Now And Always E-Book

Diana Rubino

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When preservation architect Leah Halliday falls asleep in the bed once owned by King Richard III, she has no idea it will change her life.

When she wakes up, it's the year 1485. Hugh Radcliffe, trusted knight of King Richard, believes Leah is his arranged bride Matilda, who she's never set eyes on before.

According to Leah’s history books, Hugh was executed for treason, and for killing his first wife. When she meets Andrew Gilbert, another time traveler from the 21st century, she learns that there's more to Hugh's crimes than meets the eye.

Falling in love with Hugh, Leah puts her life on the line to make things right and get back home. But is their love destined to transcend the time spectrum?

Leseprobe

NOW AND ALWAYS

DIANA RUBINO

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Author's Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Diana Rubino

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

--William Blake

To my husband Chris

CHAPTER1

Donington-le-Heath Manor House, Leicestershire, England

“I know it’s five o’clock, but I want to keep working.” Leah stood inside the medieval fireplace, running her hands along the rough bricks. “I can’t quit until I find that secret passageway, and where it leads to.”

“Well, if anyone can find it, you can.” Her partner, Viv, shut her laptop. “Sorry, Leah, but I’m beat. Come on, it’s your birthday. Can’t you knock off early?”

“Being here is my birthday present.” She inhaled deeply, imagining all the long-ago fires that cooked meals and warmed chilled bones.

“Okay, then, see you tomorrow.” Viv gave Leah a grin as she turned to leave. “You’re so steeped in English history, it seems to consume you.”

But Viv hit it right on the head: English history did consume her, ever since she read the epic novel SARUM by Edward Rutherfurd, which spans the entire course of English history.

Restoring a medieval house was every historic preservation architect’s dream, and winning this bid was like winning the lottery. This project gave her the chance to spend the summer here, explore ancient sites, and sip mead in the same pubs as Crusaders.

Besides its rustic charm and secret passageway, the 13th century Donington-le-Heath boasted a one-of-a-kind artifact: the bed of King Richard III. In medieval times, important people traveled with their own beds, and it was a prized possession. The bed accompanied King Richard on every journey, and on the eve of his final battle, it awaited the king who never returned. Still it waited, five centuries later.

But where could that secret passageway be? According to legend, it had started as a hidey hole for heretics, but later owners lengthened it until it led somewhere—and the answer to that was a dead end. Not until now had anyone even tried to find it. She hoped to be the lucky one. The renovation was extensive enough to probe a few dark corners and discover the portal, hidden for five centuries.

“Maybe it’s lower to the floor,” she murmured as she crouched and probed the bricks with her fingertips, sneezing in the dust. Walking on her knees, she covered the width of the fireplace. Nothing but a solid wall. Nope, it wasn’t here inside the fireplace.

She stood and brushed her hands together, battling a sense of defeat. She had another three weeks of work in this house, plenty of time to find that passageway.

Heading to the second floor, she met the curator on the staircase, an oil painting tucked under his arm. “Hi, Pete. What have we here? I mean whom have we here?”

He propped the portrait on his knee. “The Leicester Museum delivered it. It was in their archives. It dates from the late fifteenth century.”

The man in the portrait wore medieval nobleman’s garb, draping him in fashionable regality. She looked into his kind, trusting hazel eyes. A hint of amusement played on his lips. A rolled brim hat topped his shoulder-length hair. He bore a faint resemblance to her late husband Matthew—the intelligence in his eyes, the dark auburn hair, the intense gaze, the way he looked at her when he told her he loved her. He evoked mixed emotions: comfort, curiosity, and grief. She took a step back. “Who is he?”

“According to the museum records, his name is Hugh Radcliffe, earl of Sussex. Richard the Third executed him for treason.” Pete turned the portrait to look at it. “But some sources claim he was innocent of his alleged crime, and framed by a mad Welsh brood, the Griffins.”

