Kingdom Come (48 page)

He just couldn’t stand it. His strong stance had lasted all of thirty minutes and then he had caved, going to the kitchens himself to retrieve food and taking it up to his pregnant wife.  When he entered the room, the fire was burning low and it was cold. Even though there were oilcloths over the windows, freezing air still blew inside.    He set the food down on the table and went to the hearth, throwing more peat and wood on it and stoking it up into a bright blaze.  Brushing off his hands, he made his way to the bed.

Rory was lying on her side, facing away from him. Leaning over to see if her eyes were opened, he realized that she was sniffling her sleep. Her lips were moistly parted in sleep and she was snoring softly. He touched her head, feeling like a lout that he had scolded her but he knew it was for her own good.  Still, he had been angry and perhaps was more condescending than he should have been. He kissed her gently and pulled the edge of the coverlet up over her against the cold room.

Sighing faintly, he went to his wardrobe and quietly opened it, searching for a warmer pair of gloves.   As he searched, his leather-bound journal caught his eye and he looked at it a moment, realizing the last time he has written in it has been before he had met Rory. A lifetime ago.

He pulled the journal out and hunted around for the quill and ink.  They were in his satchel, carefully wrapped. Forgetting about the search for the gloves, he went over to the table beneath the lancet windows and pushed the tray of food aside, setting the journal on the surface. He opened it to the first clean page, the fine parchment of a soft yellow color, and prepared his quill, sand and ink.  His gaze drifted to his wife, sleeping soundly on the bed, as he collected his thoughts.  Then he began to write.

He wrote of everything that had happened since the moment Simon’s assassins caught him unaware. He wrote of his encounter with Kaleef, his awakening in Rory’s century, and their adventures. He wrote of his reappearance in his time, with Rory by his side, and the knowledge that he had returned to accomplish something great, something historic.  His reflections and opinions were in every page, every situation.  But one thing was clear as he wrote; he adored the woman who woke him from his eternal sleep, the one he had yelled at less than an hour ago and the one who was sleeping in his oversized bed. 

He wrote of the son she carried, the one who had defied Time and History to be born. He hoped the child would be a great knight, with his wife’s intelligence and his strength.    He could close his eyes and see the boy, a handsome lad in the image of his father.  He was so caught up in his reflections and his writing that it took him a moment to notice that someone was standing next to him.

He looked up to see Rory leaning over him, trying to read his careful, scripted letters.  When their eyes met, he smiled faintly.

“How do you feel?” he asked softly.

“Fine,” she said. “But I’m hungry. Thanks for bringing me food.”

She went to pull out a chair but he stopped her, wrapping an enormous arm around her waist and pulling her close.  He pressed his face into her torso, deriving great comfort from the feel and smell of her. Rory leaned against him, her gaze somewhat guarded as she gazed down at him. 

“Look,” she said before he could speak. “If you’re going to yell at me again, don’t bother. I’ve learned my lesson.”

He gave her a gentle squeeze. “Sweetheart, I am sorry if I hurt your feelings,” he said. “I was harsh and I apologize.”

She lifted her shoulders. “I guess I had it coming,” she said. “You were right; I just do what I want to do. I heard about a girl locked up and I immediately thought the worst.  But I still really feel that she’s not crazy, just desperate from being locked up. Anyone would be.”

He sighed faintly, his great head against her breasts. “I have discussed this with Christian,” he murmured. “He has promised to take the matter under consideration.”

It was probably the best she could hope for so she didn’t push further.  She wrapped her arms around him, feeling so very fortunate to have such an understanding, compassionate husband who forgave easily when he could have righteously remained angry with her. 

“I love you,” she murmured, laying her cheek against his cropped hair. “You’re too good to me.”

He squeezed her gently. “You are my angel.”

She kissed the top of his head, ready and willing to forget the subject. She looked down at the page she had been carefully scribing.  The letters were very elaborate and she read through them slowly.

“What are you writing about?” she asked.

Arm still around her, he looked down at the page. “Everything that has happened to me since Simon’s assassins caught up to me,” he replied. “I am also writing to my son.”

She smiled at him. “That’s sweet,” she said. “What are you telling him?”

He looked at the page, lifting an eyebrow. “That his mother is a disobedient wench,” when she giggled and pretended to slap him, he grinned. “I am writing about my feelings for him, I suppose. My joy and expectations.”

“He’s not even born yet and you already have expectations?”

“Every parent has.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve named him already, too.  I probably don’t have a say in that, I would guess.”

He looked up at her, smiling. “You may give your opinion, madam. But I will make the decision.”

She laughed at him, shaking her head. “I thought as much,” she said. “Well, what’s it going to be? I like Christopher or James. I even like Henry.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Well enough names,” he said. “But it is a tradition in my family to name the firstborn son after the grandfather of choice. I would choose my mother’s father; he was a great man. He meant a great deal to me.”

