A Knight in Central Park (27 page)

Garrett snorted.

“What now?” Joe asked.

Garrett shrugged. “For a man who does not like her much, you certainly fret over my sister.”

“I never said I didn’t like her.”

“Then why are you going to leave her?”

“Because this isn’t where I belong. We’re from two different worlds. It could never work.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have responsibilities back home. And even if I didn’t...” Joe stopped when he saw Garrett giving him the same damned look that Sebastiano had given him two days ago. The kid’s steely gaze pierced into him, curious, waiting, making him feel guilty of all things. Joe was doing all he could. Damn if he’d be made to feel guiltier than he already felt. “There are certain things people get used to in my world,” Joe told Garrett.

“What sort of things?”

“Just things. Once a man gets used to those things, it’s difficult for a man to go backwards in time and suddenly not have those things. Do you understand?”

“I see that Sebastiano was right,” Garrett said.

“Why? What did Sebastiano say?”

“He said that it was a shallow man who picked material possessions or ambition over love; a man lacking depth of character, a superficial man who sees compromise as a weakness and acceptance as fear. To a man like this...like you,” Garrett amended, “loving another unconditionally would soon yield you powerless.”

Joe eyed the boy skeptically. “How old are you?”

“Two and ten.”

“And Sebastiano told you all of that?”

Garrett nodded, a smug look upon his face.

“And you believe him?”

Again Garrett nodded.

“Well, it’s not true. I don’t have to defend myself to you or anyone else. But I’ll tell you this, kid. I’m going back to my time because that’s where I belong. It’s my home.”

The music had stopped and they both listened for a few seconds as Sebastiano began his introductions.

“I’m sorry your father left to go to war,” Joe went on hurriedly, “but I can’t stay and take his place, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You are an ass,” Garrett said without the usual childish snort, “and you do not know anything about me. My father left because he thought himself a failure. Because we did not always have food on the table, he thought we would all begin to look at him differently. He failed to grasp that we loved him no matter how much food he brought home at the end of the day. I do not blame myself for his leaving. He had no choice. I only wish I had told him I loved him before he left to do the King’s bidding.” Garrett narrowed his eyes. “Do not presume your feet are big enough to fill someone else’s boots, for they are only as big as your heart.”

Garrett walked away, leaving Joe feeling like a jerk, a certifiable, selfish jerk. The kid was tougher than he looked, and a lot smarter, too.

Joe shook his head, hurrying to catch up to the boy after he heard Sebastiano call out, “And here he is, I well promise you this time, the wandering troubadour from Toulouse.”

Something fell to the floor, but Joe didn’t have time to glance over his shoulder to see what it was. Besides, he and Garrett were already on stage and the curtains had long since risen.

Garrett took to the stage like a bee to honey, bowing stiffly, despite his well-bandaged injury, and smiling, of all things. Joe had yet to see the boy smile, but damn if Garrett wasn’t doing it now, grinning from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling as if he’d been born to be on stage. When the clapping finally died down, Joe reached into each of his shirt pockets and came out empty handed. He’d lost the script.

He looked to the audience, taken aback by the eclectic array of colors and design. The castle itself was grand, but seeing the people of this time, not actors and actresses, but true nobility, was simply incredible. The ladies wore conical headdresses and veils with wire support. Dresses were either heavily embroidered or of fur-lined silks. Sparkling gemstones, necklaces and brooches abounded, even their belts were adorned with jewels. Ermine and sable-lined cloaks kept the ladies warm.

And then Joe saw him...the King of England...it was difficult not to stare. King Henry VII in the flesh. The first of the Tudor dynasty. The king’s complexion appeared sallow set against the crimson velvet of his fur-trimmed hat. Compared to his unborn son, the future King Henry VIII, this King of England was slender. His face looked cheerful though, despite the small blue eyes and poor, blackish teeth that showed clearly when he smiled.

A loud cough drew Joe’s attention to the side curtain where Sebastiano was urging him to say something, anything.

Joe looked over at Garrett and threw his arms out in wide, exaggerated hopelessness.

