The Guardian (Chronicles of Dover's Amalgam Book 1) (5 page)

“Nay,” Jareth said. His hands batted the air to thwart any other announcement that might change his course. His heart was near ready to explode at the news Gabriel leaked out so blatantly. “No,” he corrected. “Enough.”

“You asked why your future self didn’t figure this whole mess out. I’m just answering questions.”

“Perhaps I should ask then, what are
your
questions?” Jareth asked. “Why did you come if not to torment me?”

Gabriel cleared his throat, but his amusement ended when he noticed the tears in the corners of Jareth’s eyes.

“My questions seem irrelevant now.” Gabriel hinged at the waist and leaned forward, closer to the side of the bed. He put his hand on the mattress, inches from Jareth’s hand that was fisted in the covers. “Your grace, are you in great pain? Withdrawing from the pain medication? Let me fetch you a doctor. A real one. I fear Elizabet has missed something. I can handle this problem with the Huns—it’s what I’m trained for. It has been over a month since you allowed Harrow to visit and he grows anxious. He doesn’t believe us when we tell him Elizabet was able to heal you adequately.”

“She missed nothing, because it was I who instructed my care.” He blinked twice, three times, and then closed his eyes. “And it is not physical pain as much as my very soul that ails me. How will Harrow heal that part of me? He is a physician, not a magician. No, Gabriel. I am not ready to see Harrow.”

“Is there something I can bring, then? Something that will get you out of this muck you’ve buried yourself in?”

Jareth glanced around the room that was usually orderly and noticed the books strewn about, propped open by their spines in various places—by the window seat, on the bedside table, near the hearth. He saw the room in whole now. His restlessness was evident not only in his physical bearing. He was a man who prided himself on orderly conduct and strength of mind and body. He was possibly one of the greatest minds of all time and here he stood—or rather lay—pale and downtrodden. The room was a cluttered mess.

“No,” he replied. He reached for the abandoned book that lay face down next to him. He avoided touching Gabriel’s nearby hand. “I want to be left alone. I will have your answers when you return. You have given me much to think about.”

“But you don’t know the questions.”

Jareth sighed. “You want to know why Huns are charging medieval Dover—so do I. You question their use of firearms and the magnitude of their army—so do I. You want to know if I have acquired the travel stones and my answer is not as of today, no. I have not met the strange urchin you speak of, the man who will pawn the stones for the health of his only child.”

“And we know this will happen soon,” Gabriel said. He pulled back, sitting upright once again and fisting his hands on his lap. “You meet Gyula the Mad sometime in the winter months of 1312. Winter is upon this time now.”

Jareth nodded vaguely, paying more attention to the book than to the visitor. “Goodnight, Gabriel. May God bless and keep you.”

Gabriel would realize he had been dismissed. It would be pointless to try to keep a conversation flowing, and Gabriel was smart enough to not make the attempt. When Jareth was done, he was done. The fair-haired Spartan rose to his considerable height, untwisted the silver bracelet from his wrist and tossed it in the air.

The portal expanded and opened with a flash of light.

“Gabriel,” Jareth called just as he stepped into the circle of light. Gabriel paused to look over his shoulder, then turned. “I have one question that I require an answer for. There is something that brings me extreme curiosity and I must admit that I cannot bear not knowing for another day.” He shook his head. “Nay, another hour.”

Gabriel nodded his consent. Theirs was such a bond that he would understand the question before it was formed. He answered without prompting.

“She’s your wife. The person who will introduce you to your first, most powerful host. The mother of your children. Three boys and a girl—so far. And you love her to distraction.” Gabriel shrugged as Jareth felt himself pale. His mouth hung slightly open from the question that never had a chance to leave. “It’s sorta disgusting, truth be told. Elizabet has you wrapped. Nothing happens unless the duchess wills it.”

A strangling noise gurgled up from Jareth’s throat before he could stop it, and his mouth snapped shut. He looked away in a combination of embarrassment and shock.

“Anything else? Am I free to go now? I’ve got a grocery list the duchess gave me and there’s ice cream on the list. She loves her ice cream, especially when she’s nursing.”

