Resurrection (10 page)

"My name's Ged, not Gerard." He had adopted the shortened, more modern version of his name a few decades previously.

She shook her head, her mouth flattening in a stubborn look he had definitely seen before. The more he observed her, the more he recognised about her.

"You
ar
e
Gerard, or you appear to be, but you are not the same. This place, the clothes you are wearing, your manner of speech. Your... in your mouth...." She paused, her face contorting in the effort to process something beyond her comprehension. Or his. "Where are we? I want to go home, please."

He ignored that plea, and had no intention at all of trying to explain the presence of his fangs. "So, if I am this Gerard, who would that make you?"

"You know who I am, you called me by my name earlier." She had tilted her chin, defiance reasserting itself though he could see she was still shaking.

"Humour me. Who are you?" His voice was soft, but he hoped sufficiently authoritative to elicit a response.

"I am Jane Acton, Countess of Roseworth. Your wife."

"I see. So no doubt you will be able to tell me the date and place of your birth, of the day we were wed, the name of your parents, your siblings, your, your..." he wracked his memory for some minor fact only his Jane might know, something never recorded in the history books. "What was the name of the pony you kept as a pet?"

"I was born on the seventh of July, in the Year of Our Lord fourteen sixty three, at Haveringham Castle." Her tone wavered, but she seemed marginally calmer now.

Ged nodded. She had done her homework.

"We were married on the eighteenth day of May, in the Year of Our Lord fourteen seventy five, also at Haveringham. I was twelve years old. You were not present at the ceremony, my lord."

Also the stuff of history books. He remained to be convinced.

"My father's name was William of Acton. He died last summer. My mother is Margaret and since her widowhood she now resides with us at Roseworth. My eldest brother, now Earl of Acton, is Edward, named for the King. There is also George, and Henry. I have two older sisters. I had three but Mary died when I was but a child."

Jesus, she was good. The woman rattled off the details easily enough. But none of this was really obscure, not to a scholar of late fifteenth century English aristocracy. She must have studied her subject thoroughly.

"My pony is called Cloud. She is a grey, and stands only to my waist. She likes apples, and having her forelock tickled."

Ged gaped at her. He was rarely lost for words, but found himself so now. He would have struggled to recall the names of her siblings after all this time, but he clearly recalled the cheeky little grey pony which had occupied the stall next to his own chestnut stallion and would never allow him to pass until he produced a carrot or apple or some such treat. The stocky little creature was quite useless in his stables, a pet brought to Roseworth by his bride when she arrived at last from the home of the Duke of Gloucester in York. But the pony was a feisty little character, and Ged had always harboureda fondness for her. And yes, the animal's nam
e
wa
s
Cloud.

Bloody hell, this was barely credible. How could she have known that? As he regarded her, something in her words struck him. She spoke of her family in the present tense. He hardly dared to ask his next question, but knew he must.

"So, Jane, what is today's date?"

"It is the twenty fifth day of August, my lord, in the Year of Our Lord fourteen eighty five."

Her husband's jaw dropped. He was silent, at last, and Jane was glad of it. There something almost other-worldly about this Gerard, as though he might be not quite well in the head. Her lord had never exhibited signs of madness in the past, but he did so now, with his odd attire, his meaningless stream of questions, and his wild expression as he regarded her from across this incredible place he had brought her to. She barely dared to remember the terrifying moments spent in the room upstairs, when she had been convinced he actually intended to do her to death.

She might have been moved to seek to comfort him in his obvious distress but the memory of those animalistic fangs and his cruel threats was burned onto her consciousness. He was a monster, there could be no other explanation. Her handsome, strong, and noble husband had somehow become transformed into an aberration, some manner of satanic creature who would prey on innocent, defenseless women. She must get help, if not for him, then most certainly for herself as he would surely devour her alive.

He showed no sign of doing so immediately, however. Instead he turned to face a ledge behind him where a small pot emitted steam as though a great fire might roar beneath, though she could see nothing of the sort. The steam belched out more fiercely, then stopped of its own accord. Gerard seized the pot by a handle on the top with never a care for the burn it would inflict on his unprotected hand, and proceeded to pour forth the still bubbling water into a smaller vessel. Did he not feel pain either? He had been quick enough to accuse her, but this was witchcraft, it must surely be. Her husband stirred at the liquid in the vessel, then brought the cup to her. He placed it on a low table to the side of her and stood back.

"It's coffee. Black. I have no milk."

Coffee? Milk? What was the man babbling about?

"Drink it. But you should let it cool first." His expression remained serious, his ice-blue eyes glinting at her as he watched her every move with the vigilance of a hawk. A very hungry hawk.

A rich, tangy aroma reached her from the steaming brew. It smelled pleasant enough, though Jane was uncertain if she wished to actually taste it. She really was not thirsty, she decided.

