"Bloody hell," ripping yet another sheet of paper from the pad, the frustrated young man lobbed the wad toward the basket. Another miss,
adding to the growing mound of paper on the floor. Well, he never claimed to be tall enough for basketball. Stretching, he ran cramped
fingers through a mane of shoulder length dark hair, kneeling to pick up the mess he made. After all, Pat was kind enough to let him stay at his flat whenever he was in town, the least he could do was keep it clean. As he tidied up, he mumbled under his breath, berating himself for even
thinking he was a halfway decent songwriter.
"You’re a bloody hack, Chris," shaking his head, "whatever made you think you could write a serious piece of music? A couple pop albums out and suddenly you think you’re another Mozart."
"You talking to yourself again, Christopher?" Pat handed his old university roommate a glass of red wine, "that means you need a break. Sit down and tell me all about it."
"Who’s bright idea was it for me to write a song about the Crusades anyway?"
"As I recall, it was yours," Pat smirked, "I don’t remember much, of course, we were helped along by large quantities of cheap wine."
"Oh yeah, I was drowning my sorrows---again," Chris toasted his friend, downing his wine in one gulp.
"You and Tess went a couple rounds-again," jogging his memory "you always end up on my couch after you’ve had a row with her. When are you going to learn?"
"Probably never. Look, just because you and Sara have a good relationship and you introduced us, doesn’t mean we will ever hit it off like you two have."
"Then find yourself another lady," Pat suggested, "and warm her bed instead of wearing out my sofa."
"Would that I could," reddening a little, "there’s something about Tess---"
"---that makes you daft. You’re hopeless, Christopher," Pat roared, "you always have been ever since we first met. What’s more, you’ve got it bad for Tess. I had the same symptoms after meeting Sara."
"You know me too well, Pat," laughing along with his friend, "but I still can’t recall what brought on this sudden urge to rhapsodize about the Crusades."
"You were bemoaning the fact that chivalry and romance had died tragic premature deaths," his roar growing louder, "you should have seen yourself, lying there-on my sofa, mind-in your cups, blubbering on about how you were single-handedly going to change that by writing a song."
"Wait. It’s coming back to me," lying back on the couch, his eyes closed, "I seem to remember something about an epic story song---"
"An epic. Those were the very words you used," Pat agreed, "a larger than life song, a wide-screen vision. You always did think big."
"I have to," joking at his own expense, "I have to make up for my lack of height somehow."
"You make up for that with your unmitigated gall," Pat teased his old friend, "you always were a feisty little beggar."
"It’s a defense mechanism," Chris grinned, "I had to keep the public school bullies off my back somehow."
"And you’re still doing a good job of it," Pat teased him, "no wonder some of those record company big shots are scared of you. Honestly, Chris, you have been working too hard lately. You should drive down and visit your family."
"Now there’s a thought," sitting up, "it has been awhile since I’ve been home. One slight problem, my van---"
"Not again. When are you going to buy a new car?" Pat shook his head, remembering some harrowing, smelly trips in that particular vehicle, "it takes twice as long to go anywhere, you’re cold because you have to leave the windows wide open because of the smell. You can afford
better."
"That sour milk smell came with the van, I did try to clean it up," Christopher protested, "come on. You’re the only one who can help me."
"I’m the only one stupid enough, you mean," winking, "come on, let’s go see if we can perform a minor miracle."
"You’re a good friend," Chris draped his arm over Pat’s shoulder, "you know how much that battered old van means to me."
Pat and Chris checked the old Renault van over, deciding it was fit for one more trip to Chris’s parents home in Wexford. So Christopher packed up his gear, leaving early the next morning for a long overdue holiday with his family.
Facing a long drive, Christopher let his mind wander. He liked Tess, they had good times together, her humor matched his, but somehow he couldn’t say he loved her. They fought like cats and dogs, the fights were getting worse and more frequent lately. He wasn’t sure he wanted
to continue the relationship.
