Waterfall Page 3

  Normans? I glanced over to the two young men behind their leader. They were all in their late teens, early twenties. They’d been in battle—not mock medieval battle, but real, hand-to-hand, I-want-to-kill-you battle. And the dialect of Italian…the same as that emerging from my own mouth…Dante. They—I—sounded like Dante’s Divine Comedy. My parents had made us read and recite portions of The Inferno last summer, in Italian. Apparently their efforts paid off, because I could now suddenly speak in Dante’s dialect, the first unified Italian the country had ever known, but a bit different from the modern version.

  I looked to my left, through a gap in the trees that allowed me to see out into the thickly wooded valley. My hand came slowly to my mouth as my eyes scanned the slant of the hills again and again, trying to make sense of it, make sure I knew where I was looking. Because there in the distance, edging out of the trees, were the refined, perfect stones of another massive fortress wall. The tip of a waving golden flag dangled above it, visible one moment, retreating the next. That castle—the one we’d passed every day en route to the site, the one that Lia and I had tramped through one day, bored out of our minds—it had been nothing but a pile of rubble. It looked as if it had just been built, just like the one we could see from the tumuli campus. Impossible. Impossible!

  I dragged my eyes to meet the young man’s. “You don’t know Shakespeare. Do you know Dante?”

  He laughed, a scoff that didn’t even move his handsome features. Such dark, piercing eyes, as if he could see through me. Laced with wide lashes. He had a man’s chin, even though he couldn’t be much older than me. His voice was low, rumbly, curiously warm despite his cold tone. “Who among the aristocracy has not heard of Dante? My father was privileged to host him in our home shortly before his death.”

  I tried to swallow but my mouth was dry. Dante had been dead for six—no, seven hundred years.

  My captor grabbed my arm again, wrenching me forward.

  “What are you going to do with her, Marcello?” asked a man behind me, to my left.

  “I do not know.”

  “How will you explain her to your father?”

  “I do not know.” The guy named Marcello glanced at me again. “You are from Normandy, yes?”

  Again, with the Normandy business. The people of the north, sometimes allies, sometimes enemies. It might be dangerous to answer this. But how else to explain my curious arrival? “You have guessed well,” I said, pulling back my shoulders, lifting my chin. There was only one way to play this. The superior, don’t-mess-with-me route. “I am Lady Gabriella Betarrini. I am in search of my mother, and now, my sister, too.”

  “Lady Betarrini,” Marcello said, his face softening a bit at my false title. “How is it that you have become separated from your kin?”

  I paused, my mind fumbling through several believable explanations. “My sister and I came here searching for our mother. She had traveled here on business, but has not responded to our correspondence”—never mind that she couldn’t if she tried—“and we feared something terrible had befallen her.”

  Befallen? When did I ever say befallen? Maybe I had some sort of illness that messed with the language part of my brain as well.

  He helped me over a fallen tree, and I silently congratulated myself for my fast thinking. This way, if Lia or my mom showed up, we’d have a story. And he might even help me find them. Across a clearing, I spotted eight horses.

  “She traveled alone?”

  I hesitated. I could tell by his tone that that wouldn’t have been very likely in his time. “With an escort, of course.”

  He frowned. “Her men were trustworthy?”

  “Very much so.”

  The lighter-haired knight, apparently Marcello’s right-hand man, gestured for the others to go ahead to their mounts, leaving the three of us alone. I heard Marcello call him Luca.

  “And your own men?” Marcello pressed. “What became of them?”

  I thought fast. “Disappeared in the night, with all our possessions.”

  “Your horses, too?” Luca asked.

  “Gone,” I said. Like they’d never existed.

  “Blackguards,” Marcello said. “If we come across them in Toscana, rest assured they will pay for their crimes.”

  I nodded, holding back a smile. But he was still on a roll. “What is your mother’s name? Perhaps my father and I can assist you in finding her. And you said you’ve now become separated from your sister?”

  I frowned. Where was Lia? She had been there in the tomb with me; had she made it through this time warp too? And if so, why hadn’t she been there in the tomb? “We…we became separated. Lost in the woods, I found shelter last night in the tomb. I must’ve fallen asleep…the sounds of your battle woke me.”

  “A tomb of the ancients is an odd place to shelter,” Luca said, eyes filled with confusion.