"Thank you, my lord." It seemed the only appropriate response.

"How did you get to be here? Now?"

Jane could come up with nothing which seemed to be an even remotely suitable answer to that ridiculous question, beyond the simple truth. "I came to Roseworth in the carriage of the Duke of Gloucester. The King—"

She halted, horror-struck that she had forgotten, even momentarily, and in the face of the awful catastrophe which appeared to have befallen her husband, that the King was dead. Garrick had told her so not an hour past, fresh from the battlefield. "My lord, there has been news. Dreadful news, the most sickening tidings of our King..."

Gerard narrowed his eyes, but did not appear surprised, nor even especially curious to learn the fate of their beloved monarch. Perhaps he had already spoken with Garrick. "My lord?"

"I know what happened to Richard."

If Gerard's words were true, he seemed unmoved by the disastrous turn of events. Jane could not credit his calm, his composure. "Do you not care?"

Gerard appeared to be considering that last question with the utmost concentration. Jane waited, unable to believe her husband might have turned traitor.

At last, she had her answer. "I did care, yes. At the time."

Alas, she was no wiser. "At the time? At what time, my lord? What do you mean?"

Again, he hesitated, as though weighing what he might say next. As they spoke he had retaken his stance beside the ledge where the water pot stood, but now crossed the room to perch on the arm at the end of the couch upon which she lay. His expression was quite inscrutable. He stared at his feet for several moments, then raised his gaze to meet hers. "Jane, it's not fourteen eighty five, not any more. Richard didn't die the day before yesterday."

"He did not? You mean, he lives still?" Could it be true? Her heart soared, then plummeted again at Gerard's quick head shake.

"No. No, Richard did die in fourteen eighty five as you say, at the Battle of Bosworth. Henry Tudor won and took the throne. But that was all a long time ago. A very long time ago."

A coldness washed over her, a chill seemed to settle in the pit of her stomach. "I do not understand. What are you saying, my lord?" Her voice was the merest whisper, as though by refusing to voice the words out loud she might make all this lunacy go away.

Again her husband paused. He drew in a deep breath, exhaled, then sighed again as he held her anxious gaze. "The year is now two thousand and thirteen. The Battle of Bosworth took place over five hundred years ago."

Jane was not given to fits of fainting nor lightheadedness as a rule. In fact, she prided herself on her fortitude usually, and in the face of not inconsiderable adversity. But today was a most uncommon day. For the second time in less than a few hours, the blood drained from her head and her world went grey.

*****

When next Jane opened her eyes it was to darkness. And silence. For a brief moment she wondered if she might be dead, but a pinch of the skin on her upper arm dispelled that theory. She was lying down, and in a place both warm and comfortable. She did not feel unsafe, exactly, though that was not saying much given her present predicament. She remained where she was, contemplating the events of the last few hours.

All had been normal the previous evening as her husband left her chamber following their dutiful, perfunctory coupling. He had been curt, impatient perhaps as she pestered him for news of the King, but no more than usual. She recalled being unable to sleep after he left, and, wakeful, she had heard Garrick arrive so she had hurried down to meet him. Then, following that brief but fateful interview, she had dashed up to her husband's chamber to rouse him and seek his help though she had entertained no clear thoughts as to what he might actually do to rectify matters. Richard was beyond aid, and if Garrick's account was accurate the Tudor had seized his crown.

Nevertheless, and driven by blind instinct, she had sought out Gerard. But the scene which met her as she opened the door to his chamber had both horrified and aroused her. She had recoiled in revulsion, though that reaction quickly paled as she fled out into the warm summer night, and her shock and denial had become transformed into another less readily defined emotion. Calmer, resolved to speak with her husband, she had been on her way back to the castle when she lost her footing and tumbled into the lake. She could recall sinking beneath the water, then the next recollection she had was of opening her eyes to see her husband's anxious face looking down at her. She was out of the water and back on the side of the lake, so she had to assume he must have followed her, seen her struggles and leapt in to rescue her. She had been wet and cold, deathly so, but he had brought her into the warmth, and he had saved her.

Odd, she could not recall that he had been wet, as he would surely be had he been in the water also. In fact, she was as near certain as she might be that he was quite dry. Did she somehow manage to drag herself from the water unaided? And why was it so cold outside? When she had dashed out into the night the evening had been balmy, pleasant even.

Jane sat up and peered around her in the darkness. She could make out shapes, furnishings perhaps, and a curtain a couple of yards or so from the foot of her bed. Beyond the curtain it appeared to be light. As she could find no lamp she scrambled from beneath the covers, surprised to find that she was naked, and that the temperature in the room was pleasantly warm though no fire blazed. Indeed, there was no grate at all that she could see. Jane pulled the curtain back to peep outside, and was met by a familiar vista.

