Page 26

B aldwin spread the woolen blanket beneath a towering oak that overlooked the lake.

The afternoon sun dappled the ground through leaves that rustled in the cool breeze, casting shifting patterns across the fabric.

He stepped back to survey his work, adjusting the corner that refused to lie flat against the uneven ground.

“Is this suitable?” he asked Father Gregory, who approached with a wicker basket hanging from one arm.

The older man’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Most suitable, my lord. Though I daresay Mistress Beth would sit upon bare earth if it meant hearing more of your tales of battle.”

Baldwin’s mouth twitched. “I doubt that. She seems more interested in questioning our methods than hearing of them.”

“Questioning is the mark of a curious mind,” Father Gregory replied, lowering himself onto the blanket with a soft grunt. “And she has curiosity in abundance.”

As if summoned by their words, Beth appeared at the crest of the hill, walking alongside Eleanor.

Something tightened in his chest at the sight of her.

The simple blue gown she wore complemented the rich chestnut of her hair, which had been plaited and coiled at the nape of her neck.

A few wayward strands had escaped, framing her face and dancing in the breeze.

There were times he couldn’t breathe upon seeing her.

The woman had no idea how beautiful she was, how she made it difficult for him to think when she looked at him or questioned him.

“I still don’t understand why you insist on calling it ‘science’ rather than natural philosophy,” Eleanor was saying as they approached. “Father Gregory says they are one and the same.”

“In your time, yes,” Beth replied, then caught herself with a grimace. “I mean, here, they’re considered the same. Where I come from, they’ve... diverged.”

Baldwin extended his hand to help Beth onto the blanket, noting how she hesitated before placing her fingers in his. Her hand was small but surprisingly strong, with calluses that spoke of work rather than leisure. Not the hand of a noblewoman, yet it fit perfectly within his own.

“My lord,” she acknowledged, green eyes meeting his briefly before darting away. A flush crept up her neck, and Baldwin found himself wondering if she was remembering their near-encounter in the library three days past, when he’d reached for the same manuscript and found his hand atop hers instead.

“Beth,” he replied, his voice rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. “I trust you’re recovered from yesterday’s riding lesson?”

Her laugh was bright and unguarded. “If by ‘recovered’ you mean ‘able to walk without wincing,’ then no. Not quite.”

Eleanor giggled as she settled beside Father Gregory. “You should have seen her face when Baldwin suggested we ride to the village! I thought she might faint dead away.”

“I’ve never been good with large animals,” Beth admitted, carefully arranging her skirts as she sat. “Especially ones that can sense fear.”

“All creatures can sense fear,” Baldwin said, taking his place opposite her. “The trick is to master it before they do.”

Father Gregory unpacked the basket, revealing fresh bread still warm from the ovens, a round of cheese, cured meats, and a few early apples. “And how does one master fear, my lord? Through prayer or practice?”

“Both, I should think,” Baldwin replied, breaking off a piece of bread and offering it to her. Their fingers brushed, and he felt that same curious spark that seemed to ignite whenever they touched. “Though, in Beth’s case, perhaps more practice than prayer.”

She accepted the bread with a wry smile. “Are you implying I’m impious, Lord Baldwin?”

“Merely... unconventional in your devotions.”

Father Gregory uncorked a flask of honey-sweet mead and poured generous portions into wooden cups. “The Lord welcomes all forms of worship, so long as they come from a true heart.”

“Then Beth shall be welcomed indeed,” Eleanor declared, raising her cup. “For though she may not know our prayers, her heart is truer than most.”

Baldwin watched as Beth’s expression softened, touched by Eleanor’s words. He raised his own cup. “To true hearts, then.”

“To true hearts,” they echoed, and drank.

The mead was stronger than Baldwin had expected, warming his blood almost immediately. He noted with amusement that Beth’s cheeks had already taken on a rosy hue after just a few sips.

“This is delicious,” she said, examining her cup with the same intensity she brought to her experiments. “The fermentation process must be fascinating. Do you add spices during or after?”

Father Gregory launched into an explanation of the abbey’s mead-making process, while Eleanor teased Beth about her endless questions.

Leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him, Baldwin was content to observe, noting how Beth’s hands moved animatedly as she spoke, how her eyes lit up when Father Gregory mentioned the different properties of various honeys.

As the afternoon wore on and the mead flowed freely, their conversation meandered like the lazy clouds overhead.

Baldwin found himself more relaxed than he’d been in months, perhaps years.

