Her Knight at the Museum

Chapter Four

Four

Alone in the empty black room, Griffin ruminated on his past with Mordrain.

For countless years, inasmuch as he could, he’d pushed away thoughts of his friend turned monster. But after telling Emily about the curse, memories crowded his mind.

Mordrain’s father’s modest demesne had bordered the de Beaufords’ expansive Essex estate, and Griffin and Mordrain had grown up almost as brothers. Together, they had hunted pheasants, foraged for mushrooms, and played quoits, tossing rope rings around stakes in the ground. With Griffin’s father’s chess set, they’d started many games and had finished somewhat fewer. Mordrain had been cleverer, planning several moves ahead. Griffin, although he loved handling the pieces of finely carved walrus ivory, would quickly grow bored sitting still. He’d find excuses not to finish, robbing Mordrain of victory.

Once, in their twelfth year, they attempted to spy on the harlots in the back room of the public bathhouse. Mordrain stood on Griffin’s shoulders to peer into a knothole, but the bathhouse owner rounded the corner and shouted at them, and Mordrain tumbled to the ground. The man regaled them with curses as they fled, and only at the village well did they stop, out of breath both from running and from laughing.

Let us go to the hermit’s cave , Mordrain suggested.

’Tis too far away , Griffin said. And he is a moonsick old man.

Everyone thinks he is mad, but he’s not , Mordrain said stoutly. He can make people fall ill, and control storms and battles. He’s going to teach me everything.

Griffin had scoffed. You win a battle with a sharp sword and a good horse, not with magic .

In the end, they resolved to ride out to the River Blackwater and set willow traps for eels. It was October when they would be ribboning their way toward the Sargasso Sea. Griffin lent Mordrain his sister’s pony, for unlike Griffin, he possessed no steed of his own. The sunshine limned the yellow birch leaves and the horse’s manes. They talked about the glory they would find someday in battles and tournaments, and the fair ladies they’d woo.

When they’d ridden back in the evening, they’d come across two girls from the village on their palfreys. One girl had said to another, There’s Griffin with his little pet jackdaw , and they had both giggled. Mordrain often wore a badge of his family’s crest, with the black bird on the white ground, as though it were the king’s own insignia rather than one of a lowly house. He was shorter and smaller than Griffin, and on Alyse’s pony, he looked shorter still. Pay them no heed , Griffin had said to Mordrain after they’d passed the girls, but he had enjoyed their admiring looks.

Perhaps he should have said more than that. Still, they had enjoyed many merry times together. Griffin had even gone with Mordrain and his parents to the May fair in London, where they’d watched acrobats and archery tournaments, and had eaten fried cakes topped with honey and spiced almonds. How could he have guessed that their friendship would come to such a bitter end?

The door to the black room opened and his lady Emily ventured in, sending all other thoughts flying away like a murmuration of starlings. She shut the door behind her. She looked lovely as ever, but pale, with shadows beneath her eyes.

She came right over to his statue and whispered, “You’re not real, right? You can’t be.”

In all the time that Griffin had been going into people’s dreams, never once had they spoken to him about it in statue form. At most, they’d given him an amused, private shake of the head.

But never before had he been naked with a beautiful woman in her dream, let alone teased and tasted her at the place of her delight. His contact with the living had been so limited that he hadn’t visited many unmarried women in their slumbers. Of these, a few had not aroused his desires. Another one, an agreeable companion, had told him she had no use for amorous embraces, and with yet another, he’d gotten no further than a kiss before she’d declared that such a dream was a sin.

As close as Emily had been to the crest of her pleasure , he knew that she hadn’t meant to wake up. In vain he’d waited for her to sleep and dream again, ready to take her if she were willing, as a bridegroom took a bride.

Even though their time had been cut short, being with her had brought him more pleasure than he’d known in all the time he’d been cursed. What was more, her kindness had begun to heal the grievous wounds of his soul.

“I can’t feel you in my head,” she murmured. “Not like last night.”

I am here.

She jumped.

Yes! She could still hear him.

“I couldn’t get back to sleep after the dream,” she said softly. Inwardly, Griffin frowned. He had intended to entertain her dreams, not disturb her rest. “If you were real, and what you told me was true…it would be so terrible. I couldn’t stop thinking about you being stuck here alone.”

