Her Knight at the Museum

Chapter Seven

Seven

She is my one true love , Griffin thought as he followed Emily off the train.

He wouldn’t say it yet. There must be a great difference between a lady returning a man’s ardor and affection in a dream and doing so in real life. But even awake, she’d returned his kiss with a passion like fire; so hot, his lips still were close to burned.

What drew them together was more than lust—though after all he’d been through, he would have welcomed that alone, with a glad heart and a glad everything else. They were destined for one another. What else could explain the fact that she alone had sensed the man within the stone, and that she, against all odds, had managed to set him free?

Should he ask her this day to be his wife? It would be hasty but not unseemly. His own father had visited his mother but twice before their wedding day. No less than the good King Henry V, God rest his soul, had proposed to Catherine of Valois upon their very first meeting.

But his sweet Emily must still be exceedingly astonished at his coming to life. He should school himself to patience, that virtue which, in his previous life, he never would’ve claimed to possess. Surely tonight, or tomorrow, she would turn to him for such delights as they had already enjoyed in her dreams, and more. In a seven-night or so, the time would be right to speak of that rarest of things, a marriage based on true love.

Emily led him down another smooth, hard path, this one less crowded. Even in the armor, his limbs delighted in movement, and he couldn’t resist taking a few running steps.

“I’m walking! I’m walking down the street!”

Two young women strolling hand in hand, one with hair cropped short as a nun’s, cast bemused looks at him as they passed. He’d gotten a little ahead of Emily, and he stopped to wait for her. It wasn’t as if he knew where they were going.

Besides, he wanted to be at her side. Always.

She was smiling, and he could not keep a grin from his own face, but he said, “Forgive me, lady. I shall endeavor to refrain from such rejoicing. But you cannot imagine what a thing it is, to be alive, to go where you will, to look at what you will.”

“You rejoice all you want!” she declared as she drew up to him again.

He gazed at the blue expanse above them, filled with fat white clouds. “This was always my favorite kind of sky.”

She looked up. “Really? Not sunset or sunrise?”

“Ha! I will see them both again,” he realized aloud. Neither had been visible from the foyer at the Burke estate. “So many things I will do again! Has a man ever been so glad of heart?” He pointed up at the sky. “This, this is one thing that has not changed.” As they walked on, he added, “Nor have the stars at night, I hope.”

She scrunched up her face. “I’m afraid you can’t see much of them in the city.”

Strange. “Why is that, my lady?”

“The lights we have at night are too bright.”

He wasn’t sure he understood this, but he shrugged. “No matter. What need have I for stars when I can behold the light of your eyes?”

“We, um…” Why did she look away, and why did her smile fade? Had he so misread her affections? Nay, this must be her womanly modesty, for which she had no use in dreams.

Stopping abruptly, she said, “This is my building. Come on.” She pointed to a three-story structure of ruddy brick with two half towers, standing cheek to jowl to a similar one of gray stone.

“You live in a grand house,” he said.

“Nope. I only live in a small part of it.”

They walked up the six steps to the entrance and went inside, and then she led him down a hallway with a few doors. She stopped at one, and a terrible beastly sound came from the other side. Griffin straightened, and Emily shot him an apologetic look.

“That’s just my dog.” She drew a key out of her leather bag and turned it in the lock, clearly unafraid of the fearsome hound within. “He’s got a really loud howl.”

A howl or a roar? Thank God he was wearing his armor. Though the beast no doubt adored Emily, for she could likely tame a dragon with her charms, he might feel very differently about a stranger. They entered, Emily closing the door behind them, and Griffin braced himself.

The ruckus ceased and a hound only as tall as Emily’s knee trotted up to them, his nails clicking on the wooden floor, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

This was the creature who’d raised such a dreadful alarm? With his fur of white and black and brown, and his speckled front legs and nose, he was a jolly, handsome dog, if a bit overfed. He put his paws up on Griffin’s knees in greeting.

“Get down, you silly potato,” Emily chided.

Griffin would have to ask her later what a potato was. “Hail, good fellow,” he said, scratching behind the floppy ears. The hound gazed up at him with warm brown eyes. Griffin asked Emily, “I believe you said his name is Andy?”

“Yeah. Short for Andy War-Howl.”

“He is well named, for that howl puts many a battle cry to shame.”

“Yeah, and it’s actually—never mind, I’ll tell you later.” She pulled a long strap from a hook by the door and attached it to his collar. “He’s been inside all day, so he needs to go out and—you know.” She led Andy toward the door. “Just make yourself at home, and we’ll be right back.”

Griffin was somewhat in need of a piss, himself, but it was not yet an urgent matter. He looked around the tidy room with a bay of large windows, white walls, and a bare wooden floor. So this was where his lady lived! A small table near the door held a tray filled with silver and copper coins, along with a fine necklace of black pearls. It must have cost a fortune, for they were all the same size.

