Her Knight at the Museum

Chapter Twenty-Three

Twenty-Three

In the morning, Griffin woke up in the unfamiliar bed and stared at the window that framed the tops of buildings. His gaze swept across the room and landed on Aaron, sitting at the desk, hunched over a laptop computer, typing furiously. He wore earbuds plugged into his phone.

They’d stayed up late talking. Mostly, Griffin had talked, telling Aaron all about his life in the Before Times. Griffin had drunk three beers, which had felt to him much more like six. The base of his skull ached.

Emily . Griffin thought of her and the fight they’d had. Now his whole being seemed to ache.

If they hadn’t fought, he could’ve kissed her before she walked to the train station. She would’ve called him afterward and told him about her lecture, for he had no doubt the whole event would be a success, leaving her colleagues wide-eyed with admiration.

He sat up, swung his feet onto the floor, and walked to the bathroom. Aaron didn’t even look up, and as Griffin passed him, he muttered, “Yes. Unbelievable.”

Griffin spent a few extra minutes washing up and splashing his face with cold water. When he emerged, he walked over to Aaron and tapped him on the shoulder. Aaron jumped, a full-body spasm, and then looked up at Griffin sheepishly. He took out the earbuds.

Griffin said, “Good morning.” He silently congratulated himself on remembering to say good morning and not good morrow , given his sore and groggy head. “Did you not sleep this night past?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Aaron’s usually easygoing manner had been replaced by gloom. Griffin asked, “What troubles you, my friend?”

“Eh…” He looked at his phone on the desk and shook his head. “Have you ever been in a situation where you’re supposed to be working with someone, but they don’t want to talk with you because they want to be in charge?”

“I have,” Griffin said. “At the battle at Avranches, the man who commanded the archers did not want to confer with me, who led the horsemen. It nearly led to defeat, though we prevailed in the end.”

Aaron snapped his fingers. “That’s the other thing keeping me up. Everything you told me last night about a past life checks out. The battles at Avranches and Verneuil-sur-Avre…There’s actually a record of a Griffin de Beauford at Verneuil-sur-Avre. And that French thing. Yes, l’hotel is modern French, but it didn’t exist in middle French.”

Griffin shrugged. He’d told the man as much.

“The inn you talked about last night, the Seven Bells,” Aaron went on. “Sir Baudwin what’s his name—” He looked at the document on his screen. “Yeah, Sir Baudwin de la Pole, who you squired for. I couldn’t verify everything, but…I found your cousins’ names, for Christ’s sake.”

Griffin was impressed. Although so much had been lost, it was remarkable how much remained, for anyone who knew where to look.

Alyse. Hope ached in his chest like an old wound.

He attempted to keep his voice light. “Did you happen across news of my sister, Alyse?”

Aaron let out a huff of disbelief. “Yeah, I did. Hang on…” He clicked on another screen. “Married to Jonathan Grey, the Earl of Kent.”

“Jack!” Lightness filled Griffin’s chest.

Aaron quirked a skeptical glance at him. “Friend of yours?”

“Aye, and a brother in arms.” All amazement, Griffin strode over to the computer. “At the time I was cursed, he’d met Alyse but once, at a Martinmas feast at Hedingham Castle.”

Aaron stared up at Griffin as though attempting to see right through him. “See, if you’re delusional, why do you know so much? And it would be extreme commitment to the bit. And for what?”

The words made no sense to Griffin, and he didn’t care. His mind reeled with this new information. “My sister was the Countess of Kent!” He waved at the computer screen. “Are there pictures of her?” Emily could find pictures of almost anyone or anything.

“I haven’t come across any.”

“Did she have children?” His gaze landed on the information he wanted and let out a delighted laugh. “Seven! Seven children! See, I have…four nieces and three nephews!”

“Mazel tov,” Aaron quipped.

“Or had,” Griffin corrected himself, staring at the page. Alyse had lived to be seventy-four— praise God. One of her daughters had died at the age of thirty-two, which must have grieved his poor sister. How he wished he could’ve been there to comfort her…and how he wished he could’ve met these babes, all long gone, and dandled them on his knee, and could’ve witnessed Alyse’s wedding to Jack. But here were signs of a long and prosperous life, and that settled something in his soul.