The door burst open, and Laurie peered in. “Are you going to be done with photos today? I’m waiting to do pictures of the armor.”

Emily cast a wry glance in Griffin’s direction before telling Laurie, “They move him tomorrow.”

“Okay. But you might want to confirm that with them.” She shut the door.

“Don’t worry,” Emily said to Griffin. “They’ll just move you out of this photo studio to the other room off the main lab so I can do a little restoration. And then in a few weeks, they’ll move you for the exhibit, and you’ll see thousands of people. That’ll last for about four months.” Although the exhibit would hardly be dignified, he had to admit that it would afford him more entertainment than he’d had since…well, since he’d been alive. He would see so many faces, and hear so many conversations, giving his mind new things to mull over. “Then I’ll finish restoring you, which is going to take several more months.” Griffin liked the sound of the last part especially.

“Are you really in there?” she asked more softly. “Because if you are, I feel a little shy about last night.”

Why, sweeting? You were glorious.

“Oh God, I think I really am going crazy,” she whispered. Then she raised her hand and caressed his cheek.

Something in his soul welled up at her silken touch. It was more pleasurable and intense even than her touch or her kiss in her dream, because it was real. Though she felt only stone, he felt her living warmth. If only he could have lived in the world as she did, discussing whatever they liked at any hour, sweeping her up into his arms for no reason at all. His longing for her expanded within him, a sweet agony almost too much to bear.

He cast his adoration toward her. Gentle lady. You undo me.

She gasped and drew her hand back as though it had been burned.

His cheeks were wet. Rain? A leak in the ceiling…No. Moisture touched his face and nowhere else.

His statue was weeping. He was weeping.

She backed away from him, her eyes wide, as if she regarded a devil from Hell.

“This isn’t happening,” she said, a tremble in her voice.

He tried to open his mouth and speak aloud. If he could produce tears, then why not words?

They wouldn’t come. He attempted to lift a hand to reach out to her, but it didn’t budge. Do not be afraid , his soul implored her.

She ran to the door. His heart lurched. He’d wanted her too much, and now she was abandoning him—

She closed the door silently and locked it. Then she turned around and got out her phone.

After a few moments, she said, “Rose? I’m in the photo studio. Can you come here?” A pause, and Emily looked up at Griffin. “Cancel it. Get over here right now .”

Praise God. Although it took a lot of energy to reach her waking mind, much more than strolling into a dream, he sent his thoughts to her anyway.

Thank you for not being afraid.

She stared up at him again. “Yeah, I’m not scared exactly, but I’m a little freaked out.” A small smile touched her tempting lips. “And excited. Has this ever happened before?”

Nay, my lady, never. ’Tis your doing.

A few minutes later, someone knocked on the door. Emily opened it a crack and peered out, opened it wider to admit a slightly out of breath Rose, and then slammed the door again behind her.

“What’s going on? Did you murder someone? Did you deface a Monet?”

“I don’t want anyone else to hear about this!” Emily glanced at Griffin again. “Except him.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Rose joked, following her gaze. “Can Sir Limestone here be trusted?”

“Don’t call him that! He’s been through enough!”

Rose blinked. “ Okaayy .”

“I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to keep an open mind.”

“But I’m usually so judgmental,” Rose deadpanned.

“And you can’t tell anyone. Anyone .”

“I promise, I won’t!”

Emily pointed at Griffin. “Hurry up, touch his cheeks!”

Her eyes wide, Rose walked over to Griffin, saying, “I thought you were supposed to wash your hands—”

“Just do it! Sorry, sorry. Please!”

Rose obeyed. Griffin felt vulnerable at the touch. He didn’t know why or how he’d wept, now after all this time.

Rose withdrew her hands immediately, holding them up in the air. “It’s wet.”

“Okay,” Emily said on an exhale. “I thought I was losing my mind. He’s crying.”

Rose peered at her. “I know there have been some Virgin Mary statues who cried, but they were hoaxes. There was this whole podcast about it.”

Emily gave a strained laugh. “This guy is not the Virgin Mary.” At Rose’s bemused expression, she added, “We should sit down.” They both settled themselves in the two chairs in the room, and Emily took a deep breath.