Next to a low table sat an armchair and a sofa such as his friend Richard Burke III had used, not only as seating but oft as a bed. Near the windows, two chairs flanked a round dining table. A sleek black TV hung on one wall, and against another stood many shelves lined with brightly colored objects. He walked straight to them and picked one up.

“Books,” he said aloud, stupidly. A hundred of them at least. Emily was wealthy, then. His own father had owned only four. Why didn’t such a rich woman have an estate of her own?

He wasn’t going to ask. In this new world, he’d need to choose his questions carefully. If he asked every single one in his mind, he’d sound like a fool, and his pride couldn’t bear that.

The book covers were thin as sheepskin. He opened the one in his hand; the lettering was strange but astonishingly regular. The forms of the letters were different, and so were many of the spellings; only with great difficulty could he make out the words. Frustration and shame pricked at him. I am still an educated man , he told himself. The language had changed, but he would change, too. He carefully returned the precious object to its place on the shelf.

Emily returned and unclipped the leash from the hound, who bounded up to greet him happily again.

“Andy, get down!” Emily chided him and then said to Griffin, “You probably think it’s strange that I have a dog in the apartment.”

“I am sure he keeps the kitchen free from vermin.”

“There aren’t any vermin in my kitchen!”

“Well done, Andy,” Griffin said, giving the dog another pat on the head. “There was a dog at the Burke estate for a time. A tiny thing with big ears, who would sometimes stare at me or sit at my feet.” The memory tugged at his heart. “You will laugh, but I believed he knew I was real.”

“I bet he did.” She was far from laughing; her eyes welled up with tears.

Her sympathy pierced Griffin’s heart, and his own throat tightened. After living for nigh an eternity with no one to care about him, her unshed tears sparkling in her eyes were more precious than diamonds to him, because they were on his behalf…and yet, he didn’t want her to suffer any distress. He closed the space between them and gently wrapped his arms around her.

“How glad I am, and how grateful, I shall never be able to say, but let us not grieve what has been.”

He wished he could better feel her body next to his. As if thinking the same thing, she stepped back and said, “You should take off your armor.” She held up a palm, clarifying, “I mean, it can’t be comfortable…What do you have on under there? A gambeson?”

There was a word he hadn’t heard anyone speak in centuries: the quilted jacket that could be worn under armor, or even on its own for some protection from an unexpected dagger. “Aye, a gambeson over a linen tunic and hose.”

She bestowed another smile on him, brighter than the noonday sun. “You can’t wear that every day. Rose is coming over later with some modern clothes for you that’ll hopefully fit, and we’ll get you some more.”

He gazed down at the armor with a pang of misgiving. “Can you aid me in taking it off? I am loath to make you my squire, but I have never done it alone.”

“Oh!” To his relief, she didn’t appear to be in the least insulted by the suggestion. Surprised maybe, but if he wasn’t mistaken, also delighted. “I’ll do my best.”

He held up his hands. “I’ll remove my gauntlets first.” After he set them on the low table, he held up his hands in front of him and studied the fine blond hairs dusting the backs of them, the folds around the knuckles, the visible vein tracing a short path from the wrist. His hands. His flesh.

She said cheerfully, “I’m at your command.”

The innocent words gave him a less-than-innocent thrill. He lifted an arm. “Undo the buckles on the sides, if you will, my lady.”

“Oh, right.” She drew near enough to him that he could smell the light sweet scent of her clean hair. He gazed at the curve of her cheek and her ear, near enough to kiss, and his heart pounded so hard in his chest, he wondered it did not echo within the steel.

“Oh my God, this is so cool,” she murmured as her nimble fingers unfastened the buckles. Soon she had the breastplate off, and she held it in both hands, admiring it. “I can’t get over how gorgeous this is close up. Is the trim here brass?”

“Aye, but gilded with pure gold.”

“ Wow . You know, if we could get someone to authenticate this, you could sell it for a fortune .”

A flash of anger took him by surprise, and he stiffened.

She meant no disrespect. While she might know what a gambeson was, she likely didn’t know what a suit of armor meant to a fighting man—a nobleman.

“I will never sell it,” he told her gently.

“But it’s just…” Maybe something in his eyes warned her off. “No, I understand.” From the tone of her voice, he doubted that she did.

No matter. No man and woman, even from the same era, understood everything about each other. She couldn’t force him to sell it and wouldn’t try.

Together, they removed more of the armor. When she knelt to help him remove one of the greaves from his lower leg, wicked thoughts chased all others from his mind. After so long, Griffin still remembered with perfect clarity what it was like to be stroked by a lady or taken into her mouth. His soldier perked up, eager for action. Griffin swallowed, grateful for the cover the padded tunic provided.

“There,” she said, getting to her feet again and looking at the pieces of armor around them. Andy stepped on one, and she gave a little shriek. “We can move all this to the coat closet for now. I’ll figure out how to keep it preserved.”

Together, they gathered up the pieces. Emily carefully arranged the pieces with coats and blankets between them so they didn’t touch one another. Even an excellent squire wouldn’t have stored them with so much care.

