5
July 16, 2009, 10:15 a.m.
Edwinstowe, Nottinghamshire, England
Joanna had not felt so humiliated since she was eleven and the perm her mother gave her turned out too curly. Joanna had draped a sheet over the bathroom mirror for three days until she could stand to look at herself and figure out how to tame the Afro on her head. Now, as she perched on top of one of the biggest horses she had ever seen, she felt like a child at a pony ride. Everyone else in the group had control of his or her own horse. But not her. No, she was being led around by a woman who looked old enough to have greeted William the Conqueror when he invaded Hastings. The other riders must think she was an idiot.
Up ahead, Joanna observed Jill’s confident posture in the saddle, a stark contrast to Joanna’s humiliation. Of course Jill would leave her back here. Fine. Joanna would make Jill pay later.
Suffering was good for the author’s soul, or so Gordon used to say before he kicked Joanna out of the writing group. With all the suffering she felt now, she ought to be able to write a Pulitzer-prize-winning novel.
“What kind of horse is this again?” Joanna asked the old woman. “It reminds me of a Clydesdale.”
“It’s an English draught horse.”
“Not all these horses are draught horses, though.”
“No.” The old woman flicked her eyes in Joanna’s direction. “Draught horses carry the heavier riders.”
Joanna held back a groan. Did the entire world thing she was fat?
“They’re temperamental as well,” the old woman added.
“I suppose that’s why you have the sign out front with the skeletons. Nice joke, huh?”
“I don’t joke.”
Was this the famous British irony at work or was the old woman serious?
The guide at the front of the line recited some piece about Robin Hood. Joanna didn’t bother to listen. This horseback ride had been an awful idea. Was there any way Joanna could slip off this horse and walk back to the stables? She didn’t want to be here anymore.
But the tour group was moving again. She was stuck. At least, she hoped she was stuck. She didn’t want to fall off the horse and be trampled or paralyzed from a spinal injury. A fog seemed to come out of nowhere. Joanna’s ears felt plugged. She looked ahead to realize she could no longer see Jill.
“Never let go of the reins,” the old woman warned, her voice sounding farther away. “When you fall, the horse will run back to the stables, but you’ll never get home without the horse.”
When you fall?
Joanna still hadn’t wrapped her mind around that comment when the old woman unhooked the lead rope on Joanna’s horse. “You’re on your own now.”
Although Joanna had longed to be left alone, now that freedom was hers, fear replaced embarrassment and she considered turning the horse toward the stables. But before she could act, a horn sounded—one long note followed by six shorter ones—and her horse reared. She wrapped her fingers in his mane and curled herself against him. The horse leaped into a gallop and Joanna shrieked for help. The other riders passed by in a blur. All she could do was cling to the horse as it charged into the fog.
She couldn’t see anything with her face buried against the horse’s pulsing neck. When she finally gathered the courage to sit up, she saw the approaching tree branch, but she couldn’t dodge it fast enough. A bright light blinded her as she had the sensation of hanging in midair. Then everything went dark.
Joanna came to lying flat on her back. She couldn’t tell yet if she was hurt, but as she raised herself up on her elbows, she took an inner inventory and came to the conclusion she was still alive and without any broken bones. However, she might have a concussion. Her head swam and her stomach felt queasy. She touched her fingers to a hot, wet spot near her hairline.
“Are you hurt?”
From the woods emerged a man so tall he reminded Joanna of a basketball player, except that he was built like a football linebacker. His sympathetic, soft features stood in contrast to his massive frame. Despite his formidable size, his expression was sympathetic and kind. He wore a green tunic with no shirt underneath, green leggings, and boots that went up over his knees. A leather skull cap appeared to cover a bald head.
“I saw you take that fall. You’re lucky, lass. You could have poked your eye out when you hit that branch.”
She studied the blood on her fingers. Her luck was certainly open for debate at this moment.
Even when the man bent down to help her and reduced his height by half, Joanna still felt small in comparison. She stood up, but as she rose, she felt dizzy and swayed. The big man took her arm to steady her. As he did, he seemed to notice her face for the first time and gasped.
“Is my cut that bad?”
The big man shook his head as if trying to cast off a thought, but he didn’t look like he succeeded. “No, but you look like…never mind. What’s your name, lass?”
“Joanna. Any possibility you could take me to a first-aid station?”
“I’ve not heard of such a place.” He pulled a dirty rag out from under his tunic. “Here, dress your wound with this.”
“Um…thanks, but I’m fine. You haven’t seen my horse, have you?”
“Your horse ran off.”
She groaned. “I forgot to hold the reins. Now I’ll have to walk back.”
Even as she said it, Joanna remembered what the old woman had said, that if she lost the horse, she wouldn’t be able to get back. Joanna pushed the thought away, unable to deal with it or the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. If she gave in to the fear, she would black out again.
“My name is John Little, but I’m called Little John. This place isn’t safe. Come with me.”
The giant kept hold of her arm. She wanted him to let go but feared she would fall.
“Little John? You’re kidding, right?”
John’s face reflected his apparent confusion. “I have no goats. Please, you must come with me to our forest hideout.”
“I’ve got to find my horse and my sister so I can get out of here.”
As Joanna spoke those words, soldiers, their bows drawn, emerged from the brush and surrounded Joanna and John. A man in a red tunic with a gold chain around his neck stepped forward. His long nose and pinched face reminded Joanna of a squinting ostrich.
“What have we here?” The ostrich man’s voice sounded like it came through his nose. “Little John, I see.”
“The Sheriff of Nottingham.” Little John didn’t bother to hide his sneer.
“How long has it been? A few months, at least, since the last attempted execution? If I’m to believe Guy of Gisbourne, Alan-a-dale was scheduled for capture today.”
