She looked at it and had the strangest tingle go down her spine. It could have been from the volume of bird poop adorning it, but then again, it could have been something else. Julianna looked down at her one good suit, a black Donna Karan number that had cost her an enormous amount of money but was practically guaranteed to get her taken seriously in any number of employment situations. She wondered how hard it would be for the dry cleaner to remove bird droppings from the back.
Expensively hard, she decided. No sense in adding any unnecessary expenses to her venture. She looked around for something to use as cleaning tools. She plucked a couple of leaves off the tree overhanging the bench, made herself a relatively clean place and turned to back into the seat. She heard what sounded like a shotgun go off over her head and sat down in surprise. Her surprise doubled when she felt herself sit in something remarkably squishy. Before she had a chance to wonder what it had been, the same explosive sound came from just above her head. She realized that the same bird had deposited a second, and hopefully final, load onto her shoulder.
She had no need to ask what she had just sat in.
The bird chirped once and flew off, apparently feeling much better.
Julianna was suddenly very grateful for a warm day, as it was a certainty she wouldn't be going anywhere until after dark now. She probably could have covered herself up with the shawl she'd stuffed in her bag that morning, but that would have meant more dry cleaning and she suspected what she now had already was going to cost her a fortune. So she turned her mind to more interesting things, namely discovering just what lay inside that five-pound assortment of Godiva she'd just purchased. She sniffed, selected, nibbled, then began her work of focusing on getting herself zapped over to Scotland without having to resort to forking out plane fare. She savored the chocolate and fantasized about fields of heather and handsome, bekilted Scotsmen.
Time passed.
She contemplated getting up and going for a drink, but then she might have lost her place on The Bench and that she couldn't have.
The afternoon waned.
A bathroom was starting to sound mighty nice as well, but that would have meant facing the general public and Julianna did still have her pride. She could only imagine the looks she would get in her doo-doo-bedecked silk suit.
Twilight fell.
It was starting to get cold. The park, she found, was suddenly quite empty. She pulled her feet up onto the bench and hugged her knees. A strange mist came up from the ground and surrounded her. Now, if it had been just any odd mist, she would have chalked it up to a sudden cloud of cannabis wafting her way from behind a bush, but it was more than that. Much more. There was a chill and a definite sense of Something Being Up.
Julianna grabbed her bag and began to wonder if Elizabeth's book had been more autobiographical than she'd admitted. Then again, hadn't Elizabeth warned Julianna about the park?
"Oh, man," she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut and hoping her sudden sense of vertigo was due to four truffles of superior strength and quality. "Man, oh, man."
A stiff breeze full of mist blew over her suddenly. She opened her eyes and saw a boy standing in front of her, possibly the filthiest, scrawniest-looking teenager she had ever seen. His eyes widened and he yelped and ran off before she could yelp and run off herself.
And then she realized something else.
She wasn't sitting on a park bench anymore.
She started to hiccup.
She should have paid more attention to Elizabeth's postscript. She'd been cocky. She'd been pooped on. There had been red flags aplenty, but she'd ignored them. Maybe she deserved what she was getting.
And now, here she sat in a location of indeterminate origin, listening to what sounded remarkably like cursing coming her way—Old Norman French cursing, mixed in liberally with a few of those Middle English swear words she was just certain no one had ever really used.
She closed her eyes tight, clutched her bag to her chest and tried to smother her hiccups. Maybe if she sang a cheerful song her reality would return to normal. Yes, that was the ticket. She latched on to the first thing that came to mind.
"It's the story… of a lovely lady…"
three
" 'Tis the sorriest tale I've ever heard," William growled at his squire. "A woman did you say?"
"Sittin' all alone," the boy nodded, his eyes huge in his face. "Rockin' and singin' as if she's a mad thing."
"Sitting where?" William demanded.
"Where you intends to scale the wall, my lord, else I wouldn't have troubled you."
William grunted. At least he'd trained Peter that well. He looked skyward, cursed, then shook his head. The bloody venture had been doomed from the start. And now a mad creature to dispatch before he could be about his business. For all he knew, she had alerted the keep's inhabitants to his intentions already.
The siege was not going as he had planned. Apparently his sire—the same fool who had absconded with William's keep—had removed his lips from the ale spigot long enough to see to a defense. Twelve men only, and some of them less than able, but 'twas still a dozen against one. Or one and a bit, if you were to count Peter in the bargain, though how a cast-aside bastard child rescued from village streets could be much aid against trained men, William surely didn't know.
For the first time he found himself regretting not having acquired a few guardsmen over the years. Aye, and he should have held on to much more of the gold he'd acquired from his forays into the French tournament circuit. Unfortunately, he'd never thought to want home and hearth, so what had been the need for bags of gold that called out to any and all ruffians? William had preferred to travel lightly, live riotously, and remain free of the clutches of thieves and desperate heiresses both. No men to feed had seemed like a good thing at the time, but now he began to wonder if he might have been better served to have retained a few men-at-arms to aid him in his ventures.