Griffin stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed. “Is there any way to see her children’s children?”

Aaron turned around in the chair to face him. “It would take a lot of time, but probably.”

Did he detect a note of impatience in Aaron’s voice? “You have already told me so much, and for that, I thank you. You must be a prodigious scholar, for not even Emily could unearth these things.”

“I have access to more databases.”

More mystifying words. Griffin shrugged. “As you say.”

Aaron heaved a sigh. “Griffin,” he said seriously, “why don’t I think you’re lying?”

Griffin felt a grin tug at his lips. “Because I am not.”

Aaron held up a hand. “No, see, part of my job is knowing when people are lying. And I’m very good at my job.”

“What job might that be?”

“I can’t tell you that,” he said, with what sounded like genuine regret. Then he glanced back at the screen. “Get dressed. We need to leave soon for Medieval Legends.”

On the long drive to the false castle, Griffin asked Aaron, “Why are you helping me?”

“Because I like you.” After a moment, he added, “And after I talk to my friends, I may have more questions for you.”

“Very well.”

Aaron gave him a sidelong glance. “Would you know what it meant if I said you’ve been a person of interest for a while?”

“Yes,” Griffin said, pleased that Aaron found him interesting. “Thank you. You are also a man of interest.”

“Okay,” Aaron muttered to himself.

The pleasant conversation distracted Griffin from the anxiety of the trial ahead, but when they pulled up to Medieval Legends, that anxiety crashed down like an iron gate.

As Aaron parked, Griffin warned him, “This may take hours.” Or much less time, he supposed, if they decided right away that they had no use for him.

“That’s fine. I’ll be right out here. Hopefully, I can talk with these people I’m working with. And then I’m going to catch up on my sleep.”

Behind a desk inside the building, a young woman with pink-streaked fair hair greeted Griffin and then pulled up his application and photo, noting that he’d been scheduled for the day before. He used the excuse Aaron had coached him on—an abscessed tooth, emergency dental work—and she winced.

“Oh, that’s the worst . Is it better now?”

He nodded.

“It’s no problem. Good luck.”

This time, he waited patiently with the other men, eleven in all, who had arrived for the auditions. All but one, he guessed, were younger than him. Would anyone laugh at him for desiring such an opportunity at his age? Would they secretly pity him?

Forget your pride , he told himself sternly. He was hundreds of years old; he would always be older than everyone else, regardless. He smiled and nodded as they discussed other acting jobs they’d done, and who had grown up in Chicago and who had not.

“I am American, but I was raised in Foula,” Griffin said, when one of the men asked him directly. He was young, twenty at most, with thick hair in tight curls. “?’Tis a tiny island between Scotland and Norway. There are only thirty-six people there.”

Emily had come up with that story, and as he told it, he ached for her again. Would they both do well in their challenges today; her with her lecture, and him with whatever transpired here? Christ, that they might face the trials of life together, hand in hand. It was all he wanted, and he would count himself fortunate, no matter how great those trials might be.

“Oh, for real? Wow,” one of the men said.

“They’re going to love that,” another added. He was closer to Griffin’s age, pale, with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. “And they’re going to love your accent.”

The envy in the man’s voice encouraged Griffin, but he couldn’t allow his hopes to rise too high.

“One never knows what will come to pass,” he said. “We are all subject to Fortune’s fickle wheel.”

Two men appeared at the door. One carried a clipboard and wore a T-shirt with jeans. The other was dressed much the same, except that his T-shirt was printed with a green and brown pattern that reminded Griffin of a forest.

“Good morning, everybody, I’m Dan Leahy, the show manager and head knight here at Medieval Legends, and this is Marcus Johnson, another knight who will be helping with this audition. Let’s go into the great hall.”

As they walked, Dan said, “You don’t need to have any fighting skills or experience going into this. We train people how to look like they really know what they’re doing with a sword.”

