Kingdom Come (6 page)

Kieran ripped off the shirt he had bought at Fortnum and Mason, tossing it onto the bed and replacing it with a padded linen tunic. He ran his hands over it, acquainting himself with something familiar. It was a satisfying feeling.

 Rory was distracted from her fear and disorientation as she watched him transform from a twenty-first century man to a knight of the Third Crusade.  In fact, it was a rather awesome experience; the only time she had ever seen him dressed in attire appropriate to his profession was when they had first uncovered his grave. She’d never even seen him in chain mail or armor. Now, he was becoming what he was born to be; a knight of Richard the Lion Heart.  The realization was blooming.

Rory ran her fingers over the rough linen tunic, inspecting the textile as Kieran tried to dress around her. He pulled off his jeans and pulled on a pair of leather breeches, trying to retrieve a pair of boots from his satchels as Rory studied the leather.   He finally gave up trying to pull the boots on as she inspected the seams of the breeches, the stitching on the tunic, clinically analyzing what he was wearing.  When she finally glanced up at him during the course of her inspection, he was smiling at her.

“What?” she asked. “Why are you grinning?”

He shook his head faintly, kissing the hand that was on his shoulder. “Because you inspect me as one would a prize stallion,” he said, finally going to his knees and once again rummaging under the bed.

He began to pull forth a bucket-shaped helm, some kind of padded leather vest, and a huge pile of mail.  Rory stepped out of his way as he brought the heavy mess onto the bed.  Then she stood there with mounting awe as he began to dress himself in his battle armor.

“Oh… my God,” she breathed. “Your chain mail.”

He looked at her, unsure why she seemed so amazed. “Indeed. Why do you look that way?”

As she watched him pull the hauberk over his head, tears filled her eyes and it was clear she was very emotional.  She put her hands to her lips, folded, as if praying, watching every move he made.  She was suddenly seeing him through new eyes, a knight of the realm as he was always meant to be. It was her Kieran, now in his element.

“Because,” she struggled to speak through the lump in her throat. “Of course I always knew you were a knight but I never… it’s just really dawning on me, that’s all. When we dug you up, you weren’t wearing your armor.  Seeing you like this... my God, it’s just too fantastic to believe. It’s unreal.”

He eased his rushing stance yet again and cupped her face in his enormous hands, focusing on her. As difficult as it had been for him when he had awakened in her time, he knew well what she was feeling. Her shock of ending up in his time was probably much worse and it was only going to grow more brutal. She was educated and smart, but she truly had no idea what she was in for.  All of the education in the world would not prepare her for the reality. 

He gently kissed her forehead. “I am sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I know this must be difficult for you and you are showing extreme resilience. I am very proud of your strength.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she murmured, her gaze moving over the mail hood resting on his shoulders. “Don’t worry about me. It’s just that this is a truly amazing experience for me, Kieran. To see you as you really are, as you were meant to be… I never thought I would see that, not ever. But I am and it’s overwhelming.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that so he kissed her forehead again and dropped his hands, returning to the mail and pieces of armor that he had lain carefully on the bed.  She came up behind him, inspecting the helm closely.

“I remember this thing,” she said slowly, running her fingers over the bucket-shaped helm. “It was buried with you.”

“Hut was most thorough in burying my possessions.”

“In about a hundred years, knights are going to be wearing entire suits of plate armor just like this helm.”

He lifted an eyebrow as he slipped on the heavy leather vest that covered his chest like a bullet-proof Kevlar vest. “Why?”

“Better protection.”

He grunted in disbelief as he fastened the straps on the vest. “I am not sure I would wear a suit of metal. It would be difficult to move, I would think. Heavy, too.”

She shrugged, watching him finish with the leather vest and move for the massive coat of chain mail on the bed.

“Some of them were ridiculously heavy,” she agreed. “But this coat of chain mail is heavy. It’s got to weigh fifty pounds.”

He pursed his lips as he took the mail coat from the bed and began to put it on as one would put on a heavy sweater; arms first.

“It is not cumbersome or heavy,” he informed her flatly.  Then he ran his hands down on it to smooth it down, his expression turning wistful. “I have missed it.”

As unsettled as she was with the apparent time shift, he was equally as comfortable. Now he was back in his element and his strength, his sense of urgency, was gaining power. It was as if he had never left as an odd change seemed to overtake him.  The mannerisms rooted to this time in History were seeping back into him, turning him from a twenty first century transplant back to a twelfth century original.  The knight, the trained killer and protector, was rapidly returning.

Rory stood back, watching him as he positioned the mail coat.  It hung to mid-thigh, covered both arms beyond the wrists, and he pulled another tunic over the top of it.  She was so involved in watching the lines of the chain mail and the way it fit his body that it took her a moment to realize he had pulled on a scarlet tunic with three rows of yellow royal lions on it.  It was well-used but unmistakable.  Her hazel eyes widened.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “It… it….”

He fussed with the tunic, oblivious to the shock in her tone.  “What is wrong?”