Jareth waved his hand in the air. He winced as if the duchess might suddenly appear—nursing, God forbid—at any moment. “By all means, see to your list.”

Gabriel bowed, just barely hiding his grin before he stepped into the wormhole and disappeared eight centuries into the future.

“I REQUIRE A
mount, Percival,” Jareth said to his squire as he entered the stables. A group of squires and a traveling minstrel congregated there, playing some sort of game involving gleaming rocks. He did not remember what the game was called, because he did not partake in games. The only sport he had been allowed as a child was that which included battle strategy or foreign translation.

He was sure to fold his cape over his torso, even though curious eyes were roving now, inspecting his person for injury and weakness. The minstrel, who had failed to be introduced, did not seem familiar. Jareth’s hand idly circled the pommel of his sword that was sheathed and belted at his side.

He spoke not a word as Percival saddled a strange brown gelding. The mount, he assumed, was a spoil of the recent battle, although he wondered what use a Hun made of a horse when they arrived by ship? It must have been an uncomfortable journey for the animal.

Nor did he question why he was saddling an unfamiliar steed and not his own horse, Veritas. The last he remembered of the battle was the black stallion going down and taking him to the ground after a cannon hit. He wanted to believe that his squire was being sensitive to his current bodily situation by saddling a gelding, but that was unlikely.

Veritas was dead.

“Your majesty.” The minstrel bowed slightly, but kept his eyes fastened on Jareth. The correct address was to lower the gaze as well. The boy wanted more than a greeting. He wanted a story. It was in his brown eyes, the way they traveled over his cloak and hovered just where the wound was hidden. There were people who would be interested in knowing the depths of Jareth’s wounds, and whether he was able to protect the English Channel from Britain’s foes.

Was the wound causing any stain to his cloak? He did not dare glance; he used the satchel he carried to cover the area.

Jareth looked away and refused a proper greeting. His mind was on the gelding, his squire, where he was traveling and why, and an obscure girl who would be his duchess. Somewhere between today and a month from now, his destiny would be set. Events beyond his control would begin his journey to the Amalgam, and to be honest, he was eager. Even setting out on a mundane errand had him anxious, as if his life were on hold. It was no wonder a noisy minstrel could not fluster him. His future seemed more important than the safety of all of England. He felt selfish, but did not care.

It was a cold night. A thin layer of snow covered the ground and allowed the reflection of the moon to light the paths that were worn from travel. If he searched, he could see spot patches of ice that could only mean one thing.

“Have the widows and children been accounted for?” he asked.

“Eighty-seven, your grace.” Percival spoke plainly in modern English. He was one of the insiders. One of the chosen who knew and understood what was happening. If he could not trust the squire who had been with him since he was eleven, it was time to distrust all people.

“Eighty-seven,” he murmured as he steered his mount back onto the path. The horse had a mind to tarry. Unusual for a gelding, but not so much for an animal of the Huns. An ache went through his heart; he missed his horse, but the greater pain was for the orphans.

“Aye,” Percival said. Jareth glanced over and met his eyes. Percival smiled and shrugged. “Yes. I mean yes.”

“Better.” Jareth turned away. He exhaled softly to let out the pain balled up under his ribs. His breath came from his mouth as smoke into the air. He glanced to see Percival watching him as their horses kept in time along the icy road. “So, did you meet her?” he asked.

Percival kept eye contact only briefly before he looked away, straight ahead into the glum before them. “Yes, I did.” He did not pretend that he did not know whom Jareth was speaking of. His eyes blinked rapidly against the cold . . . or maybe it was a nervous gesture. “She asked me to set her free once when I went up to bring supplies for your dressing.” His eyes peeked sideways at Jareth. “It was during the early days, your grace. Before she was accustomed to our time period. “

Jareth let a smile tug on the corner of mouth. He was not positive if his smile was sarcastic or real, but he could not stop it. Percival was nervous. Elizabet could do that to a person. “That was very brave of her.”

