Heroes Live Forever (Knights in Time) (8 page)

"Please don't do anything yet. Let's see how it turns out. If it's lacking, you've my blessing to do whatever you think necessary," she said in an effort to mollify him.

Basil agreed with one curt jerk of his chin and started over to Guy as visions of what sort of justice they'd mete out flashed in her mind. He was the liege lord once. The position gave him carte blanche over local lawbreakers to order flogging, branding, even death.

"Ah--Basil, you do know you can't run them through, don't you?"

He stopped, and she waited for him to argue. The moment of debate passed, with a simple "Aye," he moved on.

Guy leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded over his chest. Basil said something she couldn't hear. From the way Guy's mouth quirked, he didn't approve of her answer either. They felt she was out of her element. These fourteenth century men were happy to mete out justice to someone they suspected of playing her false. Sadly, no one among the twentieth century men she knew would've given the problem a second thought, if at all.

By mid-afternoon the crew had finished and left. Basil came into the stable as Elinor put the tack away. She continued storing equipment as he scrutinized the interior. His displeasure evident, she was ready for the negative comment she knew he’d make.

"Would you care to go riding with me, Elinor? I’d be most pleased if you say yes. It is a lovely day."

The invitation, sounded so formal in his old world accent. It resonated on the ear, rich and warm, the way hot fudge on ice cream tastes.

Surprised by the invitation, Elinor blinked, mentally switching gears from the prepared response for the criticism she expected. "Yes," she agreed in a cheery voice not used since her teens. "I'd love to."

She hurried to tack up Guardian, grateful for her diligence keeping his bridle and saddle clean. The immaculate Basil would notice slovenliness. He waited outside by Saladin. Elinor's grip on Guardian's reins tightened as they neared the door. He might freak encountering a ghost horse. She held her breath anticipating the worst from the unpredictable Thoroughbred.

Guardian's ears pricked forward then swiveled to the side several times as he listened. His neck arched and went rigid before he relaxed, dropping his head with a whinny. If he perceived the presence of Saladin he didn't feel threatened by it. Relieved, Elinor relaxed too and mounted.

"Where to milady?"

Elinor gave the woods brief consideration. "How about the castle? I haven't been since I was a child."

Basil wore a linen surcoat with a leopard
rampant
embroidered on the front over a short hauberk. Golden spurs etched with an elaborate design were strapped to high boots. His polished cuffed gauntlets held Saladin’s reins with innate surety. The picture of courage and grace, he was a history book’s illustration of the chivalrous knight. The impeccable image the modern aristocracy wants to portray, but falls short.

Someday when she was too old to recall her name, she’d still remember this. She'd remember living every little girl's dream.
Once, a knight in shining armor took me to his
castle
.

Elinor sat straighter in the saddle and tried to rise to his level of elegance.

They rode across a long, grassy field beyond her property. The once visible path was now overgrown with wildflowers. Basil grinned, watching her. “Such delight you take in the flowers.”

“They’re lovely. What an amazing shade of purple on that one with the round, plump blossom. I especially like those tiny blue and yellow ones.” Elinor pointed.

“Over the centuries I’ve ridden here countless times. I never paid them much attention.”

“I’m sure your mother or her ladies mentioned them.”

“I don’t recall.” Try as he might, Basil couldn’t remember if they had. He dug deep into his memory to no avail.

"Tell me about your family. What happened after you were killed?" Elinor asked.

He hadn’t talked about Grevill in a long time. Until Guy compared him to Theresa’s son, he hadn’t thought about his brother in recent memory.

Basil rode relaxed with one hand resting on the pommel and one on his thigh, as he had so often in life when on his land.

"After Poitiers, my brother Grevill inherited everything. He was an excellent liege lord, very perceptive. Neither our heritage nor our villeins suffered as a result of my loss. My brother was always mindful of the needs of the people who served us. It would be hard to find a more caring or generous man."

"How old was he when you died?"

"A score and one."

"As the oldest male, you inherited everything. If you had lived, he would have been a landless knight. Had he already made a name for himself in tournaments and such? He sounds rather mature for twenty-one? Was he at Poitiers, too?"

"No, he didn't go with the army to France. Grevill was born with a deformed and useless arm. Even so, he trained as hard as any other knight. Being fit in the lists is vastly different than warfare. His gift lay in areas less brutal. He oversaw my interests while I campaigned. It was a relief to me."

“Did he marry?”

“Yes.”

“There’s an Earldom attached to Ashenwyck, yet your family name is not well known to me, from a historical standpoint.”

“The last of his descendents died fighting for the king during the Civil War.”

“Cromwell again.”

Basil nodded. “Dreadful man.”

They made their way down into the ditch that was the moat. Elinor reined Guardian in at the top of the slope.

Basil halted next to her and sat quiet for a long time, taking in the ruin. He lifted his hand indicating two places on each side in front of them.