The constant vigilance required of a lord seemed less burdensome in the warm sunshine, with good company and the melodic sound of Beth’s laughter.

“In your homeland,” Eleanor asked, her words slightly slurred, “do they have kings and queens as we do?”

Beth took another swig of mead before answering. “Yes, though the system changes over time. Eventually, the monarch becomes more of a figurehead while elected officials make the actual decisions.”

Baldwin tensed. This was dangerous territory.

“How peculiar!” Eleanor exclaimed. “And who rules after our King Edward? His son, I presume?”

Beth nodded, then frowned, as if trying to organize her thoughts through the haze of mead. “Edward V, yes, but only briefly. Then his uncle Richard becomes regent and eventually takes the throne as Richard III.”

Baldwin’s cup froze halfway to his lips. He shot Beth a warning glance, but her eyes were unfocused, gazing out over the lake.

“Richard? The Duke of Gloucester?” Father Gregory asked, his voice carefully neutral. “A most... unexpected turn.”

“Mmm,” Beth agreed, oblivious to the tension suddenly crackling in the air. “There’s a whole controversy about whether he had his nephews killed, the princes imprisoned in the Tower, but then he’s defeated by Henry Tudor at Bosworth Field, and that starts the Tudor dynasty.”

Baldwin set down his cup with deliberate care, his knuckles white. “Beth,” he said, his voice low and tight, “perhaps we should speak of pleasanter topics.”

Swaying slightly, she blinked, confusion crossing her face before understanding dawned. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh! Oh no, I shouldn’t have, I didn’t mean to?—”

“What happens to the princes?” Eleanor asked, leaning forward eagerly, unaware of the dangerous nature of the conversation.

Before Beth could answer, Baldwin stood abruptly. “Eleanor, I believe the cook was looking for you earlier. Something about preparations for the feast?”

Eleanor pouted but recognized the dismissal in her brother’s tone.

With a dramatic sigh, she rose, brushing crumbs from her gown, her face flushed.

“Very well, though I suspect you simply wish to speak of matters too delicate for my ears.” She bent to kiss Father Gregory’s cheek. “Save some tales for me, Father.”

“Always, my child.”

As Eleanor departed, her figure growing smaller against the green hillside, silence settled over the remaining trio. Beth stared into her cup, her earlier animation replaced by mortification.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “The mead... I wasn’t thinking.”

Father Gregory refilled his cup with a steady hand. “Time is God’s river, Mistress Beth,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps you are merely glimpsing its course.”

Baldwin’s jaw worked as he struggled with his response. “Glimpsing is one thing. Speaking of the king’s brother usurping the throne and murdering his children is quite another.”

“I don’t know for certain that he did,” Beth said quickly. “History is... complicated. Written by the victors.”

“And who are these victors?” Baldwin demanded. “These Tudors you speak of?”

Beth nodded miserably. “Henry Tudor marries Elizabeth of York, Edward’s daughter, uniting the houses of Lancaster and York.”

Father Gregory raised his bushy eyebrows. “A neat solution to the cousins’ war, if somewhat... delayed.”

Baldwin paced the edge of the blanket, his cloak swirling around his legs. The knowledge Beth possessed was both valuable and dangerous. If word of her “predictions” reached the wrong ears, they could both be accused of treason.

“You must never speak of this again,” he said finally, his voice low and urgent. “Not to Eleanor, not to anyone. Do you understand?”

Face pale, despite the mead, Beth nodded. “I understand. I’m truly sorry, Baldwin.”

The use of his name without title sent an unexpected warmth through him, softening his anger. He sighed and sat down beside her, closer than propriety might allow.

“It’s not your fault,” he conceded. “The mead is strong, and Eleanor can be... persistent in her questioning.”

Father Gregory chuckled, pouring yet more mead into their cups. “Indeed, our Lady Eleanor could extract confessions from the most hardened sinner. Perhaps she should have been a priest rather than a nobleman’s daughter.”

The jest broke the tension, and Beth’s shoulders relaxed. She took another sip of mead, then looked at Baldwin through her lashes. “Does this mean you believe me now? About where, I mean, when I’m from?”

He considered her question carefully. “I believe you believe it,” he said finally. “And I cannot explain your knowledge otherwise. Whether you are from the future or merely blessed, or cursed, with the gift of prophecy, I cannot say.”

“Fair enough,” Beth murmured, then hiccupped softly, covering her mouth with embarrassment.