Entwined (3 page)

“Corran has known your grandmother since she was born -” Simon said, pausing briefly to consider his next words “- and I have a feeling fate has had a hand in our knowing you, Rose.”

I nodded, as if to confirm Simon’s words. “That is a picture of Giorsal, - somewhat older than she was last time I saw her, but I’d recognize her face anywhere,” I said, reaffirming my husband’s words.

An utterly weary face turned slowly to Simon. “Even if you are right, it still doesn’t explain how you knew my Gran.”

“Rose,” I began taking a deep breath and letting it out steadily, “the lady, Nansaidh, that Angus abducted with you. She is Giorsal’s mother and your great grandmother.”

Her face grew pale, her eyes glazed and she started to sway. Duncan sprang from behind me to steady her. She leaned heavily against him resting her head on his chest.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

She nodded before taking a deep breath and straightening herself to face me.

“I don’t understand but I want to,” she whispered.

“Do you want me to carry on?”

She nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I want to know everything.”

“If you’re sure,” I said, taking a deep breath and steeling myself for the task. “Nansaidh, the lady who was here earlier, was my best friend. We grew up together in a place called Glencoe, in Scotland. You know how I said our village was attacked?”

Rose nodded in response.

“Well, Nansaidh escaped with Giorsal, into the mountains. Giorsal was just a small child. She was dying… but then I held her and prayed that she would live. Then her body warmed and she grew strong. The Stag came for your grandmother, Rose, and she survived. Just like I did.”

A long silence ensued. It was not an uncomfortable silence, rather the kind one experiences when deep in thought or single-mindedly focused on an important task. It was broken finally by Simon, who, scratching his head in the way he tended to do in moments of serious contemplation, announced that it was time to dispose of the body. I had quite forgotten the bloody corpse and shuddered at its mention.

“What are you going to do with him?” I asked quietly.

“I’m going to send him to Hell.”

“Do you need my help?” I offered reluctantly.

“No. We need board and lodgings for the night. Will you see to that, Corran?”

“I have some spare rooms,” Rose offered.

Simon turned slowly to face the girl, his brow arched in disbelief.

“You would have us stay with you - after everything you have heard and seen today?”

She nodded.

“I’d like it, actually.”

“You would?”

“Yes.”

“Lass, you are too trusting for your own good,” Simon chastised.

“Yeah, maybe, but I like you all. So I’m offering. If you want them, the rooms are yours.”

“Thank you, Rose. We would like that,” I said, without any attempt to hide the relief her words had brought.

Rose opened her bag and pulled out a pen and a small notebook. She wrote something on a page, tore the page out and handed it to Simon. “Here, this is my address. There is a taxi rank in front of the Minster on Duncombe Place opposite the Dean Court Hotel.”

“Thank you, Rose. Duncombe Place?” replied Simon.

“Yeah, top of Stonegate, turn left onto High Petergate, past St Michael le Belfrey, then turn left onto Duncombe. The taxi rank runs along Duncombe; there are usually cars there. Look for the York City Council coat of arms on the doors.”

“I remember, thank you, Rose.”

Returning her pen and notebook to her bag, Rose pulled out a small, scented green bag and turned to me.

“Here, you might want to use these.”

“What is it?” I asked, perplexed.

“Make-up remover wipes. They should get the worst of the blood off your hands.”

******

CHAPTER 2

The city rested in its hushed lull between the end of a business day and the start of the evening revelers. Some things time didn’t change. We walked on in silence, Rose and I, having left Simon and Duncan to dispose of the body. We headed towards Ouse Bridge. Down its steps, past the Kings Arms tavern and over Skeldergate Bridge.

This part of the city was new to me. It had been pastures and fields and a route to the city gallows in my time.

“These houses look old. When were they built?” I asked, casting my eyes out at the sprawling sea of homes, crammed cheek to jowl in never ending rows.

“The latter half of the eighteen and early nineteen hundreds – for the workers of the Rowntree factory.”

“Rowntree factory?”

“Yeah, you know, the sweet makers.”

I didn’t, but nodded all the same.

Nestled in one such terrace of houses, behind a privet hedge, Rose’s home resembled every other of its period. I stood on the stone step outside the house, nervously watching as she unlocked the front door. My rational mind told me that no one could know what had happened, what I’d done, yet still I trembled. Finally the door swung gently open.

“You have a beautiful home,” I said, admiring the colorful mosaic floor tiles as we moved through the long, thin hall and into the kitchen.

“Ta. It was once, but now it’s just kinda empty,” she said, reaching for a frying pan and sliding it on to the hob.

The meat sizzled as it hit the hot surface of the pan, and the smell of cooking filled the room.

“What can I do to help?”

“You can peel the spuds. I don’t have a peeler. Mum doesn’t - didn’t get on with them.” Her eyes filled with sadness. “I don’t understand what’s going on, Corran. What happened to them? I mean, do you really think my Gran was imm…?” The words stuck in her throat.

I had been expecting the question. The girl’s grief and pain had driven her to consider that which most would dismiss as insane.

“Yes, Rose, I think she is,” I said, considering the one small detail that might yet prove me wrong. The woman in Rose’s locket was at least forty years old. If Giorsal was indeed an immortal then she should not have aged past eighteen.

“I’m having a drink. Want one?” Rose asked, changing the subject.

“Yes please.”

Having filled two large glasses with wine, she handed me one.

“Thanks,” I replied, allowing the heady aroma of the dark liquid to fill my nose.

“I hope red’s alright.”