Scheduled for capture? Joanna rolled her eyes. These guys needed a better script writer.
The sheriff pointed a fat finger at her. “Who is this?”
“My niece, Joanna.” John kept his hand protectively on Joanna’s arm.
The sheriff stepped closer. He reeked of wine and body odor.
“Uncanny resemblance!” the sheriff exclaimed. “Gisbourne, come tell me what you make of this wench.”
A tall, thin man dressed in black stepped forward from the shadows. He had short, light brown hair, smoldering gray eyes, and a scar that ran from the outer corner of his left eye to his ear. His brow hung low, indicating a predisposition for brooding. This must be Guy of Gisbourne. He was always the bad guy—or one of them—in Robin Hood lore. Joanna swallowed hard. Guy was exactly the sort of man she found attractive.
Guy, who had been scanning the forest, presumably for signs of ambush, turned to Joanna. As he saw her, the blood drained from his face. Joanna got the distinct impression he gazed through her at someone else. She shivered, both in fear and anticipation. This scene could have come straight from a gothic novel.
“Remarkable, isn’t it?” The sheriff laughed. “I’ve never seen you so shaken.”
Guy turned away. “On closer inspect
ion, she’s nothing like her.”
The sheriff studied Guy with suspicion. “You would know best.” He shrugged. “Back to the castle!”
Soldiers prodded Little John and Joanna forward. John kept hold of her arm for several minutes until he seemed confident she could walk on her own.
I might be dreaming. With a head injury, Joanna might still be unconscious. Jill had wanted an adventure, Joanna had gone along with the plan, and now Joanna was hurt and in trouble. Everything was on schedule for how their adventures usually went except that this was the part where Joanna blamed Jill for everything. But if Jill’s adventures led to such eye candy as Guy of Gisbourne, Joanna was game for two or three more horseback rides.
“Mind the road!” Little John whispered.
Joanna looked down in time to avoid stepping in a pile of fresh manure.
For the next thirty minutes, when she wasn’t dodging smelly obstacles, Joanna distracted herself with thoughts of Guy, wondering whom she resembled and why she had affected him so deeply. Maybe Guy was the dark, romantic hero who would rescue her and take her to his castle where they would find love at the top of a gothic tower in the moonlight.
But even this attractive fantasy couldn’t mask the fatigue and discomfort that overwhelmed her in the hours that followed. Her head ached. Her feet ached. She was thirsty. Manure littered her path. The fantasy quickly lost its charm and she realized all she wanted was a hot bath, a cold drink, and an ice bag for her aching head. The fall from the horse had humiliated her—even more than having the old woman lead her around. Why had her horse bolted the minute he’d been set free? Where had the horn come from? Why was Joanna’s horse special? What did special mean? The sign at the front of the stables said, Not all who come out go back.
Go back…in time?
Surely not. She must have hit her head harder than she thought. She would wake up lying on her back with all the other tourists staring down at her, having a good laugh at her expense.
Guy, who rode near the front of the procession behind the sheriff, turned around to steal a glance at her. He appeared to have good teeth, and a man had to have good teeth and decent breath if she was ever going to kiss him. She probably shouldn’t be thinking of kissing when she was being held hostage, but if she was trapped in the past, she’d have to look on the bright side. How many novels had been written about unsuspecting women traveling back in time and having torrid love affairs? Probably a lot more than Joanna had read, but that didn’t lessen her glee at the idea of a good romance. It would be appropriate compensation for that blow to her head.
“John, what year is this?”
“The year of our lord 1193.”
A host of information flooded Joanna’s mind. The Crusades. Prince John. Richard the Lionheart. Unbelievable! The subconscious really was amazing. All that time she had spent reading and researching was paying off in the most realistic cognitive escape she had ever experienced—even more real than when she started dreaming in Spanish after taking a semester-long class of the language. Would Jill appear in this dream as well? If this was a dream, there was no cause for concern. Jill would get a kick out of this story when Joanna told it to her. It might even make a good novel.
Joanna’s captors stopped for a rest after a couple of hours. One of the men offered her a smelly skin of ale. Joanna refused, curling her lip in disgust. Little John took it, drank, then pushed it toward her.
“Drink something. You need it.”
Reluctantly, Joanna accepted the ale skin. She wiped the mouthpiece off with the tail of her shirt and tried to pour the liquid into her mouth without touching anything with her lips. The skin stank, and the ale tasted bitter and burned all the way down.
Joanna grimaced and coughed. Her voice hoarse, she whispered so only John could hear, “What about Robin Hood?”
She assumed where there was a Little John, there had to be a disgraced Earl of Huntingdon.
“Not now.” John nodded toward Guy who stared at them.
The sheriff’s men and his prisoners continued walking for what felt like hours. Joanna was so tired now that she couldn’t even think. She spent every ounce of energy staying upright and moving. What did it mean if she felt sleepy while dreaming? She had looked this up in a dream dictionary once. It meant she was unwilling to accept a reality. What situation was she blind to, though? Joanna was the most self-aware person she knew.
When the procession paused at the top of a hill, Joanna saw a small village of authentic twelfth-century huts and a castle in the background.
It couldn’t be.
But then she saw the hill, the river, and the castle. Even though the land was undeveloped and the village much smaller than modern-day Nottingham, the natural landmarks she and Jill had seen in their walking tour of the city couldn’t be missed.
Time travel.
The truth of her situation hit her so suddenly that she lost her breath and swooned. She told herself later that the blow to the head, the heat, and the dehydration caused her to collapse, which was why she let Little John carry her through town to the castle and into the dungeon. Weakness under those circumstances was forgivable.