“Yesterday I felt like this sculpture was talking to me. Like in my head.”

Rose looked at Griffin and back to Emily. “Has this happened to you before?”

“No!”

“Do you…hear voices at other times?”

“I’m not crazy,” Emily blurted out. “Sorry, mentally ill. Except I have some depression and anxiety.”

“Who doesn’t?” Rose quipped.

“He’s definitely the only piece of artwork that’s ever communicated with me telepathically.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, I am here . And he wanted me to touch him.”

“Well,” Rose said cheerfully, “you’re going to be touching him a lot, so that works out great.”

Griffin smiled to himself at this. Emily believed he was real, and while she might not be able to convince her friend of it, the fact that she was trying meant more to him than she would ever know.

“That’s just the beginning,” Emily said. “I had a dream about him last night. Except he wasn’t a statue. He was a real guy.”

Rose’s eyebrows lifted. “A real knight in shining armor?”

“He was wearing fancy medieval clothes. He told me he was from 1428.”

“Your subconscious is trying to research an acquisition.” Rose shook her head. “You’ve been working too hard. You should be dreaming about fun stuff.”

“Part of it was very fun.” A blush of pink tinged Emily’s cheeks.

Rose’s features lit up with delight. “You had a sex dream about a statue?”

“Shhh!” Emily cast a nervous glance at the locked door.

More quietly, her blue eyes dancing, Rose said, “I have to ask. Was he rock-hard?” Emily briefly covered her face with her hands. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

If Griffin had been able to, he would’ve laughed out loud. It wasn’t often that ladies made such ribald jokes. As far as he knew, anyway. Perhaps all ladies spoke freely and merrily of such things among themselves.

“We didn’t… He went down…” Emily gestured toward her thighs.

“ Ohhh ,” Rose said. “Did they even know how to do that back then? Of course they did,” she said, answering her own question. “They didn’t have much else to do for fun.”

“He was really good at it.”

An unfamiliar-of-late feeling surged through Griffin: pride. The thing he’d once been known for, and a mortal sin, some said, but it was his, and he wouldn’t relinquish it.

His fair lady only told half the story, for she didn’t speak of her own incomparable skill at kissing. Her passion and her mouth’s tender yielding beneath his own…It had almost made him come undone.

“And he was so charming,” Emily went on. “He had the most amazing way of talking. He said things like sweet lady and demoiselle .”

“Awww,” Rose cooed. “This sounds like the best dream.”

Emily said seriously, “I think the sculpture is a real person.”

Rose tilted her head. “How does that work?” A courteous question, Griffin thought, considering.

“He said his name was Griffin de Beauford, son of William de Beauford, sometimes called Griffin the Proud. And some guy got mad at him and magically turned him into stone…I wrote down all the details. And he can still hear, and see, and feel, but he can’t move or talk or anything.”

“He said he had been like that for centuries?” Rose cringed. “That would be awful. But you can’t really believe—”

“And just now, when I touched his cheek, the statue cried!” Emily’s voice took on a slightly frantic edge. “How do you explain that?”

Rose touched a finger to her lips, pondering the question.

“There are two possibilities here. Either it’s some kind of weird moisture or condensation on the sculpture that just happened to coincide with you touching its cheek, or…”

“Or what?”

“Or this is a man who was turned into stone, who can visit you in dreams. I know which one I’m rooting for.”

Rose was not, Griffin deemed, a sensible woman. Given his situation, he appreciated that about her.

Rose asked, “Could you find out anything about him?”

“What do you mean?”

Her friend threw her hands up in the air. “What’s the first thing you do when you meet a new guy?”

“You’re right. I should Google him.”

She should do what to him?

Emily took out her phone and began tapping.

“All I can find is some French guy,” she grumbled after a moment. “A guard for Louis the Sixteenth.”

Rose hovered over her shoulder. “Try spelling it G-R-Y-F-F-O-N.”

Clearly, they were looking at a census or historical record, but would they be able to find him? He knew of at least four different ways to write his name. He tried sending the correct spelling to Emily.

Emily froze and looked up at him. “Oh! It’s G-R-I-F-F-I-N,” she repeated, typing it in.

“Did he, um…tell you that?” Rose asked, almost in a whisper.