Leah’s heart went out to Hugh Radcliffe across five hundred years. “Oh, yes, I read about the Griffins. I also read about Hugh Radcliffe in a few obscure history books. I always wondered if he really did commit treason or if he was framed. Even if it were true, being beheaded was a horrible way to die.”

“That was the penalty for treason in those dark days,” Pete replied in a somber tone.

“Barbaric.” She shuddered. “But since we can’t be sure of his guilt, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.” She followed Pete down the hallway and into the chamber that displayed King Richard III’s bed.

“The higher-ups at the National Trust want the portrait in here because of the connection between Radcliffe and King Richard.” Pete searched the walls for the best place to hang it. “And if tourists ask about it when they come to see the bed, I can tell the story.”

“Does Radcliffe have any living descendants?” She ran her fingertips over the bed’s carved frame.

“Not that anyone knows of. His only son died as a boy.” Pete started hammering a nail into the far wall. “Oh, and he drowned his wife in a lake in Wales.”

Taken aback by his words, Leah stifled a gasp. “My gosh. Was he framed for that, too?” With the picture hung and straightened, she studied Hugh Radcliffe’s gentlemanly features, unable to imagine him doing anything so heinous.

“Who knows?” Pete hung the portrait and straightened it. “It may be another of those old legends that can’t be proved or disproved.” He turned to face her. “Like King Richard murdering the little princes in the Tower of London.”

She shooed that away with her hand. “That’s Shakespeare taking license for dramatic effect. I’ll never believe it’s true.”

“Facts do get a bit distorted over five centuries.” He smiled and stepped back to observe the portrait. “This chap may have been the kindest knight in the kingdom.”

“And one of the handsomest,” she commented, but she knew that portraits were idealized in those days.

Pete pulled his phone from his pocket and glanced at it. “It’s just about closing time. You ready to call it a day?”

“I’m going to work late tonight,” she told him. “I’m not really finished yet." And she wasn't. She wanted to be alone for a while, to wander through the chambers adorned with medieval furnishings, the uneven boards creaking beneath her, with only a candle’s flame to lead the way. She wanted to watch YouTube videos and hear the way medieval people spoke before English evolved into today’s vernacular and unaffected speech. She spent hours at this hobby of sorts after taking medieval English online courses.

He gave her the old skeleton key and asked her to shut all the lights before leaving.

She lit a candle and started on her journey through history. Passing through the great hall filled with paint cans, ladders and tarp covering the coppery tile floor, she marveled at the tapestries and sconces that graced the walls. The diamond-paned glass glowed like jewels in the flickering shadows. Fading shafts of daylight slanted in through the arched windowsDownstairs in the kitchen, a trestle table displayed pewter trenchers and goblets as it would have long ago. Herbs hung from the ceiling beams, suspended over the wide hearth, its bricks blackened and charred. A cast iron cauldron hung over a pile of firewood, where brews of every concoction had once simmered. Taking a deep breath she could almost smell the smoky aromas of roasted meats and boiled herbs from centuries ago.

The cold flagstones bit into her stocking feet as she went back up the narrow staircase. Entering the bedchamber, she approached the king’s bed. Tourists came from everywhere to gape at it. But for now, it was all hers.

She gazed at the frame’s pristine condition and the secret compartment where King Richard had stashed money. The present melted into the past as she wrapped her fingers around one carved post. A current vibrated through her, almost as if the bed were electrically charged. Then she remembered something else that made this bed a major attraction. It stood directly on a Ley Line. Ley Lines were straight lines all over England; they apparently held mysterious properties of earth energy. Strange occurrences happened on Ley Lines. Pilgrims flocked to them for thousands of years, for everything from ceremonial rites to miracle healings. She’d visited many ancient sites built on Ley Lines, but nothing otherworldly ever happened to her. She could sure use something otherworldly right about now. The reality of life was too much for her to bear lately.

Ah, to lie in a bed that a monarch slept in centuries ago…

It tempted her, called out to her. Come hither, lie down!

She leaned over and smoothed the bed covering with her fingertips but snatched her hand away. No, it’s a historic relic, I have no right to even touch it.