Not that he'd ever suspected he would have any ventures—not of this sort anyway. Being the second son of a completely useless second son, he had known he would have little, if anything, come his way. His grandsire had been generous enough to have seen him sent to squire. Phillip had also equipped William with a bright new sword and fine destrier upon his having earned his spurs. For those things alone, William had been damned grateful. He surely hadn't expected anything else.
It had caught him completely by surprise to have a missive find him in France telling him that he had an inheritance—albeit a less-than-perfect one—in England and would he please return to claim it? William had known of his grandsire's passing, but hadn't been able to return to see him laid to rest. The tidings of his prize in England had come from his uncle. William had been surprised at the gift but even more surprised that the keep hadn't gone to his father or his brother first.
Then again, his father and brother were fools, which both his uncle and his grandsire had known very well. Appreciating his uncle's good judgment, William had been more than happy to see to a bit of said uncle's business before taking up his residence.
He had then expected to make his way north and find a hot fire and drinkable wine waiting for him. He hadn't expected to find his father in possession of his inheritance.
Damn the useless fool.
So, now he was faced with the unenviable task of trying to wrest his home from underneath his sire before his sire depleted what poor sustenance remained in the larder and impregnated what minimal number of serving wenches might be found inside.
"The woman, my lord," Peter reminded him.
And if that weren't task enough, now he had a madwoman to contend with?
"Aye, aye," William grumbled. "Show me the way, lad. Mayhap she can hoist a sword. We'll put her to use."
But he cursed fluently and vigorously as he tromped after his squire. The mist was formidable and it wasn't until they were fair crashing into the wall surrounding the keep that William realized where they were.
Well, 'twas a woman, to
be sure. Daft as a duck, no less. She was rocking and singing just as Peter had warned, with her eyes scrunched up tight and a sack of some kind clutched firmly to her chest. William found the words of her song unintelligible and the tune nothing short of irritating.
"Will you cease?" he whispered sharply. "Will you bring the barbarians from the north down upon us with that foul noise?"
The woman opened her eyes and then closed them again just as quickly. Her teeth began to chatter, which did nothing to improve the rendition of her lays.
William looked up and saw the glint of something directly above the woman's head. He shoved Peter back, then leaped forward and hauled the woman to her feet.
And then, as if he'd been trying to maul her instead of rescue her, the ungrateful wench hauled back and clouted him with the sack she had been clinging to.
William stumbled backward and clutched the abused side of his head as he tried to regain the sense she had fair knocked from him. He blinked a time or two and eyed the heavy black sack with disfavor.
A movement above assured him there was yet something else unfriendly afoot. He reached out to jerk the woman away from certain danger only to find she was rearing back for another swing. He backed away instinctively, then watched in horror as the contents of a large pot were poured down upon the hapless wench—half expecting to find her screaming from being drenched in boiling oil.
Hearty laughter from above turned his suspicions in another direction. As did the sudden cessation of all movement and sound from the madwoman in front of him.
William leaned forward and sniffed. Then he put his hand to his nose to save it further abuse and looked at the former contents of the keep's cesspit which now adorned the woman standing before him. Apparently all was not well at Redesburn's supper table. William shook his head in sympathy.
And as he did so, an unwelcome memory assaulted him.
… vow to protect, defend, and rescue any and all maidens in distress…
The priest's gleefully spoken words echoed through William's poor mind, making him wonder what in hell's name he'd been thinking to visit a priest in the first place. And to have given his word? By the saints, he'd been just as daft as the creature before him!
He looked at her narrowly. Surely this one didn't qualify as one he should rescue. He spent a moment or two working that out only to find himself assaulted by yet another annoying thought.
Chivalry is never convenient.
William pursed his lips. That had been his grandsire's favorite saying. And as his grandsire had already given him so much—including all his gear, his morals, and enough of the Artane blood that the gift of swordplay ran true in him—William supposed he had little choice but to heed the words and rescue the damned woman.
Mayhap it would rain and rid her of some of her stench.
William cursed heartily, grasped the woman by the hand that clutched her sack so she would leave off with clouting him with it, and dragged her after him. At least she had ceased with her singing. William found himself grateful for that small respite.
He stomped back to his camp, cursing all the way. What was he to do with the wench now that he'd rescued her? He needed his mind focused on the task at hand, not fretting over furnishing soft surroundings for a woman. The stench of cesspit leavings wafted past him again, and he decided that the first thing to do was rid her of that. Even if she could keep herself from singing, she would give away their position by her smell alone.
William paused at his hastily made camp and considered. This was not a place he'd intended to inhabit for long—surely not long enough to see to the comfort of a woman. They could make no fire, lest it give away his position, and there was nothing to use for a shelter. He sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. Why couldn't things have been simple?
Retreat.
What a nasty word that was.
It appeared he had no choice. He looked at Peter. "Gather our gear. We'll go back to the chapel."