Griffin bit his tongue. It wouldn’t help his chances, he was sure, to say that he very much knew what he was doing with a sword, yet it took almost intolerable forbearance to remain silent.

Forget your pride.

They filed into a large tournament ground, surrounded by rows and rows of seats. A tingle went up Griffin’s spine. It was unlike the tournaments he’d known, yet similar enough that he felt an uncanny sense of returning to a place after a very, very long time. The other men took seats as instructed, but another man led a horse out to the edge of the ring, and Griffin stopped in his tracks, staring at the magnificent beast. Its black coat shone, and its magnificent mane was crimped from recent braiding.

“A Friesian,” he said aloud. There was no mistaking it. He was one of the warhorses bred in the north, though larger than the one Griffin had once rode.

Dan raised his eyebrows. “You know horses?”

Griffin could not help the smile that came to his lips. “Aye, that I do, my lord,” he said, then mentally kicked himself as several of the men chuckled. He wasn’t supposed to say my lord .

But Dan only smiled himself. “All right, you’re already in character.”

He liked the way Griffin spoke. In that case, Griffin would just be himself. That would be so much easier.

“Not too many people have heard of this breed,” Dan went on to say. “They almost died out. But now they’re back again.”

As am I. Griffin’s throat ached to think of the near loss of the magnificent beasts.

God help him—tears were threatening, and that would never do. Men did not often cry in this modern world, he’d already learned, though there had been no shame in tears in his time. No less than the legendary Lancelot had wept frequently. What exactly men were supposed to do with their grief and sorrow and the excesses of joy, Griffin had no idea.

He cleared his throat. “I have not seen one in a long while.”

“They had those where you were from?” the pale man with the ponytail asked.

“Aye, they did, and I owned one.” He wanted to stride over and ride this one right now. He’d missed horses even more than he’d realized.

Dan asked, “Does anyone else have any experience with horses?”

A man with auburn hair raised his hand. A few of the others looked down at the floor.

“It’s fine if you haven’t,” Dan said. “We teach people that, too. But let’s see you two ride.”

Yes . To ride a horse again, especially a steed like this one, would be a joy. But eagerness lit the red-haired man’s eyes, and to clamor to be first would be childish.

Griffin gestured with a hand. “Proceed, good sir.” He took a seat.

As the other man strode over to the horse, Griffin considered how to make the most of his brief riding exhibition. Would it be too arrogant to ride standing on one stirrup, to the side of the horse? The horse might not be accustomed to such tricks, and Griffin had not ridden in, well, centuries…though in his time, it had commonly been said that one could never forget how to ride a horse.

The other man mounted with no effort—and Griffin saw fleeting tension in the horse, more subtle than a flinch. Not unusual, perhaps, as a reaction to a stranger. As the rider nudged him into a trot, Griffin watched closely.

He sucked in a breath. Something was wrong.

“Stop!” he called out as he launched from his seat and strode across the ring.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Dan demanded.

“Get off,” Griffin ordered the red-haired man firmly, but not so loudly as to spook an already distressed horse. “He’s hurt.”

The rider gave him a look of disbelief but brought the steed to a halt and dismounted. “He’s fine,” he complained as Dan and the person who’d led the horse in both jogged over.

“Sit down,” Dan said to Griffin, at the same time that the man who’d led the beast into the ring—the stable master, Griffin supposed—said, “We take good care of these horses.”

“Aye, you do, my good sir, but when did he last see a farrier?”

The specific question made the stable master frown. “Maybe six weeks ago. He got sick. But he’ll be here next Monday.”

Griffin could not order them. He held out a hand and said humbly, “Please, if I may.”

Dan raised one hand in a gesture that Griffin interpreted to mean, Go ahead and waste all our time, then, you Jack-fool.

Griffin approached the horse, murmuring, “Hello, my handsome fellow.” He stroked the solid shoulder. The steed turned his head to sniff, easy tempered now that he was unburdened and standing still. Griffin crouched as he ran his hand down the length of the horse’s leg. The stable master got down on his haunches, too, squinting over Griffin’s shoulder.