She backed away.

But what harm can I do in a few minutes?

Tiptoeing forward, she placed the candle holder on the nightstand.

Feeling like a kid doing something naughty, she kicked off her sandals and sat on the bed.

She’d never dared lie in a centuries-old bed in a historic house. Of course if anyone caught her she’d get arrested—and probably deported. But she couldn’t resist connecting with its history for a just few minutes.

As she lay back and propped her head on a bolster, her imagination wandered. The old bed gathered her into its long history, the essence of its royal owner. He'd lain here weary from battle, fraught with grief and the burden of his troubled kingdom. Her fantasy swept her away to ages past: to stone castles shrouded in mist, armored knights on colorfully draped war horses, daggers, and swords… and Hugh Radcliffe, now watching her from across the room. Oh, to go back to those days, just for a brief taste. To forget that her life had spun out of control with her beloved Matthew’s death, her business on the brink of failure, bills piling up…

What would it be like to chat with 15th century folks…to overcome the language barriers as her studies enabled her ear to acclimate to the peculiar patterns and odd-shaped vowels? Her eyes slid shut and she drifted into a dreamless slumber.

Whitehall Palace, London, 1485

Hugh Radcliffe strode down the corridor, his footsteps echoing on the flagstones. He entered the royal apartments, where his proxy bride rested in King Richard's bed. She'd taken ill on the journey to Whitehall, so they'd given her the most comfortable bed here.

He'd never met her, but they all said Matilda Brandon—known as Tillie, but he preferred Matilda—he wasn’t keen on diminutives—was a beauty. He already knew she would be trouble as she'd tried to escape through the window. Why were the beauteous ones always the most vexing? His departed wife Alice was no beauty, but he'd loved her—rare in marriages. Sadness filled him at the memory, and he slowed his steps.

Could he ever love that way again?

He doubted it. True love came but once in a lifetime, if at all. Still, he vowed to make this union work. He wouldn’t have much time to court Matilda; they were to be wed again in church a fortnight from now.

As he approached the king’s audience chamber, two guards stood facing the entrance. They bowed and let him through. Noticing a pitcher on the trestle table, he poured himself a tankard of ale and downed it. He opened the retiring chamber door and tiptoed in. Candles glowed in each corner. Moonlight and the garden’s fragrance streamed in through the window.

His heartbeat quickened as he approached the bed, the tapestry rug muffling his footsteps. A sleeping form lay under the coverings. Finally, his bride, here before him. His eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. He rested his hand on a bedpost and leaned over to get a closer look at her.

She lay on her side. The chestnut locks, described to him so many times, were as lustrous as he’d imagined.

He slid onto the edge of the bed and caressed her cheek. She stirred, opened her eyes, and their gazes locked. With a ragged gasp, she flattened her palms against his chest and pushed him away.

He caught himself at the edge of the bed before tumbling over. He stood and backed away, holding his hands up, palms out. “I am so sorry I startled you. I do not want to hurt you. But why do you push me out of our bed?”

She searched his hazel eyes wide with concern, his parted lips, his straight auburn hair falling to his collar. “Our bed?” Her sharp tone sliced the silence.

He nodded. “Aye. This is King Richard’s bed, but ’tis ours in the legal sense for now as per the proxy marriage contract.”

She shook her head, taking rapid breaths. “King Richard's bed? I must have fallen asleep here.” She touched a bruise above her brow.

“You took ill… after you fell,” he added. “I came to see if you were well. You are as lovely as they say.” He reached for her, but she pulled back.

“Who's they? For that matter, who are you?” she demanded, her eyes pinning his.

“I am the reason you were brought here.” He paused as her mouth gaped, her eyes widening as if in shock. “I am Hugh Radcliffe.”

She bolted upright at the name. “Hugh? The man in the portrait? Or are you his spirit visiting me?”

He chuckled. “I did recently sit for a portrait. But I am hardly a spirit. I am as alive as you are, dear heart.” He moved closer. Mayhap she would let him embrace her to show her how real he was.

