York, England. May 1291.
The second time I saw Tyra of Norwich was in England. It sounds sensible, doesn’t it? One would expect to find the wife of Lord Norwich in the kingdom where her husband’s lands lie. There were two reasons why seeing her the second time made my heart beat with a wildness I had not felt in nearly two centuries. The first was my understanding that Tyra was dead of a war wound, for she had been merely human, after all. The second was that her death had occurred almost two hundred years ago, in Jerusalem, nearly a year’s travel away from the muddy road where I stood staring at her now.
There was a third reason, of course, but I will come to that.
I gazed at her, completely oblivious to the soft rain falling on my head and shoulders or, indeed, the noisy progress of the King’s procession along the narrow road, as his retinue wound their way up to the open gates of York Castle. It might have been just the two of us standing along the side of the road, even though there were at least a hundred more watching King Edward return from his victorious settlement of the Scottish problem. Most of them were damp, miserable Englishmen, but not all of them. Those who were not stared at the King’s men and carts as they went by, resentment painted on their faces. I noticed none of them, though, after spotting Tyra.
I absorbed the details, cataloguing the differences. The last time I had seen Tyra, she lay with a white face upon a pallet built upon water barrels, while the two men in her life held her hand or spoke to her, one dark-haired, the other as pale as Brody had been dark.
In those conservative times, their devotion to Tyra had been extraordinary, yet to me, knowing Tyra even a little, it had been perfectly understandable. In the years since, I had often wished I could have been one of those privileged to sit next to her pallet and share her company.
Now, here she stood in the misty rain, tall and upright and quite alive, her dark hair hidden beneath a sheer veil, her slender figure disguised by a modestly cut surcoat and fur-lined mantle. Yet it was her. I could feel it in my bones. From the independent lift of her chin to the high cheekbones and direct examination of the world with her big eyes…it was Tyra, exactly as I remembered her.
There could be many reasons why Tyra might still be among the living, even now, after so many years had passed. After all, I still moved among humans even though I no longer counted as one.
I would find out how she came to be here, later. There would be an explanation the likes of which would make a human mutter of witchcraft, yet it would be a truth I could grasp.
The grip on my arm took me by surprise. It was normal for me to stay alert to anyone approaching for even in 1291, the world was still a chancy place. Yet I had let my guard down and allowed a man to steal close enough to step inside my guard. I knew it was a man from the strength of the grip.
I turned to confront him, reaching for my belt knife. His grip tightened, slowing me down.
Then I saw his face—dark eyes, dark hair and pale English skin—and all my muscles sagged at once. Relief and joy replaced my alarm. “Brody!” I said, keeping my voice down, for I had no idea what name he was using in this year and place.
He grinned. “Alexander. I’ve quartered the town looking for you. I should have started in the most crowded spot. You always gravitate toward trouble.”
“Only to offer help where it is needed,” I pointed out.
Brody glanced up at the knights passing by, as if he was only noticing them now. He was dressed as a lord—a well-founded one. Velvet and rich embroidery, fur and jewelry told me he had thrived in the last one hundred years. “We should find somewhere quieter,” he said, low enough so that only I could hear him.
“Wait,” I said. “There is someone…” I pulled my arm out of his grip and looked once more to where Tyra had been. Brody would be as delighted to see her as I.
The procession had moved on, clearing the road and leaving deep runnels in the mud where the carts and carriages had passed. The townsfolk were moving on, now the entertainment for the day had ended. They skipped over the furrows, their arms out to keep their balance.
Tyra was one of them. She picked her way over the mud, lifting her hems to keep them out of the dirt. A tall man accompanied her, striding across the road as if it were not a quagmire, his sword slapping his thigh. He wore a scowl similar to many of the other malcontents on the road.
Tyra was leaving. My heart squeezed.
“It’s been a hundred years,” Brody said softly. “What on earth has the ability to distract you the moment we meet again?”
I barely heard him. Fear made me reckless. I raised my voice. “Wait! Tyra! A moment!”
Brody grew in a sharp breath, that even a human could have heard. “Tyra?” he repeated. His voice was thick. Hoarse.
I hurried forward, moving around the last of the King’s foot soldiers, intending to catch up with Tyra and gain her attention. My boots slid in the mud. I stayed on my feet, thanks to my quicker-than-human reactions, and continued on. She was nearly across the road, now. There were houses and inns and the start of the green where the old Baile was located. She could cut across the Baile grounds to any part of the growing town beyond it and I would lose her among the many streets and alleys. Even more desperate, now, I raised my voice and shouted. “Taylor!”
