kept some nicer pieces before burying Kieran and her interest grew as she rummaged deeper into the bag. She wondered what else Hut had kept.
There was a silk purse with a good deal of money in it. She removed the coins carefully, one by one, inspecting each individual coin with awe. That was the archaeologist in her. She laid them all out on the floor, in a line, inspecting the size and shape and trying to determine the monetary value by the weight. She was in the process of studying two smaller coins when the door suddenly rattled violently.
Rory jumped, frightened. The door suddenly shook again, crazily, before the old bolt gave way and the panel flew open. Splinters sprayed into the room and Rory screamed, covering her face to protect it. A body was rushing into the room and she scrambled to leap up from the floor. But her gaze fell on the glittering dagger, lying next to the satchel, and she grabbed it as she bolted up. It was an instinctive reaction. She’d never wielded a knife in her life. She didn’t even know how to really use it.
But she knew she was about to learn.