  “It was dark,” I returned. “I didn’t know it to be a tomb.”

  “Good thing you didn’t,” said Luca, with a mischievous look in his eye. “Or you might not have slept a wink. The ghosts might have kept you company all night.” He lifted his eyebrow and grinned.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the guy. Was he trying to scare me? Or be my friend?

  “In any case, these woods are hardly the place for a gentlewoman to be roaming about,” Marcello said. “Had you fallen into the hands of our enemies…” He inhaled and looked at me sharply. “The Paratores are hardly kind to strangers.”

  His voice dropped, and he glanced away as if remembering some other, tragic soul. A shiver ran down my back. He returned his warm, chocolate eyes to me, and, somehow, I gained comfort.

  “Forgive me, m’lady. I’ve forgotten proper introductions. I am Sir Marcello Forelli,” he said with a slight bow and gesture of hand.

  “Future lord of Castello Forelli,” said his friend, gesturing with his chin at the castle with the golden flag.

  “Do not listen to Luca,” Marcello said, shaking his head. “My elder brother is destined to inherit the title.”

  We’d caught up to the others. Judging from their faces, the men behind him clearly doubted this statement, but I ignored them. There would be time enough to find out what they meant. For now, my eyes were on Marcello, and he was turning toward his men. “These are my most trusted men. My cousin and captain, Luca Forelli,” he said, gesturing toward the sandy-haired one with laugh wrinkles about his eyes. “Giovanni Cantadino,” he waved toward a dark-haired, pudgy guy, “and Pietro di Alberto.” This last one was the biggest of the bunch, nearly as big as the guy who almost nabbed me back at the tomb.

  Marcello paused, put a boot on a large stone, and then let his eyes look me over from head to toe. I struggled not to try to hide myself, as if I were suddenly naked. “We cannot bring her home in such clothes. The servants would talk about it endlessly.”

  “I could go ahead, borrow a dress from Celeste.” Giovanni looked me over too, but his eyes seemed more like those of a tailor, merely sizing me up. Not quite so…warm. “She’s about the same across the shoulders, but the skirt’s bound to be a bit short. I’ve never seen a woman so tall.”

  I clamped my lips shut. I didn’t appreciate these four, staring at me like I was a cut of beef from the butcher. I could feel the fourth, behind me.

  Luca leaned forward with an impish grin. “If I fetch you a gown, will you do me the honor of supping with me this evening, Lady Betarrini?”

  I hesitated, wondering what to do with his attention.

  “That’s enough, Luca,” Marcello barked. Did he sound a little protective? “Such forward talk is the way of the Paratores, not the house of Forelli.”

  “M’lord,” Luca said, immediately bowing his head, his smile fading. It was clear who the alpha male was in this group. But despite the no-nonsense tone, I could tell they all
respected him; there wasn’t some odd power-hungry thing going on like with the guys at home.

  “Please, Giovanni, do as you suggested and borrow a dress from Celeste, suitable of a lady of some station. Tell her I’ll order her two more in Siena in the coming week, in return for the favor. We’ll wait for you here.”

  “I shall see it done, m’lord.”

  Eager to avoid any more of his questions or probing looks, I wandered a bit away from Marcello as he and his men talked of the battle. Apparently the land where the tumuli sat was disputed, claimed and won repeatedly by the Paratores and then the Forellis again.

  Even with several fat oaks between us, I could feel the young Forelli lord’s warm, curious gaze. I turned away and stared at the castle in the distance, willing myself to wake from this crazy dream or figure out how in the heck I was going to find my way out and back to my own time.

  If it was a dream, perhaps I just had to ride it out. I glanced back at Marcello. Fantasizing about an Italian hottie was far better than my normal dreams. I’d heard that if you dreamed you went to sleep in your dream, you’d immediately awaken. So, I figured I might as well embrace this crazy time-traveling nonsense and hope that when I woke, it would be to reality. In the meantime, maybe Marcello would hold my hand or even kiss me before the day was done and I had to say ciao, bello—see ya, handsome.

  So that’s what I was thinking when I heard Giovanni coming through the woods and returning to the clearing. Make the most of it, Gabi. It’ll be over soon. Giovanni handed me a dress, folded into a neat square, with some sort of hair net and pins on top in a wooden box that slid open.