“Her grace said—”

“
Her
grace?”
Jareth interrupted. He all but stilled his mount as he turned to gape at his squire. The movement twisted the wound and caused the sutures to become taunt and pinching. So, the nerves were of a different nature. The squire felt guilty. “You know who she is to be?”

Percival nudged his horse into a trot, thereby hiding his expression. “No one said a word to her, your grace. She does not know.”

Jareth’s lips flattened as a flash of red passed before him. He could not distinguish whether it was anger or pain. “But you know, and I want to know how it is that you were privy to this information when I, myself, have only just been let in on the joyful news.” It was not lost on Jareth that he gave the word
joyful
a full measure of sarcasm.

Percival’s shoulders broadened, stiffened as he sat taller in the saddle. “Mrs. Wheatley, your grace. She thought I should know since I was tending to the supplies.”

“Ah, but of course. The tenacious do-gooder nursemaid of my youth.” Jareth smiled ruefully. “Must have killed her to keep it between only you two.” A thought struck him and he swiveled in his saddle to face Percival again. “Please tell me the woman used discretion.”

Percival grinned. “Yes, your majesty. ’Twas just me she told.”

Relief unfurled within Jareth. So much relief that he deflated slightly in the saddle. “See that it remains thus, Percival. I will not have everyone ‘her gracing’ Elizabet before the proper time.” He gazed at the road ahead. “I am not quite sure it shall come to pass. It remains unseen. Time and free will is a mystery.”

Who did he think he was fooling? Usually, his mind stayed on facts and small details. Repetition soothed, and there were topics he found he could not leave alone no matter how hard he tried. He had obsessions, and it was increasingly evident that Elizabet could be added to the few, as well. He was obsessed with her. In the turning season, he was reminded of multi-colored hair and brown eyes.

Quite silly, but there it was. He was thinking of the girl and he could not stop. A short, abstentious chit who would be given the title of his duchess. His mind kept returning to her lack of height, her strange colored hair and the freckle she had below her left eye. The topic of her kept creeping into all of his conversations. It was irritating. He decided it was best that he kept silent, in fear that he might give words to his thoughts and forever lose the respect of his squire.

They rode into the village with only the sounds of winter between them. It was late, but a town like this was restless and slumber was infrequent. Most of the activity was indoors due to the time of night and the weather, but nonetheless, the town was alive. The village tavern’s windows were aglow from the lit hearth within, and sounds of singing and merriment wafted into the street as they passed. Jareth took a moment to peer through the muddy, sooty window to see a small crowd unruffled by the clamor.

The lord of the manor’s presence would not raise suspicion. Jareth often made the journey into the village to visit the orphanage. It was another of his obsessions. He tended to gravitate toward those less fortunate than himself. They were not as complicated and quite frankly, more honest than adults. It was refreshing to be about persons who wanted nothing from him.

The orphanage stood alone. It was a large stone building with massive steps leading to the entry door which was a dull red with large metal knockers. The location could have been better, but Jareth’s preference had been considered naught when the Black Prince stepped forward and demanded that no one wanted to behold the orphans. They were best kept out of the way and only seen when it was productive or necessary, which was never.

It was not only the children that called to Jareth, but also the castle he was given, the providence, and the very people whose charge he was entrusted with. He had been only thirteen, and an orphan of sorts himself. Entitled Duke of Dover by the king when titles were new to the English. It was a custom of the French and some Scottish. Even Prince Edward, the Black Prince, had only recently been given the title of Duke of Cambridge. Titles were given only to royalty—which was the crux of Jareth’s birth.

Whose son was he? How was he the only duke of England who was not a royal?

His Scottish mother would not look at him, so she had not the civility to tell him who his father was. Instead, the rumors abounded and when he was given lands and title, a sort of legend spread. Was he a son of the king? Even he did not know for sure, but he had his suspicions. He had deep suspicions.

Visiting the orphanage had a dual purpose. He was making a delivery. Across his breast was a satchel that contained precious cargo. Recently, he had completed another chapter of translation for John Wycliffe, a reformer being held at Oxford University under house arrest. It was of grave importance that he deliver the documents into the hands of the local priest who had access to Wycliffe’s guarded room.