“Yes. Look!” She pointed. “Griffin de Beauford, born 1398.”

Rose scooted her chair closer to look over her shoulder. Emily touched the screen again, and after a moment, she gasped.

“Son of William de Beauford. Oh my God.”

“What year does it say he died?” Rose demanded.

“It doesn’t say. There’s a question mark.” She sounded a little breathless, and she pressed a hand to her chest. “What if it’s real? I’m going to pass out.”

Rose leaned in closer. “Can you find anything else?”

Emily tapped some more. “A death notice for the dad. 1438. His daughter Alyse inherited the estates.”

Griffin was not truly surprised, yet it pleased him to think of his little sister, a grand lady in her own hall. Had she ever wed?

“I didn’t know daughters could inherit land then,” Rose mused.

In the absence of sons, they usually did. A lord with no male heir might sometimes draw up documents to bequeath his lands to a nephew, in order to preserve the family name, but Griffin’s father had not been fond of Griffin’s male cousins, both of whom had managed to avoid going to war.

“It mentions Griffin.” Emily’s voice trembled. “ Declared dead in absentia .”

Rose held up her hands in a definitive gesture. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever heard of in my entire life. Maybe any of my lives.”

Emily covered her mouth with her hands. She’d gone white as wax.

“Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Rose chirped.

“I take it back. This can’t be happening,” Emily said. “I probably, somehow, read about his family online years ago. I go down all kinds of rabbit holes with research.” She shook her head. “I mean, can you imagine me writing the condition report? ‘Stains from weather and pollution. Little to no degradation of limestone. Human soul trapped inside.’?”

It’s true , Griffin said.

Emily looked up at him. “I feel like it is.” Then she turned back to Rose. “But it’s impossible! Right?”

Rose shrugged. “Honestly, I believe in way weirder shit than this.”

A short burst of music emanated from her, and Rose pulled out her own phone. “Oh! I’ve got a livestream in ten minutes.” Stuffing the tablet back in her pocket, she said, “I’ll text you later, okay?” She rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Emily walked over to him. “Griffin,” she said quietly. “Were you born in 1398?”

Aye, on the Assumption.

“Why can you talk to me when I’m awake, if you can’t do it with anyone else?”

I do not know. He could only be grateful for it. It seemed to be taking less effort than it had before.

She looked up into his face. “I believe you.”

His throat tightened. In just three words, she acknowledged his suffering, his humanity, as no one had ever done.

“Are you still in there?” she asked.

Aye. Grant pardon. I know not what to say.

She placed her hand on his cheek again. “There must be some way to un-stonify you.”

Please God, do not kindle my hopes. It was too late for him, and he’d made his peace with despair. But no, that was a lie. Part of him could never accept his mute and motionless fate.

“Of course, if I did manage to make you a real boy again, you’d probably just run away with some Renaissance Faire wench.” Maybe she sensed his confusion, because she added crossly, “Oh, they’re very hot. With the bodices and the boobs and the steins…but this whole idea is crazy, anyway.”

She narrowed her eyes in thought. “You said the sorcerer said a magic spell after he froze you, and that’s when you turned into a statue. What did he say? Do you remember the exact words?”

Of course he did. The gloating rhymes had rung in his ears for centuries, tormenting him. He shared them with her now.

As still you are, so shall you ever be:

A man of stone, doomed for eternity.

Though you took pride in praise, and kisses, too,

No flattery or kiss shall this undo.

“That does sound really final,” she said and paced a few steps. Then she stopped and snapped her fingers. “Wait! It’s really un -final! Remember what Rose said about magic? That if you cast any doubt, you ruin it?”

Griffin did remember. Having nothing else to do, he repeated overheard conversations in his head several times, imagining what he would’ve said if he’d been able. He quoted Rose now.

If you say, “Don’t let me brood,” a small part of the universe is going to hear that as, “Let me brood.”

“Exactly!” Emily said. “So if you say, Don’t let fine words or a kiss break the spell , maybe the universe hears, Let fine words or a kiss break the spell! ” She finished on a triumphant note, but then her shoulders sagged. “This is completely ridiculous. But I mean…it’s worth a try, right?”

It sounded like he’d get another kiss out of it, so yes. Indeed, he considered it worth countless tries.