The song kept popping back into his head as well. A history buff, it was his university major, he wrote his final dissertation on the Crusades, more specifically, the one pitting Richard II against Saladin. He wanted to capture the spirit of the men who "took up the cross," joining their leaders on a quest to free Jerusalem and return the Holy City to Christian hands. Funnily enough, it was Saladin who fascinated him most. The ‘heathen Saracen’ was a well-educated military strategist. Richard and his troops held Jerusalem under siege for three years, but only entered the city under flags of truce, at Saladin’s gracious hospitality. The way things were going, it was the only way the Crusaders would have gotten into Jerusalem.
Christopher was literally jolted back to reality by a rattling emanating from the van’s engine. Slowing, Chris pulled over to the side, swearing and kicking tires. Stream rose in billowing clouds from the radiator. He kept a bottle of water handy-this wasn’t the first time the ancient engine had overheated, it wouldn’t be the last-but he couldn’t add the water until the engine cooled. He wasn’t in any hurry, he could wait.
Christopher pulled out his backpack and his most prized possession, a lute. A family heirloom given to him by his mother on his sixteenth birthday. It had ignited his interest in music, taking him a year to master. It had seven strings, the original catgut strings long since replaced by nylon. For him, the lute held a magical connection to his Celtic roots, he’d even written and recorded a song with it, ‘The Tower’-based on an old Celtic legend. He had a feeling that if he practiced on it, played it, his Crusade epic would fall into place.
Trudging through the woods to eat and relax, maybe work on his song a little, Christopher found himself on a well worn path. His curiosity piqued, he followed it into a man made clearing defined by a circle of stones much like Stonehenge, but on a smaller scale. There were seven
pillars still standing in the witching circle, a term he had heard growing up. Christopher leaned against one of them, spreading out the generous lunch Sara had packed. After stuffing himself, he settled back with the lute, running through some warm up exercises to loosen up his fingers. It had been a while since he’d played it.
Satisfied with the tuning, he stood up, pacing and strumming. It may have looked strange-a young man in the middle of nowhere, talking to himself and strumming bits and pieces, but it usually worked for him. However, at the moment, it wasn’t working, his frustration building in direct proportion to his apparent lack of creativity. Without noticing what he was doing, he plucked at the strings randomly and was surprised to hear the pattern repeated back. Bewildered, Christopher paced around the perimeter, trying again. This time notes were repeated only when he passed a pillar, each pillar finding its own note. It was bizarre, a phenomenon he’d never heard of before. He had played in outdoor arenas where rock provided natural amplification, but this was weird.
Moving to the center of the circle, he began playing, isolating the notes the pillars repeated. Once he had that figured out, he began playing patterns based on those seven notes. He smiled, it was wonderful, here he was in the middle of nowhere, playing a concert by and for himself. The whole idea struck him as funny, his laughter mingling with the music. His fingers moved nimbly over the strings, faster and faster, the pillars resounding note for note. It was a strange sensation.
Feeling dizzy, deafened by the pillars’ answering echoes, he tried in vain to stop. He had no control over his hands. Frantic, he flung the lute away, clapping his hands over his ears to block out the din. The noise grew louder still, the ground rumbled, driving him to his knees. Stumbling over the rolling ground, he somehow managed to gather his
belongings, trying to escape the witching circle. The noise exploded, louder than before. Christopher stood rooted to the spot, his pack and lute at his feet, wind whipping his hair across his face, stinging his eyes. Blinded by ice cold sleet, Christopher fell again. The last thing he would remember was a pillar looming over him.
The girl was exhausted. She had been tending the stranger since she found him unconscious, pinned under a fallen pillar in the druid’s circle three days before. At first, her father would not allow the wounded young man through his doors. She couldn’t blame him, after all, she had found him in the circle, a place everyone believed harbored evil spirits. He father had forbidden his three daughters from ever going there. The strange clothing the man wore, the unfamiliar amulets on his person and the weird strings on his lute had marked him further as something suspicious. Her father was loath to even allow her to tend
him.