“Thank you, my lady,” he said when she was finished. “Now will you please guide me to the privy chamber?”

“The privy…? Ohhh .” She covered her mouth with her hand. Her cheeks flushed pink, an agreeable sight, to be sure, but why was she so embarrassed? He was no longer stone and had the same needs as anyone.

She squared her shoulders. “Come with me. I’ll show you how the bathroom works.”

He followed her to a tiled room with a huge tub for bathing. Her cheeks flushed again when she explained the use of soft white paper in a roll, and—to his complete astonishment—how the toilet worked.

“God’s bones,” he exclaimed, and then winced. He knew better than to use such a foul curse in the presence of a lady.

She laughed, unbothered, and showed him the bath, along with shampoo, deodorant, toothpaste, and a toothbrush—she had a spare she could give to him. The soap he was familiar with, though hers had a different scent than the cakes that came from Castile. He asked about the bottle of thick ruby liquid, labeled Japanese Cherry Blossom Shower Gel and Bath and Body Works . She explained that was also soap, but that many people thought the scent was more appropriate for ladies.

Then she demonstrated the shower.

He held his hand out under the warm stream of indoor rain. “As hot or as cold as you like?” he asked, marveling.

“That’s right. How often did you take baths, before?”

“Every Saturday night, but less when at war. How often do you?”

“I usually take a shower like this, not a bath.” She leaned over and turned the metal knob, and the shower stopped. “But every morning.”

“I do not wonder, when it is so easy and doesn’t burden the servants.”

“I don’t even have servants,” she explained. “Most people don’t.”

That seemed highly inconvenient. He looked up at the shower again. “I have an extraordinary desire to try it.”

And he had an even stronger desire to ask her to join him. What a delight it would be if she did, revealing her lovely body as she had in the dream. The hot water would turn her skin pink and run in rivulets over her breasts and belly…

“I’ll leave you alone.” She patted his arm. “Are you hungry? I can figure out something for lunch.”

“I do feel a gnawing in my belly.” And a yearning in every other part, but he must not press her, especially when he was a guest in her house.

“What do you usually like to eat?”

He laughed and shook his head. “My lady, it is not for me to make requests. You have already done me kindness upon kindness by allowing me to stay here. I do not believe I have even thanked you, but I do so, with all my heart.”

Adorably, she looked abashed, dropping her gaze. “Well, you have to stay somewhere .”

“I shall soon find a means to make my fortune again, for I do not object to labor as long as it still befits my dignity.”

He’d expected her to look impressed. Instead, worry flitted through her eyes. “We’ll figure it out eventually.”

She closed the door. Griffin stripped off his clothes, used the toilet, and then found himself staring in the mirror. It was brighter than any he’d ever seen before.

It was even brighter than the mirror in the hall at Windsor Castle, which Griffin and others had marveled at, once upon a time. He’d been a guest for the Michaelmas feast—a rare honor bestowed upon him because of his triumph against every challenger at the royal joust. Mordrain had been eliminated in the first round: knocked clean off his horse and onto his arse, to uproarious laughter.

At the end of the day, he’d clapped his hand on Mordrain’s shoulder and said, At least you are friends with a champion . He’d felt certain that Mordrain basked in his reflected glory. After the royal feast, Griffin had regaled his friend with every detail, so that Mordrain might feel as though he’d been there. He’d described the king’s dignified toast, the colorful tapestries on the walls, the boar’s head and the fine white bread, the ladies’ sumptuous gowns and flirtatious remarks, the servants’ livery, and their alacrity in keeping all the silver cups filled with fine claret.

Mordrain had responded politely, though he’d been subdued. Griffin, smiling all the while, had been watering the bitter root of envy that had found purchase in Mordrain. Oh, and he’d watered it many times before that, and many times after. He’d talked endlessly about the manor his father had already left in his hands and the improvements he intended to make, when Mordrain’s father had only one manor, hardly more than a cottage. He’d teased Mordrain for spending time with the hermit. When Mordrain had told Griffin that he himself would be a great sorcerer, Griffin had laughed in his face.

Resentment had grown into hatred within his friend like an ugly vine, choking his soul, until it demanded to be sated with the most twisted and extreme revenge. How could Griffin have not known? How was it possible that he’d been so deluded and witless?

Griffin saw the line etched between his brows. The mirror reflected every pore of his face, every crisp light brown hair on his chest. It was too real.

Maybe he was deluded even now. Maybe none of this was real at all. He’d survived for so long on the knife-edge of madness. He’d walked in others’ dreams. What if this was a fantasy of his own?

Panic rose in him. If he woke up and found himself stone again…he would be able to do nothing. He would not even be able to turn to a rope or friendly dagger to set himself free.

In the other room, Emily talked in a high-pitched voice to her dog, interrupting his frantic thoughts.

Emily. In her dream, she’d said she’d imagined him, her romantic ideal. But never, not even after hundreds of years of torment, could he have conjured up a vision like her. She was too lovely, within and without, and too singular and surprising. His heart quieted into contentment again.