She didn’t reply.  When the wait became excessive, he turned to look at her only to find her standing there with tears spilling down her cheeks. He immediately stopped what he was doing and went to her.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart,” he crooned softly as he wiped at the tears on her face. “Why do you weep?”

She sobbed, pointing at him; it sounded like a squeak. “Richard,” she managed to spit out. “You’re wearing Richard’s tunic.”

He wasn’t quite sure why she was crying about it. “Aye, I am,” his brow furrowed. “Why? What is wrong with it?”

She shook her head, still sobbing softly.  Kieran wasn’t exactly sure how to comfort her, not knowing why she was pointing at him and weeping, when she sniffled loudly and struggled to compose herself.

“The history I am witnessing is beyond comprehension,” she tried to put her amazement into words he could understand. “It would be like… like when you were presented with Christ’s Crown of Thorns. The sheer value of the object, of you holding and touching the object, is something so deep and intensely personal. Do you remember how you felt when you saw it for the first time? The reverence and spiritual power?  As you stand there, you are a knight under the command of King Richard of England. In my time, he was perhaps the most legendary king England has ever had with rare exception. His legend has reached almost mythological proportions and now I’m actually seeing the reality of it. It’s living, breathing history, Kieran. I’m not sure if you can understand how powerful that is to me, as a student of history.”

“An archaeologist.”

“A Biblical Archaeologist with an emphasis in the First through Third Crusades.” She winked at him when he gave her a half-grin as he continued to busy himself with dressing. She watched him a moment, cocking her head in thought. “Tell me something; who is the military commander, other than the king, that you admire most?”

He looked up from fastening a leather strap on his torso. “Anyone?”

“Anyone.”

He wriggled his eyebrows thoughtfully and returned to the uncooperative strap. “I fostered with an old and wise knight who was fond of military history,” he said. “He told me the story once of the Spartans, of King Leonidas and how he held his Spartan army against ten thousand Persians. I always admired a man who would face a battle with such overwhelming odds against him.”

“Then you can understand that King Richard to me is like Leonidas to you. It’s a pretty overwhelming prospect.”

He indeed understood what she was telling him and he kissed her gently on the forehead, then on her salty lips. “I look forward to introducing you to our king,” he said. “He will like you a great deal.”

Her mouth flew open in shock. “My God,” she grew animated again. “I never… oh, my God, I never thought I would meet him. It never even occurred to me.”

“Of course you will meet him.”

She waved her hands excitedly, as if she was flapping wings. The tears were rapidly forgotten. “Oh my God, oh my God,” she jumped up and down a couple of times. “Seriously? I can’t believe it!”

“Try not to burst into tears when you are introduced.”

She stopped jumping and scowled. “Oh, shut up.”

“He might think you an emotional idiot and it would reflect badly on me.”

“Screw you, buddy.”

He laughed softly; he had spent enough time in her era to know what she meant.  He turned back to the possessions he had spread out on the bed, finishing smoothing out his tunic before reaching for his gauntlets.   Rory wiped away the last of the tears off her cheeks, her interest in his attire gaining strength as she walked up behind him to inspect the tunic.  Kieran could feel her behind him, running her hands over him, and he stood in place patiently long after his gloves were secured. 

“Are you finished inspecting me?” he asked politely.

She nodded, though she was intrigued by the thick-threaded weave of the tunic and the uneven scarlet dye job.   The yellow lions were woven in with yellow thread in a surprisingly accurate design. It was a durable, lovely piece.

“It’s like a football jersey,” she muttered thoughtfully.

“Football?”

“Yes, you know,” she made motions with her hands like she was throwing a pass. “American football. Things like jerseys and uniforms for sports teams got their start with tunics like this.”

He shook his head. “I do not remember witnessing any American football. But I do remember the rug… rugly players we met up with once. Barbarians, as I recall.”

She smiled. “It’s called Rugby,” she corrected gently. “They wear uniforms when they play, too.”

She followed him around, picking at the tunic as he reached for his magnificent sword.  He almost slapped her with the big leather fastens as he secured the scabbard about his waist and right thigh.  Kieran was caught up in the moment of being back in his own time, comfortable for the first time in eight hundred years with where and who he was, but he wasn’t so caught up that he couldn’t spare time to grin at Rory’s fascination. She was quite humorous now that her shock at the situation was settling somewhat.  He tried to work around her as she clinically examined him.  He ended up just bumping into her.  Finally, he sighed.

“Sweetheart, I realize you are consumed with all of this,” he said with restrained impatience. “But it is extremely important that we leave this place. I have much to do and as much as I would like to spare you the time to examine every inch of what I am wearing, we simply cannot delay. I need for you to stay out of the way while I get organized.”

Rory nodded, her eyes still on his tunic, but she did as she was told.  Silently, she stood back as he gathered all of his things and shoved them back into the satchel, including the modern jeans, shirt and the highly prized work boots he admired so much.  When he had all of his possessions together and was fully dressed in his mail and armor, he turned to face Rory.