She slunk back, looking deathly afraid of him.

He offered her his hand. Her features softened in the fire glow, but the fear in her eyes didn’t.

She shook her head as if she did not want to believe this was happening. She looked around at the drapes, the ceiling, the glowing hearth. “This is not the room I fell asleep in.” With trembling hands, she pulled the covers around her. "Where am I?”

He gave her a smile. “’Tis all right, milady. You took ill, and knocked cold from the fall, so they say. Mayhap you're still distressed. But you remember it all now, do you not?” He moved towards her and caressed the curve of her shoulder.

She plucked his hand up and removed it from her shoulder. “I remember tripping, falling, and then lying in this very bed. In Donington-le-Heath’s chamber, not this big drafty room.” She looked around again, clearly disoriented. “I feel fine now. But—but you're right, I am distressed. But I wasn’t ill, I fell.”

“You took ill in the night, shivering, fever,” he explained. “Caught a chill after your attempted escape from the window, mayhap?”

“You’re wrong. I didn't try to escape from any window, and I certainly didn’t have any chills last night. All I did was trip and fall. And you're in the wrong room.” She glanced once more at the surroundings. “No, I'm in the wrong room! I’m here by accident. Let me walk around.”

“Are you certain?” He stepped back as she struggled to stand. “Shall I assist you?”

“No, no, I can do it myself.” She clutched at her frock. To him, it looked like raiment of the peasantry. “I'm very… er… confused right now. Let me look out the window. I need some air.” She nudged him aside and stumbled over to the window before he could stop her. The leaded glass was shattered and several of the diamond panes were empty, surely from last eve, when she’d tried to escape. “Oh, dear God,” she moaned.

He rushed to her side, afraid she might jump. She turned and looked up at him. The moonlight and the fire’s soft flicker illuminated her features. “I am not here to harm you.”

She turned away, peering through the window. He came up behind her and gazed out into the night. The stars glittered as if an angry princess had flung her jewels out into the heavens. The diamond-points danced, each a separate world in the velvet sky. A breeze carried the fragrance of roses.

She ran her hand over the window casement. “But where am I? And how did I get here?” She turned around, slowly taking in each object. “This isn’t the house I fell asleep in. Maybe that whack on the head is making me hallucinate.”

“You will be fine,” he assured her.

Taking a breath, she asked, "Where are we?"

“Whitehall Palace, in the king's retiring chamber.”

“And although I'm afraid to ask—what year is this?” she asked him with hesitant caution.

“My, has the fever rendered you so dazed?” He began to fear for her sanity. “I shall summon the royal physician.”

“No!” she declared forcefully. Did she address all men thusly, so willfully? Maybe tomorrow, if I'm still here… er, if I'm still… distressed as I am. But please, 'til then, just humor me, all right? Now tell me what year it is.”

“Fourteen eighty-five, of course,” he stated, trying to mask his tone, edged with suspicion.

She shut her eyes and nodded. “Of course. The year of the portrait. But what am I doing here in fourteen eighty-five?”

“I do believe you are in need of the physician,” he repeated as willfully as she this time.

She held up her hand. “Just—just tell me who you are again.”

“I am Hugh Radcliffe. Again.” God’s truth, how could she be so disoriented?

“Hugh Radcliffe. The mysterious figure in the portrait.”

“I am hardly mysterious.” He chuckled. One of the best-known knights of the realm, and the king’s dearest friend, everyone knew who he was—naught about him was a secret.

“My mouth feels like it’s filled with dust. I need a drink.” Her voice cracked.

He guided her over to the trestle table and poured ale into a tankard. She gulped at it and sputtered. Mayhap they did not have such good quality ale in her region.

He poured himself another generous helping and studied her with a mixture of wonder and confusion. “Feeling better?” He took the tankard from her.

“I think so, but I need to know how I got here.” She sank into a chair beside the table, her eyes not ceasing to wander round. Confusion overwhelmed her as tried to make sense of this. Yet she thanked her many hours of studying and hearing medieval speech for her ability to understand him.