"But father, I fear no one else can help him," she pleaded, "even if they dare. You know I am the only one trained in the healing arts within a days ride. He may not survive that long. You must let me tend to him. Please, sir, mother would expect me to use the skills she taught me."
The baron hated when Christina brought her deceased mother into their discussions. Even though his wife had been dead these five years, he still felt her loss deeply. Christina knew how to play on his feelings to make him do whatever she felt was needed.
"Now daughter," chiding her, "I am only concerned with the safety of this household. This man was found in a druid’s circle, wearing strange dress. Who knows what powers he may possess?"
"Please father," hating to beg, "please let me tend to him. Do you want his death on your hands?"
"No girl, I do not," embracing her, "but take care. I know not what I would do if anything evil befell you."
"Aye sir," hugging him back, "I do love you."
"Aye, well," embarrassed by her open expression of affection, "go on, the lad needs your help."
The memorable scene took place three days earlier. Since then, the lady Christina tended the stranger. She stripped the unusual clothing and weird amulets from him, storing them in her chest for safe keeping. She then bathed him, cleansing his wounds and binding them with clean
linens. His skin burned with fever, she applied herbal poultices to draw the poison from him. When she wasn’t changing cloths on his forehead, she listened to his ravings about an old car (whatever that may be) a new song, and a lady named Tess. As she mopped his brow, she studied his features. She judged him to be Norman from his dark hair and brows, the dark stubble on his firm jaw line. She hadn’t yet seen his deep set eyes, but she felt sure they were dark. He possessed a hawk like nose, a bit large and a wide, expressive mouth. Christina hoped he smiled often. He rested peacefully, so she turned her attention to her needlework, set in an alcove in her chamber. But exhaustion caught up with her. Yawning, she gave up, pulling a coverlet over her shoulders and succumbing to sleep.
Christopher woke some time later, his lips dry and his throat parched. His first thought was of cool water. His second thought was where his clothes had disappeared to. He turned to search, finding Christina instead. He had never seen a more beautiful girl, copper colored hair, long, plaited in a braid that brushed the floor. Her blanket had slipped to her lap, her clothes were old fashioned. Her face held classic beauty; fine, delicate features, small nose, high cheekbones, full sensuous lips, dusty lashes. He desperately wanted to caress her cheeks, kiss those lips. Smiling, he knew he would be okay, healthy enough to be lusting over this apparent angel of mercy. His head throbbing, he slipped back to the bed, pulling his blanket up on his chest. He lay back, moaning to get her attention. The sound brought Christina to his side.
"Good sir, you must not overtax yourself so," speaking musical French, her hands gently easing his bare shoulders back to the cushions, "your head must be aching. What is it you need?"
The fact that she spoke French threw him, especially since she gave the words an unusual emphasis. Taking a moment to work out his answer, he spoke to her, hoping his French hadn’t forsaken him in his moment of truth.
"Some water, please," he couldn’t stop staring at her, "I’m very thirsty."
His eyes, deep brown, eyes so dark, iris and pupil melted into each other, Christina barely hid her grin. Ladling water into a goblet, she held it to his lips as he drank. His hands trembled, he seemed too weak to hold the cup himself.
"Merci," Chris was surprised at how light-headed he felt. The room suddenly seemed warmer, too. "My name is Christopher de Lancie."
"My name is Lady Christina Howard," cleaning up her herbs and bowls, "you are in Enniscorthy Castle, my father’s house."
Lady? Castle? Where on God’s green earth had he landed? Her clothes did look positively medieval, her manners and speech strange to him.
"My lady," speaking as courteously as possible, "my head injury has left me confused, what year is this, please?"