“Alex, wait!” Brody called after me.
There was a curse and clashing metal behind me, then more shouts. A scream of pain. I whirled, my guard and good sense finally returning.
Brody almost cannoned into me. He was already reaching for his own sword and turning at the same time. The sound of metal on metal rarely meant anything other than fighting.
But not today. A soldier laid in the mud, his foot caught in one of the deeper ruts, his leg twisted in a way that human bones and muscles could not naturally turn. His shield and pike rested in the mud next to him. He screamed again as his fellow soldiers tried to get him back on his feet. He clutched at his leg in agony.
Even from where I was standing, I could see the big bone in the thigh was broken. There was no blood, so it was not a compound fracture. Automatically, I compiled what I would need to treat it. I looked around and spotted the nearest inn. They would have a room with a table, plus access to rags and more.
Brody sheathed his sword with a soft snick and looked at me. There was a resigned look on his face.
I hurried over to the soldier. “I am a doctor,” I told him and his friends. “I will tend to the leg, if you wish.”
The soldier moaned, bit his lip to stop himself from making the sound, then nodded.
I looked at his friends. “Pick him up and carry him.”
Brody came up beside me. “The inn?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.” I picked up the pike. It would make a good splint, cut down. I watched three of the injured soldier’s friends carry him toward the public house. A fourth hurried up the road toward the tail end of the procession, most likely to inform their commander about the affair.
“I’m sorry, Brody,” I said softly. “I cannot ignore a patient who lies at my feet.”
“I’d be disappointed if you did, Alex. This time has waited a hundred years. A few hours more is nothing to either of us. Go tend your patient. I’ll find us a private room in the meantime.”
He clapped my shoulder, his grip heavy and strong. It was reassuringly familiar and I followed the patient into the inn, happier than I had been for a very long time and not just because my friend had arrived in York as agreed. There was also the prospect of finding Tyra and gaining answers to questions that had plagued me for years.
* * * * *
It took two hours to treat the man, splint his leg and make him drink enough wine to pass out. I was glad when the work was done. It didn’t help to have five of his soldier friends, including their officer, watching me suspiciously as I worked. I understood their wariness. I did not look English and King Edward had declared Jews outlaws, which caused locals to treat any foreign-looking people with caution.
Yet I was clearly helping their friend, so their swords remained sheathed and the second mug of wine passed between them, while the rest of the inn tried to peer between their shoulders to see what the fuss in the corner by the fire was about.
When I was nearly finished, a lad came up to me with a folded note, that he held out. “‘e said you’ll give me a coin for this.” The dirty boy watched at the man lying on the table, his eyes wide.
I pulled a coin out of my purse and flipped it to the boy, then took the note. It was from Brody, telling me where I could find him once I was done. I knew the inn he named and where to find it. My time in York had been spent walking the streets and absorbing life in England, which had been unknown to me until Yuletide last year.
I tucked the note in my purse, then looked up to find the soldiers all staring at me in awe. They were most likely illiterate. My reading and comprehending the written word raised me in their estimation.
One of them stepped closer to the table and asked if I could tend to his own wounds. He raised his tunic to show me a deep cut that looked as though it had been made by the slice of a knife blade. Moss had been strapped over it—a useful plant that absorbed liquids. It was a common treatment on the field of battle.
When I said I could tend the wound, another of the group unwrapped his arm to display a similar wound.
While the soldier with the broken leg fell asleep, I treated and stitched their wounds, as they explained to me that the King’s retinue had been attacked earlier in the day and they had been instrumental in seeing the ruffians off. They considered it a minor affair and were grateful to have the wounds seen to. They thanked me with a degree more warmth than they had offered before, lifted their unconscious friend up and carried him away.
The wife of the inn keeper clucked around the table, chiding me about the mess. It was more likely she was annoyed because I had kept paying customers from using the table, so I gave her two of the coins the soldiers had given me and she went away content.
When I stepped outside, it was already dark, even though it was still early. Days ended far more quickly here than in Iberia and the daylight hours in general were often dim and dank. Today’s rain clouds didn’t help lighten the mood.