"This was the barbican. The gates were just beyond. These stones were part of the first curtain wall.” He pointed to a long row of rubble. “A second curtain wall manned by our archers protected the inner bailey. Attackers were forced to fight in a confined space while pinned by bowmen."

They trotted on into what was the bailey. Elinor walked Guardian around the courtyard's perimeter. "I'm trying to picture how it was, how it must've bustled with activity."

He showed her where the stable had stood, marking off the dimensions of the impressive structure.

They returned to the entrance of the old Keep and dismounted. Basil walked Saladin over to a mound bordered by brush and wild trees and tied the reins over a sapling branch.

"Why did you do that? Tie up a ghost horse?" Elinor tied Guardian to an oak a few feet away.

He patted Saladin's flank as he walked past. "Old habits die hard I guess. Come let's go up to the parapet." He held out a hand and she laid hers on his, not truly touching as they climbed the rampart’s loose stones.

Where the stairs narrowed, he let her take the lead, watching as she mounted the old steps. Her hair was done up in what she called a ponytail, secured with a pretty pink ribbon. The tail portion swung in rhythm to the movement of her hips. At one point, midway, she smiled at him over her shoulder. The sunlight gave her cheeks and nose a girlish shine. He smiled back, and for a fleeting moment felt like a lighthearted young man again.

What weakness of mind took possession of him, Basil couldn't say. He reached out to tug her ponytail then caught himself and dropped his hand to his side.

On the way, he pointed out the sites of various buildings and general layout of his home. She strained his memory a couple of times with her questions. At the top of the rampart he walked her over to the corner with the best view.

"You can see forever from here. My house seems so insignificant."

Basil caught a whiff of the mild scent from her shampoo when Elinor glanced up. It reminded him of the air after a fresh rain and he moved a fraction closer.

"You needn't point out my pitiful stable, Milord Manneville." She winked at him and with a sweeping arm gesture mimicked a haughty, upper class accent. "Sir Basil, lord of all you survey."

Another time, another place he'd have taken the wink a step further and kissed her into the next day. "Do you see that outbuilding?" He gestured to a spot a half mile away.

"Yes."

"That's where the woods used to start. They were much denser then. Over the years, many of the ancient oaks were chopped down for building and other needs. My family lands stretched well beyond the forest."

"The river was also much wider and deeper. It was the source for our well and supplied water for the moat. In the spring, at its peak, the flow took the runoff of the moat’s stagnant water downstream."

Basil rested both arms on the wall as he reminisced, another old habit. In life, he often walked the parapet when he wanted to be alone to think.

"I didn’t know many people considered the problem of stagnant water in those days. We've all heard about the disgusting matter thrown into the Tower's moat." Elinor wrinkled her nose. "It's pretty remarkable your family was concerned with the moat's upkeep. How do you drain a moat, anyway?”

He loved technical questions of that sort. Management of the castle was something he'd trained for all his life.

"Originally, a dungeon had been built in the lower level of the Keep. My family stopped using it for that purpose in my father's youth. They constructed a tunnel that accessed the moat with a lower exit channel on the other side. The walls of the tunnel and channel were reinforced with stone to prevent seepage. From a platform, the gate raised to allow in fresh water. The stagnant water was forced out. Once the gate lowered, the moat filled. Villeins dug the channel to the river out then replaced the dirt after the water was exchanged."

"Ugh! Poor villeins!"

He grunted but kept his gaze on the scenery. "I knew Lords who tried to maintain the moat water, and I knew others who didn't." The corner of his mouth curled in disgust, "Trust me. If you ever smelled a moat at the end of summer, you'd lend a hand with a shovel yourself."

"You're probably right."

Elinor leaned back against the blonde stone merlon and turned toward Basil.

He felt her eyes move from his hair to his lips and knew the second they lowered to his chest.

“Of course, the river was a serious problem at times. So much of this area is wetland and susceptible to flooding.”

Green eyes roamed every inch of him.

He’d known many women in his life and recognized what the nuances in a lady’s perusal conveyed. There'd been summer jousts where he thought he’d burn up in his armor. Elinor’s desire scorched him more than the hot metal.
Her flesh and blood desire.

He stared straight ahead, because if he looked at her, he'd be lost, his strength of will would falter. There'd be nothing to keep him from trying to do what he couldn't. A painful reminder of the man he no longer was.

Basil propped a foot on the crenel, his thoughts in disarray as he attempted to describe the land. The temptation to touch her, hold her, was too strong. Fighting the urge, he closed his eyes. He envisioned how she’d recoil if she sensed the emptiness of his existence. She is joy and laughter, she is life...
she is life,
he told himself. He opened his eyes and then foolishly turned.

She smiled when he looked over, her lips glistening with a pink cast in the sun. His resistance crumbled.

I am lost.

Basil closed the gap between them. Gauntlet gloves gone, he lifted a hand to the side of her face. It didn't matter he couldn't physically touch her. He started at the skin behind her ear, continued downward as his thumb stroked a path over her cheek and along the pale arch of her throat.