Griffin didn’t have to pick up the hoof to find the problem. “Here,” he said, pointing. “?’Tis but a small crack that troubles him.”

“He shouldn’t be worked until it’s treated, though,” the stable master said as they both straightened to their feet again. He regarded Griffin with new appreciation.

Griffin stroked the beauty’s neck. “In a few more moments, you all would’ve seen it, too.”

The stable master looked to Dan. “I’ll take him back and bring out one of the quarter horses.”

“We can get started with the sparring,” Dan said.

He and Marcus gave them all practice swords and led them through basic thrusts, sweeps, and parries. Griffin’s pride roared to life again, threatening to revolt against the child’s play. He steadily ignored it, copying the moves exactly, even the ones that would have no place in a true battle.

The man next to him was struggling, aware he was doing a thrust wrong but unable to correct it. He gave a harsh sigh. Griffin hazarded a quick glance at Dan and then said quietly to the man, “Extend your arms more.” He demonstrated.

“Right, thanks,” the man muttered, bringing his upper arms away from his body in a more proper stance.

“Good,” Griffin said in an undertone. The other man was his rival, he supposed, but Griffin still remembered what it was like to feel awkward with a sword in one’s hands.

Dan’s gaze locked on Griffin. “You’ve done this before?”

“Aye, my lord, I have fought on foot and on horse.”

Dan shuffled the papers in his folder. “Ren Faire?”

“No, Griffin Beauford.”

Dan narrowed his eyes at him. “Come up to the front.” He gestured. When Griffin did, Dan said, “Marcus and I are going to demonstrate a short, staged fight. Watch all my moves. When we’re done, I want you to take my place and do as many of the same moves as you can. Got it?”

Griffin nodded and concentrated on the staged action. They moved too slowly and deliberately for soldiers. After ten minutes of demonstration, Dan beckoned Griffin to square off against Marcus.

Marcus asked, “Any questions before you start?”

“Might we go faster? Like the speed of a battle.”

Dan raised his eyebrows. “We’re going slowly so you can understand the choreography.” He looked to Marcus and shrugged. “But sure. Try taking it up to speed.”

Marcus stepped forward with the sweeping, two-handed blow that looked as though he wanted to cleave Griffin’s head in two. Griffin parried it and counterattacked as Dan had done, picking up the pace even more. They went through each move of the false battle. Steel sang against steel, and Griffin’s spirits rose with every clash. As they came to the end of the sequence, which had no victory or defeat, Griffin invented one by allowing the sword to be knocked from his hand. He stretched his arms out wide.

He cried out, “Though you may kill me, you vermin will never take our lands!”

Marcus stifled a laugh. In a voice not unlike Griffin’s own accent, he said, “Pick up your sword, sirrah, for I will allow you to die with a blade in your hand!”

Griffin quickly replaced his delighted grin with a grim look as he scrambled for the sword and feigned a new attack, being obvious about the move so that Marcus could quickly block it. One of the other men watching let out a whoop. They sparred without a plan now. Marcus favored large, dramatic motions, and Griffin tried to do the same: a two-handed cleaving stroke above his head, a low sweep. Sparks shot off the clanging blades. He met Marcus’s gaze, saw the light of enjoyment in them, and knew it was reflected in his own.

Marcus tilted his head and looked at the ground, and Griffin understood. He lifted his sword high, leaving himself wide open for a feigned thrust to his chest. He let out a strangled cry—like one he’d heard too often on the battlefield, but it brought him no guilt or grief now, because it was all in sport.

He fell to his knees. At the same time, Marcus took a step forward, sword lowered, an expression of alarm on his face. But when Griffin cried out, “Curse you and all French devils!” Marcus laughed.

The other men applauded. “That was realistic,” Marcus said as he extended a hand to help him up.

Griffin had made a friend in Aaron, and now, maybe he was making a friend in Marcus, too. Of a surety, they would hire him, and he could be friends with Dan, too, and the stable master, who’d seemed a good fellow, and whichever of these men who also came to work for the castle…Hope bloomed in his chest.