“I know this is very Frog Prince,” Emily said. “But I’m going to give it a go.”

With an air of determination that charmed him to his core, she grabbed the stool and plunked it down in front of him. She stepped up on it.

“All right,” she breathed, leaning closer. Then she pulled back. “Hang on.” She went to the door, peered out, and then locked it and walked back to him. She got back on the stool so they were again face-to-face.

“This is very against conservator rules, by the way,” she murmured.

Then she snapped her fingers. “Wait! The spell also talked about flattery.” Griffin felt a stab of impatience. She pursed her lips, so close to Griffin’s now, in thought. Then her gaze met his, her brown eyes filled with sincerity.

Softly, she said, “You are the sweetest and most gallant man I’ve ever met…which is why I’d be amazed if you were real.”

She did him too much honor. After a breathy laugh she added, still quietly, “Do you think I should hold Rose’s magic rock? I’ve got it in my pocket.”

Aye, sweet bird, if you wish. It can do no harm.

She cupped his cheek with her hand and pressed her lips against his. The sensation was pure bliss, and it was agony to not be able to return it. Then she pulled back, stepped off the stool, and regarded him closely.

Then she gave a wry smile. “Okay, nothing’s happening.”

But something was happening.

Griffin was crumbling from the inside. In mute horror, he felt himself not coming alive but coming apart.

No, this was for the best. How many times had he wished and prayed for death to release him? He knew not what awaited him on that far shore. Sweet oblivion? Heaven, whatever that might be? Not damnation, he knew. He’d suffered enough.

Why, then, should he not embrace this end? Only because of the lady who stood before him, who had brought new light and hope into his grotesque existence.

She turned and walked away. Regret and longing pierced him as the stone of his body disintegrated. But if she were nothing more than a lovely angel of death, still he should give thanks.

“Gramercy, sweet Emily.”

She startled. With a loud gasp, she whipped back around to stare at him, her eyes huge and mouth wide open. Could she see that he was dying?

“You…” She trembled, her face white. “You talked! You’re…”

It took Griffin a moment to understand. He had spoken aloud. She’d heard him, not in her mind, but as any living person might.

Shock went through him like a lance, knocking him to his knees. The steel greaves of his armor crashed against the hard floor. His helm, which he had carried for so many centuries, fell out of his hand and rolled aside.

I can move!

Emily approached him, saying in a soft high voice, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

Am I dreaming?

He leaned back, balling his hands into fists at his sides, and roared at the top of his lungs.

His voice. Reverberating off the walls!

A man’s voice from the next room demanded, “What the hell was that?”

He shouted, “This is no dream!”

“Nooo, quiet,” Emily pleaded, kneeling to face him.

Griffin’s heart filled to overflowing. He gripped her hands and bent his head to kiss one and then the other. They were small in his, shaking and cold. But his own hands were warm. Warm!

“My dearest lady. My sweet angel of deliverance.” His throat tightened as tears came, unbidden but not unexpected, and he welcomed them. “My Emily.” His voice broke on her blessed name.

“How is this happening?” she asked, her voice balanced between joy and terror.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her. As wondrous as their kisses had been in dreams, they couldn’t compare to this one in waking life. The taste of her overwhelmed him. Bliss coursed through every fiber of his body, a liquor more fiery than any ever brewed. It gave him strength along with joy.

“?’Tis all your doing.” He gazed into her eyes. “You are the queen of my heart, and all the days of my life I will do you service where you will command me.” He bent and pressed his forehead against her hands clasped in his, feeling the vow bind his soul and rejoicing in the rightness of it.

“Griffin, you can’t…” She trailed off as he raised his head. Tears gathered in her eyes.

“My lady, I can do whatever I wish,” he said gently, smiling. She shouldn’t be kneeling on the hard floor. He stood, helping her to her feet along with him. She frowned and picked up his helm.

“I can kneel if I will, or stand if I will,” he marveled. He was not a piece of furniture, bound to remain wherever he was placed. “I am a man!” He ended on a shout, stretching his arms wide. His lungs rejoiced to take in air. Every muscle in his body itched to be in motion.

“Shhh, I don’t want anyone—”

“I’m alive!” Wild joy rose in him. He could see the world again!

“Wait!” Emily squeaked as he ran for the door.