I pulled my cloak around me and hurried through the streets, smelling wood smoke, cooking pots and the aromas of civilization. The contentment had not evaporated. I had been kicking my heels in York for nearly five months and had been fully prepared to wait until the next Yuletide for Brody to arrive, only there was little to keep a man occupied here if they were not in the employ of the army or the government and had no references to speak on their behalf. I had more than enough funds to last the year, so finding work had not been a priority. I had read and thought, instead. Now, my waiting had ended. Brody had arrived, abiding by the promise he had made a hundred years ago on the beach at Acre.
So it was with anticipation I stepped into the small private room to which the innkeeper showed me.
Brody was sitting at the fire, staring into the flames. He looked up as I shut the door and my heart sank at the expression on his face. “What ails you?” I demanded.
His scowl smoothed away and he waved toward the other big chair drawn up to the fire. “I am a bad host. Sit. Warm yourself. We should at least greet each other as friends before talking of troubling things.” He got to his feet.
The impulse came to me from nowhere. It was not planned. I embraced him as the men in my family used to do, when I had been human. The English were stuffy about such things, while the French and Iberians were not and neither were my tribe.
Brody held me tightly for a moment, then let me go and dropped his hand on my shoulder. “It is good to see you, Alex.” He plucked at my cloak. “You’ve done well, I see.”
“Well enough. The King has kept a great many of us busy for a good number of years, translating books from places even I did not know existed until I read them.”
“King Alfonso?”
“I stayed in Iberia,” I confirmed. I brushed my jaw. “It is easier to blend in there.”
“Especially when you are truly free for the first time in your life.” Brody waved me to the chair. “Sit. Warm your toes. Let’s talk.”
I dropped my cloak over the back of the chair and settled on the cushion. It was indeed warm in front of the flames.
Brody sat, too.
“Tell me what is bothering you,” I urged him. “The rest we can talk about later, for something is on your mind.”
Brody didn’t bother arguing with me. His directness and self-honesty was often missing in younger humans and I had not realized how much I missed it until he shrugged and looked at me directly. “You called out to someone. You called them Tyra.”
I had suspected this was the matter bothering him. “Then you didn’t see her?”
Brody frowned. “Her?”
“Tyra.” I swallowed. “Taylor. You heard me call her that, too.”
He drew in a deep, deep breath. “She was here?” I couldn’t tell from his tone what he was feeling. He was holding it in. “You really saw her?”
I thought again of the lifted chin, the direct gaze. Her eyes. Her magical eyes. “Yes,” I said firmly.
He let out his breath in a gusty rush. “How can that be?” he demanded. “Taylor died two hundred years ago.”
I leaned forward. “I would not dare to dispute you, Brody. She was your lady-wife. If you believe she is dead, then it is so. Yet I saw her out on the street today. How can both be true?”
Brody’s gaze dropped from my face. He turned to look into the fire again. “I didn’t see her die,” he said softly.
I leaned forward. “You buried her.”
He shook his head.
I held still. I have seen more than one man gird himself to confess all and knew an ill-timed word could permanently halt the confession.
“I don’t remember her,” Brody whispered.
Surprise made my heart halt again, when it had been pattering along all by itself. “You don’t remember her dying? Was that really her on the street today, then?”
Brody shook his head. “I don’t remember her at all.” His gaze met mine, then cut away again, back to the fire.
I recalled the woman I had known in Jerusalem for three short days. Her impact upon me had been so great that two hundred years later, I could even recall the softness of her skin and her voice. The arch of her brow. “How could you not remember her?” I breathed. “You loved her.”
I could still hear Brody’s voice, the terror in his cry when Taylor had stepped in front of a spear meant for Veris, taking the point in her shoulder when it would have pierced Veris’ heart. There had been other moments when Brody’s love for his lady Tyra had been more than apparent. A look, a word, a small and private touch of his hand. I had watched for three days. I had seen it all, even that which they had thought unobserved or disguised.
Brody gripped his hands together, the long fingers turning white at the pressure. “I do not remember,” he said firmly. “I went to war and marched to Jerusalem with my men, at the King’s orders. I went there a single man, Alex. I remember that clearly. Then I slept for four days. When I woke, the world had changed. Everyone, even you, mourned a woman they called my wife, who had died from a wound to the shoulder she took to save a man I didn’t know—a knight who was now my knight commander and a vampire, too. A man who told me he was my lover.” Brody sat up and pushed a hand through his hair, ruffling it. “I remember none of it.”
