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Authors: Victoria Alexander
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same type of stone used for the building behind them. Some kind of granite probably. Square towers joined each wall to the next. “You have one thing right though, there’s definitely a lot of life here.”
Activity pulsed around her. The busy scene bore a vague resemblance to all the old movies she’d ever seen that had anything to do with knights or the Middle Ages. Except the director of this flick apparently operated under the principle of quantity instead of quality. The place was lined with sheds, or maybe stalls. Carts loaded with hay or barrels lumbered through open spaces. Mounted riders armed with lethal-looking swords and dogs yapping at their horses’ heels maneuvered through knots of chatting women. Chickens and geese, obviously far smarter than they looked, wandered freely, avoiding the oblivious hoovesof oxen or the wheels of their wagons. Noise of every type imaginable filled the air. Metal clanged against metal. Goats bleated and roosters crowed. The high-pitched tone of an argument sounded here, the laughter of a child there.
“I have one hell of an imagination.” Tessa shook her head. “Talk about sensory overload.”
Galahad heaved a long-suffering sigh. “’Tis not the first thing you’ve said today, my lady, that muddles my mind.”
“Sorry. Sensory overload is…well…all this.” Tessa waved at the scene. “There’s so much going on here. It’s overwhelming.”
“’Tis life, Tessa.” Galahad raised a brow. “Is it so different from your own land?”
“Different is an understatement. There’s no way you could understand just how different.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged as if he didn’t really care one way or the other and started off through the courtyard. Here and there he’d stop to point out an item he thought of interest, the perfect medieval tour guide. From the chapel he’d taken her down a corridor to a wide, winding stone staircase and outside, muttering something about starting from the beginning. The Big Guy probably wasn’t used to anything as menial as showing around a visitor and a woman at that. Tessa suppressed a grin. Even in her own comatose mind she managed to create a man who looked like her wildest dreams but acted like every macho hero in every movie she’d ever really loved. And she, of course, was the heroine who took him down a peg or two.
Tessa refused to give up the ever dimmer hope of accidents, hospitalization and coma. It was easierto accept that she might be fighting for her life in a hospital than all this. Oh sure, everything seemed real enough, from the hard-packed earth beneath her feet to Sir Hunk at her side and the smells and the sounds that blurred around her. But no one, not fate, not Fred Astaire, would really do this to her. She was a decent person. She’d never really hurt anybody. Oh, she was a little bitchy at times but she did not deserve this. No one deserved the Middle Ages.
Galahad stopped and Tessa nearly stumbled into him. He narrowed his eyes and observed a group of young men, boys really, armed with wooden swords and small shields fighting each other in what was apparently some kind of lesson.
“What is this? Knight school?” She stifled a giggle at the double meaning.
“’Tis important work.” He studied the activity, his brow furrowed. “Honing the skills necessary to do the king’s bidding takes a great deal of practice. This hour of the day is reserved for those still learning their craft. Excellent, Bartholomew,” he called.
A blond youth who couldn’t have been much older than thirteen threw a quick grin over his shoulder and turned back to the mock battle he was engaged in with youthful enthusiasm.
“Bartholomew is my squire. He’s a good lad. ’Tis like a son to me.” He stopped, his expression darkened.
“You don’t have any children?” What about a wife?
“No.” The single word was clipped and sharp. Galahad turned and strode off. Apparently this was not a subject for discussion. She
Activity pulsed around her. The busy scene bore a vague resemblance to all the old movies she’d ever seen that had anything to do with knights or the Middle Ages. Except the director of this flick apparently operated under the principle of quantity instead of quality. The place was lined with sheds, or maybe stalls. Carts loaded with hay or barrels lumbered through open spaces. Mounted riders armed with lethal-looking swords and dogs yapping at their horses’ heels maneuvered through knots of chatting women. Chickens and geese, obviously far smarter than they looked, wandered freely, avoiding the oblivious hoovesof oxen or the wheels of their wagons. Noise of every type imaginable filled the air. Metal clanged against metal. Goats bleated and roosters crowed. The high-pitched tone of an argument sounded here, the laughter of a child there.
“I have one hell of an imagination.” Tessa shook her head. “Talk about sensory overload.”
Galahad heaved a long-suffering sigh. “’Tis not the first thing you’ve said today, my lady, that muddles my mind.”
“Sorry. Sensory overload is…well…all this.” Tessa waved at the scene. “There’s so much going on here. It’s overwhelming.”
“’Tis life, Tessa.” Galahad raised a brow. “Is it so different from your own land?”
“Different is an understatement. There’s no way you could understand just how different.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged as if he didn’t really care one way or the other and started off through the courtyard. Here and there he’d stop to point out an item he thought of interest, the perfect medieval tour guide. From the chapel he’d taken her down a corridor to a wide, winding stone staircase and outside, muttering something about starting from the beginning. The Big Guy probably wasn’t used to anything as menial as showing around a visitor and a woman at that. Tessa suppressed a grin. Even in her own comatose mind she managed to create a man who looked like her wildest dreams but acted like every macho hero in every movie she’d ever really loved. And she, of course, was the heroine who took him down a peg or two.
Tessa refused to give up the ever dimmer hope of accidents, hospitalization and coma. It was easierto accept that she might be fighting for her life in a hospital than all this. Oh sure, everything seemed real enough, from the hard-packed earth beneath her feet to Sir Hunk at her side and the smells and the sounds that blurred around her. But no one, not fate, not Fred Astaire, would really do this to her. She was a decent person. She’d never really hurt anybody. Oh, she was a little bitchy at times but she did not deserve this. No one deserved the Middle Ages.
Galahad stopped and Tessa nearly stumbled into him. He narrowed his eyes and observed a group of young men, boys really, armed with wooden swords and small shields fighting each other in what was apparently some kind of lesson.
“What is this? Knight school?” She stifled a giggle at the double meaning.
“’Tis important work.” He studied the activity, his brow furrowed. “Honing the skills necessary to do the king’s bidding takes a great deal of practice. This hour of the day is reserved for those still learning their craft. Excellent, Bartholomew,” he called.
A blond youth who couldn’t have been much older than thirteen threw a quick grin over his shoulder and turned back to the mock battle he was engaged in with youthful enthusiasm.
“Bartholomew is my squire. He’s a good lad. ’Tis like a son to me.” He stopped, his expression darkened.
“You don’t have any children?” What about a wife?
“No.” The single word was clipped and sharp. Galahad turned and strode off. Apparently this was not a subject for discussion. She
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