"’Tis the year of our Lord 1190," backing away from him, "King Richard is on the throne---"
Richard the Lionhearted? This could not be happening. Rather than pinch himself, he reached for Lady Christina’s free hand. Her milk white skin was warm to the touch. Thank God, she was real.
"Why do you touch me thus? How dare you be so familiar with me?" noticing his pallor for the first time, "what is it? Are you ill again?"
"I’ve just seen a ghost, is all," settling back against the cushions, grinning to put her at ease.
"A spirit? Can you truly see them?" crossing herself and keeping her distance, "are you a wizard?"
"No, just a musician, a troubadour," trying to reassure her, "it’s a common expression where I come from---oh, never mind."
"’Tis nothing, sir, you are still ill and must needs rest," her smile reaching into his soul, "I will return shortly with some food."
It was then he realized just how hungry he was.
He ate like he had never seen food before, fortunately there was plenty of it. Enough to share with Lady Christina. She had obviously gone to change and freshen up. She now wore a rust colored gown over an ivory colored shift. She had fixed her hair, the braid intertwined with ivory ribbons. She helped him into a night shirt and robe, settling him into
her favorite chair before the servants arrived with the food. They hung back, fear in their eyes. Disgusted with their superstitious behavior, Christina took the trays, dismissing them.
"Why were they frightened of me?"
"They fear you because you were found in the druid’s circle, adorned in strange garb and amulets, " she explained while pouring wine, "’tis a place of strange powers to them."
"Who found me?" Christopher’s curiosity piqued, "how long have I been here?"
"I found you whilst taking my morning ride three days ago. I never venture near the circle most days, but I had a strong feeling I needed to be there that morning," reddening, embarrassed to admit the attraction, "you have been bedfast until this morn."
"I’m glad you followed your feelings. You saved my life, I’ll never be able to repay the debt," wanting to touch her, kiss her, anything to express his gratitude, "are my belongings safe?"
"Aye, in mine own chest," rising to show him, "your lute is in my music chamber with mine. "’Tis a safe place. You and your things are safe here."
"I’ll take your word for it," laughing softly, "I’d like very much to hear you play sometime."
"And I, you," laughing with him, "your lute, the strings are so peculiar. The tuning is also different. Do you wish it so?"
"It’s easier for me to play tuned that way," reluctant to confess he had no idea how the lute was tuned in the twelfth century, "you’ll see that no one touches it? It’s all I have to make my way, earn my living."
"Aye, I give you my word," a radiant smile on her face, "you must rest now. My father would have a word with you on the morrow."
"Sounds like excellent advice," chuckling, "now that you’ve fed me, I do feel sleepy."
"Let me help you to bed," offering her arm for Christopher to use as support.
Once he was settled, Christina tucked him in, pulling the coverlet up, arranging pillows for him. Christopher enjoyed the attention, having her close. She smelled of lavender, even her incredible hair. He fought his conscience, keeping his hands to himself.
"Lady Christina, again my thanks for saving my life," kissing her hand, "I hope I can prove myself worthy of your kindness and caring."
"’Twas only my duty, Sir de Lancie," blushing, her hand still burning where his lips had gently grazed it, "now, I pray you rest. My father is an early riser."
"Yes, ma’am," winking, a devilish grin on his face, "sleep well, lady."
"Fare thee well," closing the door behind her.
The morning dawned too early for Chris. He had spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning, smiling over his predicament. The three days missing from his memory worried him. One minute he was in 1990, just outside Wexford County, Ireland; the next he found himself in the
twelfth century, he wasn’t sure where. England, probably. How in God’s name did it happen and, more importantly, why? It didn’t help that he knew he was falling-hard-for the Lady Christina. Her face haunted her dreams. He wondered what it would be like to touch her, touch her the
way a woman should be touched; kiss her the way every woman should be kissed, at least once in her life. His body reacted to his erotic meanderings. He rolled over, groaning at the soreness in his bruised muscles.