His gaze met mine, as if he was daring me to dispute him, or laugh at his fanciful tale. There was pain in his eyes, far back and very old.
I believed him, because his hurt was real. “It has preyed upon your thoughts since, hasn’t it?” I asked quietly.
Brody thrust himself to his feet and gripped the rough stone shelf over the fire. “I thought I had let it go,” he muttered. “Veris convinced me it was best I learn how, as he will not tell me anything of those four days. He has let things slip, sometimes, enough to hint at the shape of the days. And now you say Taylor is alive and here in York.” He took a deep breath, calming himself.
I tried to make sense of it all. Vampires, with their long lives, lead convoluted and circular lives. We meet and part, then meet again as different people, in different corners of the world. We know of each other, even if we have never met. It did not distress me that Brody was not making complete sense.
I gathered my patience. Brody was distraught. His jaw was flexed, his shoulders held tightly, even though his lean against the fireplace appeared relaxed. So I asked the simplest question I could think of. “Taylor was a vampire, too?”
Brody spun to face me. “No! She was human! Completely! She left behind a tunic…I swear, Alex, when I sniffed that garment, I could almost see her. It was all too human.”
“Then, she has been turned since you knew her,” I suggested calmly. “Did Veris…?”
“How would I know?” Brody asked, flinging out his hand. “He refuses to speak of her, except to confirm I loved her. He implies she is part of our future. Our future, Alex. How can she be here, now, when Veris is not?”
I put aside the confirmation of what I had long suspected, that Veris was not just Brody’s lover. The three of them had been together. It didn’t shock me. It wasn’t even a surprise. I had long ago got used to the idea and even thought it highly appropriate for those three. They were not the sort of people to live ordinary lives.
“Perhaps we should ask Taylor?” I suggested mildly. “Speaking to her would most likely provide many answers.”
Brody kicked at the hearth with his soft boots. “You will have to find her again, first.”
“Me?”
He grimaced. “I don’t even know what she looks like.” The grimace deepened into a scowl. “In that, you are luckier than I.”
I had not considered it in that light. I remembered Taylor with a clarity that came from constant recall. Brody had no memories at all.
“How could you have slept through four days?” I asked curiously. “You were there. I spoke to you. You behaved no differently than the dozens of times we spoke before we went into the desert.”
“We went to the desert?” Brody asked.
Startled, I studied him. “Why does Veris tell you nothing about that time?”
“He said it is dangerous if I know too much. That it would jeopardize the future. I confess, I do not understand it but on this, Veris is resolute. I have never moved him on it. I gave up trying.” He looked once more into the flames. “I was content, until just now, when you said she was nearby. Now, discontent rages in me.”
His distress showed in his posture and his eyes.
“Then, we must find her again and ask her to explain herself,” I said firmly.
Brody looked at me. There was gratitude in his expression and a hint of relief, making me pleased I had said it. Right at that moment, I genuinely believed I would search for Taylor only for Brody’s sake, for that was the depth of the friendship I felt for him.
The tap on the door made both of us start, so deeply mired in our thoughts were we.
The inn keeper intruded only far enough to see both of us. He looked apologetic as he addressed me. “You’d be the doctor that fixed the soldier today?” he said.
“I am.”
He nodded. “There be a man below, asking for you. ‘e says ‘is brother is sick.”
“Tell him to come back in the morning,” I said shortly, for I had learned to limit the calls upon my time unless the matter was urgent, or I would lose all semblance of a life. Now I had openly declared myself a healer, the demands would begin.
The innkeeper nodded again. “That be what I told him, only ‘e says it’s urgent.”
I hid my sigh. If someone said it was urgent, it generally was. Folk didn’t call for a doctor for stubbed toes, not in that day and age. Only if a family member or friend was in dire need of assistance did they wrap themselves up and travel through dark and chancy night in search of medical assistance.
Brody’s mouth turned up at the corners. “I’ll keep the fire burning,” he said simply.
“Come with me,” I said impulsively. Now Brody was here and so greatly troubled, I felt a need to keep him within arm’s reach.
Brody looked at the flames, clearly judging whether an evening staring at them would be sufficiently distracting, considering the current state of his thoughts. “Why not?” he said, with a shrug and reached for his thick cloak.
I picked up mine and flung it on, then faced the inn keeper. “Where is the man?”