“They carried you in here.” He stood still as she ran a hand down his sleeve and encircled his fingers. He squeezed her hand, trying to be inviting, soothing.

“The king's guard told me you'd fallen, had fever and chills, and were put abed in the royal chambers,” he explained once more. “His Highness is currently at Westminster, holding court, but I could not stay away. I needed to behold my bride.”

“Wait… bride?” She stood, but unsteady on her feet, grasped the table for support. “Good Lord, I'm not your bride!”

“Aye, you are. We were married by proxy this morn,” he said as matter-of-factly as he'd told her the year. “Our formal church ceremony will be in a fortnight.”

She shook her head. “I—I feel weak. All this confusion—” To his surprise she collapsed into his arms. “I’m not going back home? Ever?”

With practiced swiftness, he swept her up and turned to exit the chamber.

She stiffened in his arms. “Where are we going now? Please let me get back into bed. Maybe that could get me home if I fall back asleep.”

He stepped into the corridor, nearly colliding with an old lady clutching a walking stick.

“What goes on here, my lord?” she rasped. “’Tis an ungodly hour to be cavorting so.”

“I am simply taking my wife to my bed, Hester. She is distressed after her illness and fall.”

The crone shrieked, her stick clattering to the stone floor.

“What is amiss, woman?” Hugh shouted in exasperation.

“M—my lord, that is not—" she sputtered.

Hester fumbled her way to the far wall and wrenched a torch from its sconce. She returned, the flames streaming behind her.

He set his bride onto her feet but kept his arm around her. He felt her shiver as her feet hit the flagstones.

Hester pointed at her with a trembling claw. “My lord! You must unhand her at once! That is not your wife!”

“You know naught, Hester!” Hugh roared. “Your own eyes wouldn't recognize you in a looking glass, they are so blind.”

The crone took a cautious step towards Leah, holding the torch high. “Nay. ’Tis not her, for certes.”

Hugh let out a huff through clenched teeth. “You know naught for certes.”

Hester babbled on, “She looks quite hale now, but last eve, the grim reaper held her fast in his clutches, white as the sheet on which she lay, mumbling bosh and twaddle in the dark.”

“A-ha. Dark.” Hugh nodded. “You are seeing what is not there. How many walls jumped up and struck you today?”

“Then this lass made a miraculous recovery. Just yestermorn, she was thin and frail as parchment. Now she looks like she's been training at the quintain.” She gestured up and down at Leah.

Hugh turned to his soon-to-be wife. “I know you did not wish to join me in this arranged marriage, my dove,” he said. “But I promise you, I shall make it worth your while.”

He watched her tremble as she studied his features, her baffled eyes throwing back glints of firelight.

“Please let me lie down. I feel queasy again. This draft seeping through these walls is bone-chilling.” She hugged her arms to her chest.

“I shall take you to my apartments and have the physician attend you,” Hugh said.

“Wait—I'd better go back to the bed you found me in.”

“Whatever for? The king will want to use it upon his return. I shall remove you to my own chamber.” He swept her up in his arms once again. She wound one arm round his neck, and her fingertips brushed the hair that fell to his collar.

He carried her through drafty corridors, up one winding stone staircase and down another. Steely-eyed guards stared straight ahead. When he brought her to his comfortable but sparsely furnished chamber, he felt her tension ease. His tin tub stood in one corner, his plump four-poster bed and oaken chest in another. He saw her chest expand as she inhaled.

“My bed is smaller than the king's, but the feather mattress is just as comfortable.” He gently laid her down and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

“I reckon the damp Yorkshire air gave you the chills.” He covered her with a fur throw and tucked it around her. I shall keep you warm.” He raised a brow and the corresponding side of his mouth curved upwards in the suggestion of a smile.

“But in the meantime—” She shivered again. “I trust you'll leave me be, whether I'm your wife or not.”

He paused and gave her an appraising look. “I shall leave you for the time being.”

