Dreamspell (5 page)

Mac had said he didn’t know the people in his dreams. Though Kennedy hadn’t achieved his level of sleep deprivation, she guessed this was analogous to what he had experienced.

Oh, please, let me remember just one tenth of this when I wake!
Unfortunately, the likelihood of doing so was hampered by the fact she hadn’t hooked up to the EEG. If she had, the alarm rigged to awaken her following REM sleep would have facilitated her recall. Now she was dependent on luck.

“Gain your mount, Squire James,” Wynland called.

Kennedy saw a young man hasten from the gathering and swing into his saddle. He also wore a sleeveless shirt, but it bore a beast that was half-eagle, half-lion. Why two different coat of arms? Did the eagle-lion belong to Wynland, the dragon to his deceased brother?

Wynland guided his horse through the maze of dead and, once clear, fastened an arm around Kennedy and let the animal run.

Kennedy watched as they passed from forest to open meadow. To the edge in the distance, lush vegetation filled the eye and was capped by skies so blue that the cirrus streaking it could not dampen its radiance. Blankets of wildflowers undulated color amid greater green, towering trees stood sentinel over the bordering forest, sheep dotted a hill like a thousand tiny clouds come to ground. And the scent? Like a hundred Carolina mornings rolled into one. How incredibly removed it was from the glass, concrete, and metal that sprouted from Los Angeles, the smog that burned her eyes. But nothing prepared her for the fairy tale edifice that jagged the sky. Gait by gait, its white walls grew to immense proportions, beat by beat, its spires sharpened. Brynwood Spire.

Built on a hill, the castle stood guard over a walled city jutting to the left. Black on green flags flapped from spires, sunlight on armor flashed silver atop the walls, and from the center of the castle arose a building with towers in each corner. Although the structure should have appeared out of place against the pristine countryside, it seemed as much a part of the scenery as the grass and trees. Storybook perfect—except for the two little boys murdered within those walls.

Kennedy pondered the man who held her. How could he order the deaths of innocent children? It was evil. To have lived during the Middle Ages must have been to live a nightmare. She couldn’t imagine—

Couldn’t she? This
was
a dream, every crumb fallen from things and people forgotten in some deep crack in her memory.

As Wynland guided his horse onto a forty-foot span of bridge raised above a rushing river, Kennedy remembered the young man who had trailed them throughout the ride, and only because of the clatter of hooves that joined theirs.

A soldier was at the far end of the bridge, motionless until they were nearly upon him. His gaze on Wynland, he said with a deferential nod, “All is quiet, my lord.”

With a spur of heels, Wynland guided the horse onto the beaten path that wended upward to the castle. Shortly, they crossed another bridge over what Kennedy guessed was a moat. That was where the fairy tale took a sharp turn off the page. Who knew what pestilence the fetid muck harbored?

Shouts drew her regard overhead. Several men leaned out of recesses in the upper wall and called greetings to Wynland, welcoming his return as if he had been gone days rather than hours. In silence, he directed his horse beneath the arched entrance and through a shaft outfitted with not one but three sets of doors three times the height of a man and bounded by soldiers.

If the rest of the castle was as well-manned, no one came or went unchecked. That included Kennedy. Though all were quick to give Wynland their attention, they stole furtive glances at her. Did they know of the attack on Lady Lark’s entourage? Was that behind their interest? Or was it her appearance? The blood on her skirt and her straddling of the horse that revealed a bit of leg?

A clamor reached Kennedy in advance of their exit from the shaft, but she was unprepared for the flurry of activity in the courtyard they entered. People dressed in the clothes of common folk were everywhere, along with dogs, horses, wagons, contraptions—one that looked like an enormous grinding wheel. From the far left came the sound of metal being struck. To the right, a glowing fire radiated enough heat to work up a sweat.

Kennedy could hardly believe the depth of imagination that had concocted such a fabulous dream, especially considering her limited knowledge of history.

