She closed her eyes, letting the morning sun warm her face. For a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to marvel at where she was. A real medieval castle. Not a reproduction, not a museum, but the genuine article, alive with people who had no idea that their everyday lives would someday be studied in textbooks.
The wonder lasted until she attempted to stand. Her thighs immediately protested, and she winced, missing her lab coatwith the antibiotics, lip balm and ibuprofen. “Note to self,” she muttered. “Invent ibuprofen five hundred years early.”
Baldwin stoodon the covered walkway that connected the main keep to the south tower, his hands braced against the stone parapet as he watched the practice yard below. His sister and the strange woman had been at it for nearly an hour, their wooden swords clacking in the morning quiet.
He should have stopped them. Eleanor had no business teaching anyone swordplay, least of all their mysterious guest. And yet, he’d found himself transfixed by the scene. His sister’s patient instruction, Beth’s determined if clumsy attempts to learn.
There was something about the way she moved, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence, that he couldn’t look away from. When she laughed at her own mistakes, the sound carried up to him, clear and unselfconscious. Different from the tittering of court ladies or the practiced charm of noblewomen seeking his favor.
“Enjoying the view?”
Baldwin didn’t turn at the familiar voice. “I am ensuring my sister doesn’t injure our guest,” he said evenly.
Roland stepped beside him, following his gaze to the practice yard. “Ah, yes. Very noble of you to watch so... intently.”
Baldwin shot his friend a warning glance. Roland merely grinned, unrepentant. He was dressed for riding, his dark hair tousled by the wind, his easy smile as irritating as it was familiar.
“The Lady Eleanor seems to have taken a shine to your mysterious visitor,” Roland observed. “And she’s not the only one, it seems.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No?” Roland raised an eyebrow. “You watch her as if she were a scroll you cannot read.”
Baldwin’s jaw tightened. Below, she attempted a lunge that ended with her nearly dropping her sword. Eleanor’s laughter floated up to them, followed by Beth’s own self-deprecating chuckle.
“She is an oddity,” Baldwin said finally. “Nothing more.”
“If you say so.” Roland’s tone made it clear he didn’t believe a word. “Though I must say, for an ‘oddity,’ she has a most pleasing laugh.”
Baldwin’s fingers twitched against the stone. “Don’t you have duties to attend to?”
“None so interesting as watching you pretend not to be smitten.”
“I am not—” Baldwin cut himself off, aware that his rising voice might carry to the yard below. “I am not smitten,” he continued more quietly. “I am concerned. She speaks strangely, dresses strangely, and claims to be from a time yet to come. Either she is mad, or she is a spy, or...”
“Or she speaks the truth,” Roland finished.
Baldwin’s gaze returned to Beth. The morning sun caught in her hair, turning the brown strands to copper and gold. Sweat gleamed on her neck, and even from this distance, he could see the flush of exertion on her cheeks.
“If she speaks the truth,” Baldwin said slowly, “then she is even more dangerous than I feared.”
Roland clapped him on the shoulder. “All the best things in life are dangerous, my friend.”
Before Baldwin could respond, a stable boy approached, bowing nervously. “M’lord, the messenger from London has arrived. He awaits you in the great hall.”
Baldwin nodded, straightening his shoulders. “Tell him I come.” As the boy hurried away, he turned to Roland. “Fetch my sister. Tell her I require her presence in the solar immediately.”
Roland’s eyes twinkled. “Shall I mention the honey incident?”
Ah, the honey and saddle incident. It had taken place nigh two summers past, and he had sworn to keep it quiet, though by now half the castle likely knew thanks to a young stablehand.
’Twas all because Lady Eleanor had overheard a braggart knight boast that no woman could ride a destrier with proper skill, that it took a “man’s thigh and man’s will.” That perhaps he, Sir Gregory of Wessex, might see her properly instructed. The arrogant knave had added with a wink that noblewomen were fit for nothing more than side-saddle and sewing.
Eleanor, naturally, plotted revenge.
With the help of two scheming maidservants, a pot from the larder, and his prized Andalusian gelding, she lured the knight to the stables under the guise of seeking instruction. While Sir Gregory waited, buffing his boots and preening over the saddle, his dearest sister slathered the leather seat with warmed honey. Not just a dab either, but near the entirety of the pot, thick and golden, trickling into every crevice.
Moments later, Sir Gregory vaulted up like a peacock on parade, unaware of what awaited.