She sighed. “All right. But please, don’t forget to come back tomorrow. I don’t want to be left alone for any length of time.”

“My dearling, the black death wouldn't keep me away.” After a lingering gaze, he swept out of the chamber, his velvet cloak swirling around him.

He nearly skipped down the corridor. Such a beautiful lass—and all his! She was terribly confused and disoriented, however. How could she not know what year it was? But he could correct all that. She was worth straightening out.

CHAPTER2

When she heard the door shut, she flipped back the cover, slid out of bed, and peeked underneath it. Thank goodness, a chamber pot. She relieved herself, exhaling a relieved breath, more so because she was alone.

So what now? She got back into bed and placed her head in her hands, careful not to touch the bruise. She curled up, hugging the pillow. Vacant sleep was all she wanted. With any luck, she’d wake up in her own century.

A chilling thought crept up her spine, and she tried to shut it out. The curator had told her about Hugh’s alleged treason, and—oh, God. The drowning of Matilda, his wife.

He kept referring to Leah as his wife…

Desperate as she was for sleep, it wouldn’t come. And without sleep, she had no chance of getting back home. She was stuck here—with her murderer.

She had to find a way home.

She shut her lids tight, picturing Hugh. Everything down to his kind eyes, kissable lips, and gold collar was exactly as in the portrait. His image lingered as she drifted off.

She felt a gentle nudging into awareness as she emerged from the mists of sleep. She opened her eyes.

A cacophony of voices, rumbling carts, and the clopping of hooves floated through the window. A nauseating odor wafted inside and churned her empty stomach. It was not the earthy aroma of fertilizer, but the rank stench of sewage. A crow cawed, more hoof beats. Breathing through her mouth, slowly adapting to the foul air, she stretched her stiff limbs. As awareness sharpened, she remembered falling asleep, willing herself back home.

Trembling with a rush of anxiety she popped up, hoping desperately that she'd awakened to her own time. Her eyes swept over the paneled walls, the beamed ceiling. Vivid reds and blues blended into a heraldic shield above the stone hearth. In the harsh light of morning it was even more alien. She couldn’t still be dreaming; it was all too distinct: the hoofbeats, the smells, and the coarse sheets chafing her Nivea-conditioned skin. Her heart plummeted. She was still here, in this strange place.

She approached the open window to the sounds and smells below. Beyond the garden, a courtyard bustled in a flurry of activity. Maids carried pails sloshing over with milk. A horse pulled a rumbling cart piled high with sacks. Crenelated stone walls surrounded her, slashed with cross-shaped arrow slits.

What truly convinced her she was in the distant past was the absence of everyday modern sounds: an engine's roar, a blaring car horn, the whirring of an electrical appliance. No rumbles, no hums, nothing electric. She could hear the squeaking of wheels over rutted roads, but not the crunch of tires over asphalt. The distant clang of church bells, but not a cell phone’s ring tone.

Hugh’s image formed in her mind’s eye as she imagined his voice, smooth as the fur cover tickling her chin, his elegant speech pattern affirming his upper-class background. He was no street thug who’d broken in here to assault her. Her frenzied heartbeat slowed.

He’d thought she was from Yorkshire. Then she remembered her history. His wife Matilda had been from there. Another piece of the puzzle solved.

Then it hit her: if this truly was 1485, Hugh was about to commit his treasonous act and be executed. She was in the past!

With no water in sight, she sloshed some of the warm ale around her mouth and spat it out. She combed through her tangled hair with her fingers, noticing a wooden comb on a table with several dark hairs in its spiky teeth. She didn't dare use it.

She strolled through the empty chambers, marveling at the paneled walls, the oaken doors. Portraits of past monarchs decorated the corridors. She opened a wardrobe chest to a colorful array of medieval costume: velvet doublets trimmed with fur and studded with jewels and emblazoned with coats of arms; shirts embroidered with gold thread; a row of pointy-toed shoes.