Garrett stepped forward and said, “Knights and Ladies, Kings and nobleman. ’Twould seem this tale begins, as you can see, with one lone man, a desperate man some would say, who cannot, as hard as he tries, find his way without his life map. Hardly more than a piece of worn parchment this map, but not to this man. To this lonely soul ’Tis much more than that.”

Garrett paced the stage with a stiff bounce to his gait.

“This life map,” Garrett continued, “has become the unyielding goals of a man who does not realize that sometimes one’s destiny is stronger than one’s dreams.”

Joe shook his head and said to the audience, “The narrator is a fool.”

Hoots and titters sounded from the back of the growing assembly.

“And if that be the case,” Garrett said gleefully, looking intently into the faces of the young ladies upfront, “would the audience agree that he who speaks to a narrator is even more the dressmaker’s dummy?”

Great gales of laughter erupted as the men clapped their hands and the ladies murmured to one another their agreement.

Joe cocked a brow, deciding two could play this game. “The boy is right when he calls this troubadour a fool, for it is well known by many that the only reason this wandering troubadour is here at all is because of a promise.”

Joe raised a hand high and squished his forefinger and thumb together. “A very small, simple promise,” he added before dropping his hands to his sides. “Not a promise declared emphatically, but one whispered in a moment of great weakness.”

“But,” Joe stated loudly before Garrett could say another word, startling a few ladies in front, “a promise all the same. What the narrator tends to forget as he and the troubadour roam from castle to castle to tell their tale, is that the troubadour could find his way much faster without a petulant, irritable narrator forever at his heels...like a shadow, but not quite, because the shadow has no voice and it minds its own business.”

“What the ridiculously garbed goliard does not realize,” Garrett cut in with exaggerated glee, “as he spends most his time arguing with his shadow, is that he is in love. And that, my friends, is the crux of this story.”

Even the King of England seemed to be enjoying himself and all was going smoothly until Joe recognized the paid assassin near the back of the hall. A dark hood shadowed his face, but the cruel scar across his chin along with his bulkiness was hard to miss.

While Garrett introduced Alexandra as a young woman who had grown up in the nunnery, Joe glanced toward Sebastiano, gesturing with his chin toward the hooded figure in the back.

Alexandra came onstage, her face covered by a veil. She sat on a stool that had been left for just that purpose. Joe went to her, his back to the audience.

“What is it?” Alexandra asked in a whisper as Garrett held the audience entranced with his recounting of the troubadour and the nun’s first meeting.

Before Joe could answer her, all was quiet again as the audience waited to hear the rest of the tale. Joe turned to Garrett, thanking him for his most interesting of introductions and then tapped his nose to his finger, a signal they had rehearsed before hand, telling Garrett it was time for him to run off and find his sister, Mary.

When Garrett hesitated in leaving the stage, Joe smiled inwardly at the sparkle in Garrett’s face as he took a bow and then another, the crowd thundering their approval before he made off.

“My lady,” Joe said, kneeling down on bended knee after all had quieted again. “I wish you were not hidden beneath that veil, for then you might see the man who tried to kill your brother.”

“Is he here?” she asked.

Joe breathed a sigh of relief to know she understood. “Aye, he has come and I fear for your life.”

“Do not fret, my love, for as long as you are at my side, I am safe. Besides, I could dare not part until I hear you say that which you feel in your heart.”

This was ridiculous! Joe stood, tugged at her arm, but she wouldn’t budge.

The audience laughed at her stubbornness.

He gazed down at her with a frosty glare, but she wasn’t looking up at him at all. Instead she was admiring his silky hose and whatever else happened to be at eye level. He rolled his eyes and even covered his lower anatomy with his cloak to the delight of the crowd. “Do you mean to tell me that you understand what I’m saying...” He waved toward the audience. “That there is a killer amongst us and yet you care not that you may be in grave danger, but instead only wish to hear me say what? That I love you?”

The women in the audience nearly swooned with romantic delight.

Alexandra lifted her chin defiantly. “How very receptive you are to a woman’s true meaning.”

“For the love of God,” Joe said, fully exasperated. “If I declare such words as you wish to hear, will the fair maiden then seek cover?”

“Of course, but not until said troubadour is back on bended knee as the script calls for.”