Well, fairly familiar. She was looking out over the view from the east of Roseworth, the one she saw every day from the windows of the corridor which ran the length of the great hall. The contours of the landscape were the same, though with differences, some subtle, some less so. A forest now filled the space beyond the lake, where she remembered there had been meadow, and she could see rooftops beyond that. The landscape was frosty, painted white with the icy crispness of midwinter. There was movement too, a steady stream of motion as carriages seemed to glide along in the middle distance. They were all colours, some small, others much larger, and they appeared to move at a speed she could barely comprehend. She leapt back and dropped the curtain back into place, then sat on the end of the bed to stare at the swaying fabric.

The change in the season. The fast-moving carriages. The mature woodland where only yesterday there had been bare and empty fields. Gerard had spoken of the passage of time, but it was nonsense. He was mad, quite deranged. Indeed, his delusional babblings had so frightened her that she had fainted. Again.

But he had not hurt her. Despite those fangs she had seen, and his sorcery with the boiling water, and the insanity he spouted, he had done her no harm. He had brought her here, to a place she might sleep. She was warm, dry, and she was still alive. And above all, she realised, she was ravenously hungry.

Jane drew back the curtain again and took advantage of the light it allowed in to better examine the room. It was smaller than her chamber at Roseworth, and the furnishings were plain, but it did not have the appearance of a prison. A chest of drawers stood against one wall, and beside it an armoire with a brilliant mirror on the front. The glass stretched from the floor to the top of the door, and Jane stared at her nude reflection as she stood before it. She needed clothes, a gown of some description. Or failing that she could just wrap herself in the bedclothes and make do as best she may.

"Your nightdress and robe are still wet. I brought you these."

She whirled at the masculine tone behind her. The door leading from this room stood open, and Gerard lounged against the frame. He carried a bundle of fabric in his arms. As she stared at him he stepped into the chamber, his lip quirking as she tried in vain to cover herself with her hands.

"I'm your husband, remember, or so you seem to believe. If so, surely you will agree that I've seen at least some of this before, though admittedly not all at once. I recall you always preferred to retain your shift when I visited your chamber."

"My lord, I—"

"Please, just call me Ged. Or Gerard if you must, though I have not answered to that for some time now."

There he went, spouting his rubbish about time again. The man's brain was surely addled. Jane sidled in the direction the bed, groping for the soft coverlet.

If he noticed her unease he chose not to comment on it. "These are mine, but you'll have to make do until we can get you some clothes of your own. I'll take you shopping later."

"Shopping?" Jane repeated the word, stupidly, uncomprehending.

"You'll see. I think you'll enjoy shopping. Are you hungry?"

Now this Jane did understand. "Yes, I am. Very."

"Right, I thought so. Take a shower if you like, then get dressed and come down. I'll microwave your pizza for you."

Jane's lip quivered. She was starving, but understood almost nothing of what he had said apart from that there were things she must do before she could eat. Her stomach rumbled in protest.

"Ah, okay then. Food first. Hop back into bed and I'll bring it to you."

Now this she could follow, and these instructions were much more to her liking. Jane scrambled back beneath the cover and peered at him from the warm cocoon.

"Two minutes," he said. He dropped the pile of clothing onto the mattress beside her and left.

Should she flee? How far might she run in two minutes? Would she find someone prepared to lend her aid?

It was hunger which convinced her to remain. She would look for an opportunity to escape later, when she had eaten.

Jane spent the time she waited for her food lifting and examining each item of apparel he had brought for her. The fabrics were of bright colours, and she loved that about them. She started with a crimson top which looked as though it might reach her mid thighs. It was short-sleeved and made of material which seemed to stretch, though she could not imagine that would prove necessary. The garment looked big enough to swamp her. Next she picked up a pair of leggings, which were made of a heavier fabric than the top. These were a dark blue in colour, and had patches stitched onto the front and the back. A pair of dark grey knitted bootees completed the set. It did not seem like much, and the prospect of a respectable married woman going out in public wearing just a pair of leggings struck her as positively indecent. She must attempt to reason with Gerard—or Ged—however confused he might be.

"I'll lend you a jacket, too, when it's time to go out, and some shoes." Her husband marched back into the room, this time carrying a flat, square box. He deposited that on the bed in front of her and flung back the lid. Jane's taste buds were at once assailed by the most delectable aromas emanating from within. She leaned forward to look.

"What manner of sustenance is that?"

"It's called pizza. Cheese and tomato on a sort of bread base. It's good to eat, or so I'm told. Help yourself."

"Might I have a knife, or..."

"Just grab a slice and eat it with your fingers." He pulled a triangular piece of the confection free and picked it up out of the box. He held it towards her. "Open your mouth and take a bite."