A silver casket held a dazzling array of jewels: gold collars, rings inlaid with rubies, emeralds, sapphires, citrines. She slipped one on her finger and held it up, watching the gems catch the light. At the sound of approaching footsteps, she put the ring away and dashed back to the bed, feigning sleep.

“Lady Radcliffe?”

Leah opened her eyes. Blinking, she focused on a teenaged girl, her hair pulled under a square headdress, her sleeves bunched above her elbows.

“Good morn, Lady Radcliffe. I am Jane Wyatt.” She bobbed a small curtsy. “Do you care to break your fast?”

She hadn't even thought of food. But it sounded tempting, especially now, knowing all the rich fare the medievals feasted on. Here, amidst a fantasy, was no time for oatmeal and rice cakes.

“Yes…aye, Jane.” Leah propped herself up in bed, stretched her arms and inhaled the breeze wafting through the window. Had the odors faded, or was she getting used to them? The patch of sky dulled to the hue of tarnished pewter. “Do you have any pastries with fresh cream and strawberries? Or isn't it strawberry season?”

Jane giggled, then checked herself abruptly. “Aye, strawberries grow in abundance in the garden.”

“And I'll have some milk, and cof—” She cut herself off. Coffee hadn't been brought to England yet. How did they get their caffeine fixes? “And ham and eggs, possibly?”

“Aye, Lady Radcliffe.” She hesitated. “May I speak with ye?”

“Sure.” She nodded.

“I heard your moans last eve, from the king's chambers. I wanted to help you so badly, but Hester, the tiring woman, shooed me away.” Jane twisted the hem of her sleeve.

“Moans?” Leah shook her head. “Me?”

“Aye. Mayhap you do not remember. They say you threw fits of delirium, if you pardon the expression, babbling or some sort, after you tried to escape through the window. You must have been raging with fever.”

“Maybe.” Leah fixed her gaze on the patch of pewter sky, wondering. “I mean mayhap.”

“I understand your plight,” Jane assured her.

She locked her eyes on the maid’s. “You do? What do you know?”

“Your arranged marriage to Sir Radcliffe, your attempted escape from the castle to flee the marriage… oh, they be my feelings exactly, for I am in love with a nobleman. But alas, I shall never wed him. He is far above my station. They have me betrothed to a ghastly yeoman with the breath of an aged hog.”

The poor girl. Doomed to this life. At least Leah had a chance of getting out. Or did she? The thought made her shudder. “You poor thing, I'd help you if I could.”

“Help me to do what?” Jane asked.

“To get out of here, of course. Divorce him, go your own way.”

Jane laughed. “Divorce! Why, no one divorces. Nay, I shan't ever escape.”

Leah shook her head sadly.

“But I am here to help you,” Jane continued, her tone brighter. “When I heard about your plight, my heart went out to you. I want you to know I can lend my ears and my heart, just for the asking.”

“Well, thank you, dear.” Leah gave her a warm smile. “That's sweet of you.”

“Your manner of speech is ever so strange, Lady Radcliffe. From where do you truly hail?” Jane asked her.

Leah cleared her throat to buy some time. Should she? No, why borrow more trouble? “Er… Yorkshire.” Better to keep the story straight. “I’ve traveled a lot. You pick up accents everywhere, a bit here, a bit there.”

“Aye, I reckon, but I never have. Traveled much, that is.” Jane brushed a housefly off her arm.

“Oh, I hope to keep traveling,” Leah’s voice trailed off.

“Will you and Sir Radcliffe be joining King Richard on his progress?”

“I'm not sure, Jane.” Leah shrugged. “I'm not sure I’ve come to terms with being his wife yet. It's all happened so fast.”

“Aye, ’twas a shock to Sir Radcliffe, as well.” Jane nodded.

“What was?” Leah asked.

“His marriage contract to you, for certes. Alice was his only love.” She chapped her hand to her mouth. “Mayhap I said too much.”

“Alice who?” Leah’s curiosity spiked.

“His first wife. I am sorry, I thought you knew.” Jane's cheeks flushed.