Teeth clenched, he fell to his knee with a thunk.

The crowd roared its approval as Joe grabbed her hand and brought it close to his chest. “My heart beats only for you. At night I dream of you—your—er, crimson hair and lips of roses...make that honeyed lips. I love you from your head to your toes.”

A rotund woman with a nose as sharp as an eagle’s beak, stood tall and shouted, “What is this man but a goliard feigning love for a nun when ’Tis clear he could not convince a wench from the Stews that he feels anything but lust as his snug hose dare make clear.”

Sir Joe fixed the woman with a level stare. “Quiet you mangy goat!”

Gasps and murmurs floated through the hall, and the women’s husband touched the hilt of his sword.

Joe threw his arms wide. “What?” he asked innocently. “I said ‘Quite a marvelous coat!’ It’s beautiful.”

There was laughter and a few sighs of relief as the woman and her husband took their seats.

“I am not a goliard from the brothel,” Joe explained to the growing assemblage, “but a scholar of the caliber of John of Salisbury, and I journey from one place to another, not seeking pleasure and excitement, but only knowledge, awareness and understanding. And if I am allowed to finish...” He looked at the obnoxious woman with an arched brow. “I will recount my love for this monastic maiden in a manner more suited to your romantic tastes.”

There were a couple of “oohs“ along with a few “aahs“ and then all was silent as they waited for him to confess his feelings for the woman who sat patiently before him.

Joe spotted Sebastiano in the crowd, in the same spot the hooded man had been only moments ago, but the hooded man had disappeared into the crowd. He could be anywhere.

Turning back to Alexandra, more anxious than before, it took him a moment to remember where he’d left off. But the fervent gaze of anticipation on her face swiftly reminded him.

The audience wasn’t the only one waiting eagerly to hear him make some sort of amorous confession.

The pressure was on.

Swallowing hard, Joe took her hand again, this time noticing its softness, its femininity despite the short nails and years of hard work. Her hand fit nicely into his palm. “I-I do not know where to begin.”

She looked into his eyes and it was clear she wasn’t about to help him out. He’d have to be an idiot not to see that she was taking this whole declaration of love thing quite seriously. No wandering troubadour and monastic maiden here, not in her eyes. This was clearly between Alexandra and Joe. And she wanted the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Damn.

He almost forgot about their audience. That is, until the distant murmuring reminded him that the crowd was growing restless.

“My heart,” he began in a strangled voice, then cleared his throat. “My heart beats faster when you are near.”

His mouth felt dry, his tongue thick. “Like the hooves of a dozen white horses against my chest.”

She cocked her head to one side, waited.

Such a tolerant, patient woman she was, he mused.

“Sometimes when I look at you unaware,” he continued, warming to the soothing gaze she focused on him, “a hot wave sweeps through me and sets my blood aflame.” He paused. “And in those moments, I...”

The women in the front row leaned forward against the stage to better hear him.

“I-I find myself wishing I could hold you in my arms forever.”

Alexandra smiled coyly.

“But then I remember you are promised to another. You know, from another world, so to speak, and...”

A smile curved her lips.

“I ache. I ache with an inner longing so intense that I think I might die if I can’t have you.” And it was the truth, he realized suddenly. He’d spent more than one night aching for her, wanting nothing more than to find her and bring her to his bed, never mind that there were kids coming out of the woodwork. How many times had he wished it was he she was washing when she took Rebecca to the lake for a bath, or that it was he she was comforting in the night when the wolves came too close? He missed having her to himself, and yet he also knew it was best. Because no matter how much he loved her, he couldn’t stay, because if he did, someday he would regret it. He might get used to cold baths and the lack of amenities, but sooner or later his thoughts would return to all that was left unresolved in his own world. And the love he felt for Alexandra would turn to resentment.

But he did love her, didn’t he?

The thought that he might, caused a jolt of alarm within. He’d never known what love might entail. But the realization that he might love her, felt different than anything he ever imagined. It felt okay, almost good. Maybe he did love her. Alexandra loved him. She had told him so. And even if she hadn’t, he had seen the way she looked at him when he was busy with the horses or with the kids. And he saw it now as she gazed candidly at him, regarding him with open fondness.