There were more shouted greetings, nods, gap-toothed smiles, arms raised in recognition of the man who plotted a heinous act to assure his ascendancy to earl. Although Kennedy couldn’t imagine these people cared for him, he certainly had their respect—likely through fear.

Wynland ushered his horse beneath a portal and into another courtyard. It also teemed with laborers. In one corner, women bent over immense barrels, some stirring, others scrubbing on what looked like washboards. Opposite, teenage girls hung strips of red cloth from a clothesline stretched overhead. In the middle of the courtyard stood a small building open on one side, the man inside working amid rows of candles.

“M’lord, m’lord!” A smudge-faced, wild-haired boy bounded into Wynland’s path.

He jerked the reins and Kennedy wondered what harsh words he would speak.

“Tell the tale, m’lord,” the boy implored with lit blue eyes. “How many did ye kill?”

Oh, about a dozen.

To her surprise, Wynland leaned down and ruffled the child’s fair hair. “None yet, Jeremy.”

Disappointment shrunk the boy’s brow, reminding her of someone. Finally, she had placed a person in her dream—sort of. Jeremy was familiar, but she didn’t know where she had seen him.

“Not even one, m’lord?”

“There were none to kill.”

Jeremy propped his hands on his hips. “Ye’ll not let the brigands go, will ye?”

“You know I will not.”

With a grin that revealed he was short a front tooth, the boy turned his gaze on Kennedy. “Who is that, m’lord?”

“’Tis Lady Lark come to care for John and Harold.”

With wide eyes and a mouth to match, Jeremy said, “M’lady is most fair. Not at all what John and Harry feared.”

Kennedy had to smile. Not since before her illness had she received such a sincere compliment.

“Have ye something for me, m’lord?”

Wynland tossed a coin to him, and the boy snatched it from the air with a greasy fist. Hooting with joy, he spun and disappeared among the many.

“Your new home,” Wynland said, “Brynwood Spire.”

Kennedy looked up at the building at the center of the castle. Though impossible to overlook, that was what she had done, engrossed as she was with the activity before the grandiose structure. Six stories high, as many wide, its top edge notched all around, it gave new meaning to her notion of how a castle should look.

“It’s. . .” She shook her head. “. . .big.”

“You expected less?”

She looked around. “Actually, I hadn’t thought much about it.”

“Then you ought to. The earldom of Sinwell is vital to England—strategically located, fertile, and among the wealthiest.”

And aren’t you just dying to get your hands on it?
“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Wynland urged his horse forward and reined in before a long flight of steps that led up to what she assumed was the entrance. He dismounted and passed the reins to Squire James who waited for him. “I will be gone but a few minutes. See that my horse is watered and ready to ride when I return.”

“Aye, my lord.”

My lord this, my lord that. Was it really necessary?

“Lady Lark.” Wynland raised his arms.

Tempted as she was to refuse his help, Kennedy leaned toward him. His great hands gripped her waist and lifted her down. No sooner did her feet touch ground than he released her and turned toward the steps.

He probably feared he would catch something from her as he had earlier alluded. Trying not to feel the warm imprint of his hands, she lifted her skirt and followed him. Dozens of steep steps later, she caught up with him at the top landing. Feeling deep appreciation for whoever had invented the elevator, she looked to Wynland and found him studying her as if she were a one-thousand piece puzzle he must put together without a picture to guide him.

“A moment,” he said and lifted the circlet from her head. He adjusted the veil that hung longer on one side and resettled the circlet.

“Thank you,” Kennedy murmured.

He looked like he might smile. “So you do know something of propriety.” Before she could concoct a comeback, he turned his back on her. “Come, my mother will wish to receive you.”

Had Mac’s book mentioned Wynland’s mother? If so, either the reference was obscure or Kennedy had been too tired to store the information.

The two soldiers who stood guard at the massive doors offered the usual “My lord,” gave Kennedy the once-over, and pulled the doors open.