Then Matilda, the wife he allegedly drowned, must have been his second. How many did he have? Was he another Henry VIII?

“No, it's quite all right. I don't know much about him at all. Jane, sit down, will you?” Leah motioned for the maid to sit beside her. Jane slid onto the bed, plainly uncomfortable sitting in a superior's presence. “What kind of man is Hugh? I've barely made his acquaintance and I'd like to know more about him.”

“Oh, he is kind, and so very brave. He fought at King Richard's side thrice in battle already,” she announced, obviously proud of Hugh’s bravery and loyalty to his kingdom.

That she knew. But she wanted to know more—most of all, about the death of his first wife, Alice. Had he drowned her, too? Leah was well aware that she could be his next victim. She needed to leave here before she became too embroiled. Probing Hugh’s psyche was one thing—being joined at the altar was another.

“I have been in his service since age five and ten. An honorable man, he never raised his voice or his hand to me. Treated his son like royalty, may his soul rest in peace.” Jane pressed her hands together and bowed her head.

“Please tell me about his son,” Leah said.

“Edward, affectionately called Neddie. They waited so long to be blessed with Neddie, ever so long.”

And though she was afraid to ask… “What did Alice die from?”

“She died after Neddie’s birth, but…” Jane yanked at the hem of her skirt so tightly it frayed. “But Sir Radcliffe believes ‘twas at the hands of the Griffins.”

She knew a bit about this mad Welsh brood. “How do the Griffins become involved?”

“A long-ago Griffin killed a Radcliffe, and then more Radcliffes started perishing from assorted maladies. The original blame fell on the Griffin matriarch, Gwyneth, but now Sir Radcliffe reckons the whole clan is a bevy of witches.” Jane’s tone carried a trace of doubt.

“Hugh thinks those people are witches?” Leah found it hard to believe that an educated noble of his social standing went in for mumbo-jumbo like that.

“Aye.” She nodded. “His family always believed it. I know not if I believe in witches meself but seeing the tragedies that have befallen Sir Radcliffe's family, I reckon they be more than accident-prone.”

“Is this feud still going on?” Leah prodded.

“Aye, milady. Sir Radcliffe's been plagued by the Griffins since birth. His latest tragedy was his most unbearable as his wi- first wife, Lady Alice died nine days after birthing Neddie. Oh, he loved that lad with every beat of his heart.” Jane's voice cracked with emotion.

So he hadn’t drowned Alice. Her muscles eased in relief.

“Well, I don't know him at all, Jane,” Leah confided in this girl, her only ally in the entire world at the moment. “But I do like what I've seen. Still, there's so much I haven't seen… or heard.” She wondered if she should pump Jane for more information but decided against it. Too much snooping could be dangerous right now.

“Men keep feelings to themselves. They would not be men otherwise.” A quick grin lit up her timid eyes.

Leah thought she'd ask one more subtle question. “What of Hugh’s relationship with the king—is he loyal?”

“One thing about Sir Radcliffe, he is mulish and fast to go over the top, but his honor is something he lives by and will die by. He will slaughter an enemy, but off the battlefield, he is as genuine as the crown jewels.”

Maybe those books had been wrong. But of course, Jane wouldn't dare breathe a negative word about Hugh, or any alleged treasonous acts. Her curiosity about him now rivaled her craving for chocolate.

She’d heard all she could handle for now. What she wanted was a bath, so she could have a long soak and a good think.

“I need to wash up, Jane. We can talk more later. Please bring me breakfast and some hot water. I suppose that tub over there will do.”

“Aye, I shall carry out your wishes.” Jane curtsied, backing out of the room as if Leah were royalty. “The tub is padded. And clean. I scrubbed it out just last Thursday fortnight. ’Tis not been used since.”

Leah believed it.

After a few bites of her first medieval meal, Leah could eat no more. Although the bread was soft and fresh, and the butter creamier than any she'd ever tasted, the three meats—she didn’t know what they were—and porridge were cold. She took a few sips of ale and pushed it all away, her stomach still churning.