Peter apparently found the idea to his liking, for he wasted no time in doing as commanded. William wondered if there had been perhaps more sustenance behind the altar than he'd noticed. He saddled his mount, then looked at the woman he'd left standing a pace or two behind him. She was watching him with what he could only deem horror.
"What?" he demanded. "Have you never cast eyes on a poor knight before?"
Her eyes were huge in her face. She shook her head slowly.
At least she wasn't completely witless. But that she should think so little of him, his threadbare tabard and patched cloak aside, rankled. He drew himself up.
"I am lord of that keep," he said, pointing back toward his absconded-with castle. "I was attempting to retake it when you distracted me from my purpose."
She looked neither impressed nor contrite. Indeed, she looked to be on the verge of breaking into song again. William reached for her bag, intending to hold it for her whilst she mounted his horse. She held it away immediately, her eyes taking on a feverish light.
"What have you therein?" he asked in annoyance. "Sacred relics?"
"W-what?" she managed.
Ah, so she was at least capable of a response, useless though it might have been. William looked at her with a fresh eye. Perhaps she wasn't as daft as she seemed. And then he looked at her truly and wondered why he'd been so distracted by the disasters around him that he hadn't seen what he was facing. He ignored the refuse in her hair and on her clothes and noticed, for the first time, just how strangely she was dressed.
All in black, she was, as if she'd been a demon sent straight from Hell. Her skirts—if that's what they could be deemed—fell just to her knees in the manner of the Scots. Below that, her legs were as black as her skirts, but with big, gaping patches of white. William bent and examined and found that her legs were covered by hose, but of a flimsy kind of cloth he'd never before seen.
And then there were her shoes. They had likely been white at one time and perhaps would be nearly so again once they were clean. They were laced with colored string of some kind and adorned with shiny beads. The beads directly over her toes were yellow with marks that greatly resembled a smiling face.
Miraculous and nothing but. William straightened and looked at the woman again. Perhaps she was a saint come back to life, or an angel come to aid him in his quest. For all he knew, aiding her might in turn be what aided him—
He found himself suddenly on his back thanks to a great wallop on the head. He shook his head and struggled to clear his vision. His lurched to his feet and swayed for a moment or two.
"She went that way," Peter said wisely, pointing to the south.
William tossed Peter onto their packhorse, then swung up onto his own mount. It took him only minutes to catch the woman, and by that time, his temper had fair overcome him.
"Stop, you fiendish wench!" he bellowed.
The woman turned to look at him without ceasing her flight and that was her mistake. She tripped and went sprawling. William winced at the unmistakable sound of skull against something unyielding. He pulled up his mount and jumped down.
Damnation, this was all he needed to make his miserable life complete. He scooped the wench up in his arms, tossed her over his horse's withers and mounted. Now he had no choice but to make for the church again. Perhaps he would leave her there and return to see to his business. Aye, that would count as rescuing, wouldn't it?
He studiously ignored the fact that foisting her off on an unwilling priest might not fulfill the defending and protecting portions of his vow.
Vows, he thought with disgust.
He should have known where they would lead.
four
Julianna came to with a roaring headache. She didn't dare open her eyes, on the off chance the pain might choose to intensify Good grief, what had happened to her? Had she been assaulted by thugs? Robbed? Mugged while innocently savoring chocolate on a park bench?
She wrinkled her nose at the smell that seemed to be all around her. Maybe she'd sa
t in bird poop so long that it was starting to take on an odor she hadn't known it could. Well, no sense in putting off the inevitable any longer. She would have to open her eyes, get up and go home. Maybe it was still dark outside and she would only be gaped at by night-people on the subway. It could have been worse.
She opened her eyes.
Oh. It was worse.
There, not five feet from her, was a man—a man she unfortunately recognized all too well. Damn, she thought she'd dreamed him. But there he was, with his little scrawny helper, starting to go through her purse.
"Hey," she croaked. "Stop that."
The man looked up calmly, as if he felt no guilt at rifling through her things. He held her chocolate in one large hand. Julianna watched in horror as he prepared to toss her box of truffles over his shoulder.
"That's Godiva, you idiot," she gasped, lurching forward.
He said one word very sharply. Julianna quickly ran through her mental New Jersey-synonym finder and came up with a blank. Searching back into the unused portions of her overeducated brain, she came up with an obscure word that sounded remarkably like what the man had just barked at her.
Poison.
"Heavens no," she said. "Chocolate." She held her head between her hands and crawled over to the man on her knees. She kept one hand in place to keep her head from spinning off her shoulders and groped for her things. She shoved what little he'd gotten around to investigating back into her purse and snatched the golden treasure from his hands. "It might be the last of it I can afford." She inched her way back to the wall she'd been apparently sleeping against and clutched her bag to her chest. No sense in letting it out of her sight again.
It took a moment or two for her head to clear, and when it did, she wished it hadn't. Maybe she had a concussion. Maybe her headache was causing hallucinations. Maybe she was losing her mind.
Well, whatever the case really was, one thing was for sure: She wasn't in Gramercy Park anymore.
She suspected she might not even be in Manhattan anymore.