Inside, Wynland allowed her only a cursory examination of her surroundings before he struck out across the stone floor—not that more was needed. The entrance hall was stark, nothing extraordinary about it. So what had happened to the run of imagination that had brought her this far?

“Brother!” someone called. Descending a stairway was a man whose resemblance to the one he called “brother” seemed limited to hair color and build. Younger than Wynland by five or so years, his features were more handsome, eyes darker, and when he stepped off the stairs she saw he was shorter by several inches. “What news do you bring?”

“They are all dead, excepting Lady Lark.” Wynland stepped to the side to reveal Kennedy.

Surprise shot across the man’s face. “Lady Lark?” His gaze traveled down her, but when it returned to her face he had regained his composure.

“Lady Lark,” Wynland said, “my brother, Richard Wynland, Baron of Kinsey.”

Before Kennedy could respond, Richard demanded, “What of the attackers?”

“Gone.” Wynland began to ascend the stairs.

Richard looked to Kennedy again, allowed her a glimpse of what might pass as dislike, then motioned her to precede him.

Don’t take it personally. It’s just the stuff of dreams.
She stepped forward. This stairway was less imposing than the first, and she soon found herself in a room so immense, so fabulously furnished, and so alive with the people of this era that she halted.

Brightly painted pillars supported an arched ceiling splashed with vibrant green, black, and gold. Tapestries around the walls depicted lovers in a garden, battling knights, and a dragon perched on a shield like those on the shirts worn by Sinwell’s men. A fireplace the size of her spare bedroom was fueled by enormous logs. And the men and women, with their aristocratic deportment and splendid costumes—the men in shirts over hose and pointed shoes—looked as if they had walked off a movie set. But what was hay doing on the floor? Were they expecting cows?

An older woman wearing an ivory dress with sleeves that fell from her wrists to her calves, appeared in a fog of perfume that made Kennedy wince. “Lady Lark?” Her voice was so melodious it could have been an instrument.

This had to be Wynland’s mother. She was petite, but there was no mistaking the resemblance, from the blonde hair encased in strange wire cylinders on either side of her head to intense blue eyes to soaring cheekbones.

Kennedy stuck out a hand. “Yes, I’m Lady Lark.”

As if a handshake was beneath her, the woman frowned.

Remembering another time, another place, another woman who had made her feel ten inches tall, Kennedy stole a glance at Wynland where he stood beside his mother. His expression was all the confirmation needed that a handshake was not how things were done here.

She lowered her arm. If they hadn’t shook hands back then—now—how had they greeted one another?

“I am Lady Aveline, Lord Wynland’s mother.”

“A pleasure to meet you.”

Another frown, then a sniff as she noticed Kennedy’s bloodied skirt. “My son has assured me you are uninjured.”

“I was fortunate.”

Something flashed in the woman’s eyes that gave Kennedy’s memory a painful stir. Her ex-mother-in-law, Celia Huntworth, hadn’t liked her either. But then, the woman’s carefully plans for her debutante-destined son had been ruined when he stepped out of his “class” by marrying Kennedy.

“I am sure King Edward will be relieved to learn of your well-being,” Celia’s fourteenth-century counterpart said.

Kennedy nodded. “Yes, he will.”

Wynland’s mother waved someone forward, and a woman rose from a chair before the fire. Though her dress was less fine than Lady Aveline’s, her sleeves also trailed. “This is my daughter, Marion.”

Unlike her mother, the thirty-fiveish Marion was no little thing. Though she wasn’t tall by twenty-first century standards, she topped her mother by half a foot and carried ten to fifteen pounds more on her big-boned frame than insurance companies liked. Eyes blackest brown, hair straight and dishwater blonde beneath a veil, mouth wide, she was as different from Lady Aveline as summer was from winter. Not homely, but plain. From her posture to the color staining her cheeks, she appeared to lack her mother’s self-possession.

Marion inclined her head. “Lady Lark.”