“What was his name?”

”Tevin.”

“Who are you named after?”

“Tevin’s father, Kieron d’Mearc. He was a great knight during the reign of Henry I and held the title Viscount Malden, heir to the Earl of Essex.”

Rory took his hand and put it on her belly; it was gently bulging, hardly noticeable, but the firmness was obvious. Kieran smiled at the first physical proof of his child, leaning down to kiss it.   He looked up at Rory, who smiled in return.

“Then Tevin it is,” she said softly.

He finished writing in his journal as Rory ate the contents of the food tray.  Unfortunately, writing became prohibitive when she was finished with her meal because she kept inspecting the quill, the ink, the pages of the journal, and making it generally difficult.   He finally gave up and put the quill down, pulling her onto his lap and holding her close, thinking of their future. 

The reality was that he was home where he belonged, Rory was with him, and he was more content than he had ever been in his life.  Jeffrey seemed to be healing from his wound and Simon was dead.  Everything was as it should be in an ideal world.  And even though Kieran was content, there was still a nagging thought in the back of his mind.

He had returned to his time for a reason. And he knew, deep down, that the ancient circle of vines in the little box in his wardrobe was the reason.  He was expected to do something with it, or to it, and was terrified that he wouldn’t be able to discover what it was. He was terrified that if he wasn’t able to do whatever he needed to do fast enough, God would give up on him and send Rory back to her time and return him to that bleeding, dying mess he had once been.  He was terrified he would waste his second chance.

His life, and Rory’s life, centered around the diadem of Christ.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Early October

Year of our Lord 1192 A.D.

It was the moment they had been waiting for.

Kieran was in the solar with Andrew when the cry from the sentries went up.  The brothers looked at one another and, in a rush, sprinted to the front door and took the old wooden stairs leading down to the bailey much too fast. Kieran, in fact, nearly tripped over his brother when Andrew stumbled at the bottom. Slapping his youngest brother on the back of the head, he pushed past Andrew and met Sean as the man entered the bailey on his sweating charger.

The day was cool and crisp but the weather had been unseasonably dry.  At mid-afternoon, gray clouds were beginning to gather over head but they didn’t smell of rain. It was simply gloomy.  As Sean reined his red charger into the bailey of Southwell, the beast kicked up clods of dirt against Andrew’s legs.

“So you have decided to come home, have you?” Kieran teased the man as he climbed off the horse. “It has been so long that your daughter believes I am her father. Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

Sean had been in London for four months, completing his tasks for Longchamp. Kieran knew the man brought the very latest news with him but they spared a moment for pleasantries. Sean flipped up his visor, grinning at his brother.

“While you stay here warm and cozy in Mother’s bosom, some of us are actually concerned with the direction of the country,” he teased in return. “We must discuss the most important items first; are you a father yet?”

Kieran lifted an eyebrow but his smile grew. “Dear God, nay,” he shook his head. “Libby is ready to explode. I have never seen anyone so miserable.”

Sean laughed softly. “Well do I remember that wait, old man. Is she well?

“She is marvelous. But she cries at the change of the hour and is generally miserable.  Sitting is uncomfortable and walking is exhausting, so these past few weeks have been long and weary.”

Sean clapped him on the shoulder. “Take heart,” he assured him. “It shall be over soon.”

Kieran nodded his head in a weary gesture as Andrew joined them. Now that the pleasantries were over, they focused on the news Sean bore.

“What is the latest from London?” Kieran lowered his voice as they made their way towards the keep.

Sean began removing his gloves. “As we had hoped,” he said softly. “Richard is on his way home. The last word we had, he was leaving Corsica. That was two weeks ago.  God willing, he should be in home in a month.”

Kieran was silent a moment, thinking of what he knew; that Richard would be taken hostage before he could make it home. He would have to discuss it with Rory to see what the timeline was for the occurrence, but from what she had told him, it was sometime before Christmas of this year. He was edgy as he thought on it, wondering for the hundredth time if he shouldn’t have sent his own men to Richard to escort the king home by a different route. But Rory wouldn’t let him do it; she was fearful of the course such action would take. Would it alter history enough to the point where she would vanish? It was her increasing fear, altering the natural course of history to the point where she would have never been born.  Kieran had to agree; he didn’t want to upset the balance, either. As much as he loved his king, he would rather have his wife alive and by his side.

“Richard will be going to his holdings in France,” Andrew broke into his thoughts. “He will not be coming back to London.”

Kieran nodded. “Aye, he will,” he replied confidently. “He knows that his brother thirsts for his throne. When Richard arrives on English soil, we must be prepared to fight for him.”