“It’s lovely, thank you.”

“Wanna come help me set the table?” she asked, moving towards a drawer and extracting four knives and forks.

I nodded, taking the cutlery from her and laying it on the table. We finished just in time to hear the doorbell ring. Its sound set us both scurrying down the hallway. Rose reached the door first and swung it open, hurriedly ushering the two men inside. Both moved swiftly through the lobby and into the hall.

“Is … errm, has he gone?” I asked nervously, stuttering my way through the question.

“Aye, Corran, the job is done,” Simon replied, sweeping my glass of wine off the table and emptying it with one swallow.

“Refill, Corran?” Rose asked, sliding the bottle toward the empty glass.

“Yes please.”

“I’ve got some whisky in the cupboard,” Rose said, turning to Simon. “Any problem finding a taxi?”

“I’ll have a whisky if you’re offering,” said Duncan, grinning.

“A meal and whisky! You won’t be getting rid of us at this rate, lass,” Simon said, with a cheeky grin. “No problem finding a taxi, there were three waiting right where you said they would be.”

“Hey, I’m in no rush to get rid of any of you. Glad there were no problems with the taxi.”

“Rose, you do understand that we have no means by which to pay our way?” I asked.

She nodded earnestly but then her face broke into a grin.

“Yeah you do.”

“We do?” I asked, surprised.

“Yeah, of course you do. You have Angus’ shop. I mean, it doesn’t make much but it’s enough to keep you guys ticking over.”

It was late by the time Rose showed us to our room.

“I love the normality of this place,” I said, closing the bedroom door.

Simon frowned, removing his gun from the inside pocket of his jacket and seating himself wearily on the bed.

“Corran… We have traveled through time, killed a man and consigned ourselves to a life in a world we know very little of. Can you please tell me what part of the last twenty four hours has been normal?”

“I’m not talking about what we have done. It’s where we are. Here in this room, this house, with Rose. When you ignore the circumstances which brought us here it’s quite easy to believe that we are normal people.”

He gave a low grunt of disagreement and heaved himself off the bed.

“What are you going to do with that?” I asked, as Simon lifted the gun off the edge of the bed.

“It will be safe enough in here,” he replied, sliding a drawer in the bedside table open. “Oh, and I retrieved this for you.”

“My dirk.”

“Aye, lass.”

“I’m not sure I want it now.”

“I’ve cleaned it,” he said, holding it out for me encouragingly.

I didn’t want to touch it again, but slowly reached forward and took the knife from my husband.

“Thank you,” I said, dropping it onto the mattress.

“I’ll put it in the drawer with the gun,” Simon said, retrieving the discarded object from the bed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said dismissively. “You’ll know where it is when you are ready. I’m going for a shower,” he said, turning from the bedside table and making his way towards the en-suite bathroom.

“Do you think things are ever going to be simple for us?” I called to Simon, who was, by this time, attempting to turn on the shower.

“No,” he shouted, as the sound of running water reached my ears.

I lay back on the pillows and closed my eyes. An image of our home on the farm came into view, with the rolling hills that surrounded it. The pheasants, the cows and sheep that dotted the fields, the sky at night that sparkled with a million stars. The friends we’d loved and lost… I fought a wave of sadness and pushed it deep into the tunnel of my painful past, burying it forever.

I was shaken from my thoughts by Simon’s return to the room. He strode across the room, rubbing his head vigorously with a large towel. The muscles in his calves and thighs were still thick and powerful enough to outrun any man in this new world. I ran my eyes up his legs, over his hips and the solid muscles of his abdomen, resting them on the bare arms that had held me and loved me for so many years.

“Feel better?” I asked, tearing my gaze from the flexing muscles of his arms.

“Aye, much,” he said, positioning himself purposefully on the edge of the bed beside me. “I am trying to decide,” he continued studying my face curiously, “if your claim was valid.”

“What?” I asked, confused.

“Your claim to being with child.”

I opened my mouth to speak but then closed it again. Although I now understood his question, I didn’t much appreciate the manner in which he had asked it and didn’t feel inclined to acknowledge it with a reply.

“Well?” he asked, arching one brow in question.

“I am not claiming to be pregnant. I
am
pregnant,” I replied with indignation.

“Oh,” he said, with a mildly surprised look about him.

“Is that best you can offer?” I snapped.

“What else do you want?” he said, rubbing his hands through the wet mop of black hair on his head.

“Well… Appear happy? Excited, even? Ask how I feel? But no. You say, ‘Oh’.”

“I read a book,” he continued, ignoring my outburst. “The author’s opinion was that a pregnant woman should not drink wine.”

“Pray tell me what the hell drinking has got to do with your lack of reaction?”

“Nothing, I suppose. Only, I think you should consider the matter of what you drink.”

“Fine, so I’ll stop drinking wine and you can share your whisky with me.”

“No. You shouldn’t drink at all. The book suggested sticking to water.”

“Water? I don’t think so. Women have been drinking ale and wine for centuries. The human race still exists. Just because you have read a fancy book in this fancy new world doesn’t make it right.”

“I hear you, Corran, but many a woman and child have been lost over those centuries.” His tone was serious and his eyes grave as he turned his head to look at me. “Have a care, lass. I just want you and the baby to be safe,” he said, moving his hand to rest on mine.

“I love you,” I whispered, softening at his words and lifting his hand to kiss it gently, “If it makes you happy, I won’t drink.”

“This is our baby, Corran. If you drink nothing but water then nor will I. What is good for the mother is good for the father.”

******