And maybe, on top of such friendship, he would win Emily’s affection again.

“Go ahead and sit down,” Marcus said with a smile. He turned to the rest. “Okay, who wants to be next?”

“Uhh, nobody?” the man with the curly hair said, and the others laughed.

“Like I said, we usually teach people everything. Don’t worry about it at all.”

Griffin watched the rest of the men being put through their paces. When they brought out a chestnut horse, nearly as beautiful as the Friesian—a quarter horse, they called it, though it was large—both Griffin and the red-haired man took a turn riding.

Marcus put a blunted jousting pole in Griffin’s hand and set him to the challenge of spearing metal rings he held up as Griffin rode past at a gallop. Griffin had never played such a game before; it should’ve been simple, but after so long out of the saddle, he still was unsure how it would go. Spurring his horse to a high speed, he supposed he’d do his best. He was embarrassed at how pleased he was with himself when he managed to spear the iron ring three times in a row.

At the end of the exercises, Dan told them all, “Good job, everyone. Thanks for coming out, and we’ll call you about our decisions.”

Griffin thanked Dan and Marcus and took steps to the door with the rest. Then something horrible occurred to him. They wouldn’t be able to call him. He no longer had a phone.

He turned and walked back to the arena. It was empty now. Panic rose in him. Had the triumphs of the morning been for naught? He headed out another side entrance of the arena and relief flooded through him as he spotted them down a hallway, standing in close conversation.

“Messires!” he called out, raising a hand, and they both looked over. “I mean, guys!”

“Griffin!” Dan said. “Glad you’re still here.”

Griffin took long strides to reach them. “Forgive me for the trouble, but I no longer have the phone that I had before.”

Dan said, “We were just talking…” He cast a meaningful look at Marcus, who frowned.

“The thing is,” Marcus said, “like we said, we usually train guys from scratch. You’re a squire for a couple of years, you learn how to do things the way we do them, and then you become a knight. We kind of have a process here.”

Griffin’s heart fell. Was he being rejected? Rejected for already knowing how to ride and to fight?

“It’s not going to make any sense for you to go through all that,” Dan said.

“But I am willing,” Griffin protested.

“We appreciate that, but—”

“I will undergo all of it with a glad heart, and I shall never challenge your orders or authority.”

“Griffin,” Marcus said, “what we’re saying is, we’d like to go ahead and cast you as a knight.”

It took Griffin a moment. “You are making me a knight,” he repeated, to make certain. “Not a squire?”

“Exactly.”

“It’s not many shows yet,” Dan said, glancing down at his clipboard. “But one of our guys wants to cut back at the end of the summer because his girlfriend is pregnant. So once you learn the show, you could play the Green Knight on Saturdays—”

“The Green Knight!” Griffin exclaimed with joy. “I will be the Green Knight again!”

Dan squinted at him. “Were you at another Medieval Legends? You didn’t say—”

“Nay, I was not. Forgive me. It is just that I am exceedingly glad to wear the colors of the Green Knight, with the black griffin upon it.”

“Yeah, it’s cool, it matches your name,” Marcus said.

Griffin touched his fist to his chest. “I thank you both with all my heart for this invitation and for your courtesy. I accept it with all gratitude and”—he had to smile—“and indeed, with pride.”

Dan cleared his throat. “Okay, great. So, um…you’ll be working forty or more hours a week to get trained for the show. In terms of pay, it’s not a lot.” He quoted an hourly rate. Griffin mentally multiplied it by forty but had no idea how much it would buy. “You do get a medical and dental plan and a 4-oh-1-K. HR can answer all your questions about that.” Griffin supposed that when he met HR, whoever he was, he could ask him what 4-oh-1-K meant.

Marcus opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and then said, “And you have to be professional about it, obviously, but…it does make you pretty popular with the ladies.”

Griffin’s mood dimmed. “In truth, there is only one lady whose attentions I desire, and I know not whether I can win her over again.”

Marcus grimaced. “Sorry, bro. Good luck with that.”