  “I’ll make certain you have the utmost privacy, m’lady,” Marcello said, with a gallant bow.

  “Thank you,” I said, turning away. I moved deeper into the trees, farther away this time, somehow knowing I could take him at his word. I pulled off my light cardigan and jeans, then unfolded the dress. A light underdress fluttered to the ground. I grimaced and shook it out, trying to brush off the needles and leaves that clung to the skirt. But when I did, my hand left a streak of dirt. Sighing, I threw it over my head and looked down. Giovanni had been right. It only reached my lower calf. “That won’t do,” I muttered, already imagining a castle full of old women shaking their heads at me. I pulled back my shoulders. “It is what it is, Gabi,” I said, repeating my dad’s favorite phrase when he was trying to cope.

  The outer dress was a bit more puzzling. There were five buttons, with loops that wrapped around each of them. I pulled it on, and after folding my top and tucking it under my arm, walked back to the clearing.

  Marcello and the men covered their mouths with their hands, their eyes alive with merriment.

  “What?” I asked.

  “They do not wear such dresses in Normandy?” Marcello asked, not bothering now to hide his grin over straight, white teeth.

  “What is wrong?”

  “You have it on backward.”

  “Well, how am I to button it, then?”

  He nodded to the trees. “Go back and turn it around. Return, and I’ll aid you.”

  I sighed and did as I was told, returning with it closed behind me in a clenched fist. Although it was not nearly long enough, at least it was big enough around. I turned my back to him, as if I couldn’t care less who was going to button me up. But even as his big hands swiftly moved over the buttons, a shiver ran down my neck. Get a hold of yourself, Gabi.

  “Now your hair,” he said, bending to retrieve the box. “Quickly tend to your hair, and we shall be off.”

  I opened the box and stared at the five pins that appeared to have been carved from ivory. Quickly I pulled my hair together, trying desperately to smooth and then wind it into a coil. I secured it, as best I could, to my scalp. He offered me the wide band of cloth and hairnet, then crumpled it in his hand. “Never mind,” he muttered, staring at me like I was the most freakily weird chick he’d ever met.

  I had clearly done it wrong. The bulk of my hair was supposed to hang below, at the nape of my neck, and be covered by the net. It was coming back to me, now, engravings and illustrations of women from this era. Not a particularly attractive look, but apparently one I was supposed to have mastered. “Do you think—” I began to say.

  “Nay. You look fetching, m’lady.” But his words, while complimentary, seemed gruff. I could feel tendrils of my hair already escaping, falling to my temple and neck. “Come,” he said, gesturing toward the horses. “Giovanni brought along a mount for you.”

  We moved over to the tan gelding, and I waited for him to make a stirrup with his hands—the way we did as kids to give another kid a leg up. But instead, he took my waist in his hands and lifted me upward. Now I’m no featherweight, but he didn’t grunt and moan at the effort. I would’ve wondered over that for a moment, reveled in it, gloried in it, but my mind was immediately on another issue at hand—he’d placed me on a sidesaddle. How was I supposed to sit on the thing without falling off?

  “Is everything all right, m’lady?” he asked, studying my face.

  I nodded, unable to come up with any reasonable excuse. This was an era before carriages. Ladies and peasant women alike would’ve ridden horses if they wanted to get anywhere. And they were all under the assumption that I’d ridden here to Tuscany from France.…

  I took hold of the reins with one hand and shifted a little, trying to feel a bit less precarious. “Uh, Lord Forelli.”

  “Yes?” Marcello said, looking back at me over his shoulder as he mounted.

  “I…uh, I am accustomed to my groomsman leading me. Usually he ties my reins to his own mount. Perhaps it is done differently here in Toscana?” I arched a brow, hoping I looked a bit haughty.

  “Of course, m’lady,” he said, easing his horse over to mine. He took the reins from me, and I took a deeper breath. At least now I had two hands with which to grip the horse’s mane and saddle. Perhaps I could make it to the castle.

  We moved out, and I was sweating like a pig by the time we reached the gate a half hour later. How on earth did women do this for any sort of distance? At the time, I would’ve given all my college savings for the freedom to throw one leg over the gelding and get a decent grip.

  Two guards looked down over the wall, one with his thumbs hooked in a broad, leather belt studded with metal. “Your spoils of war, m’lord?” he called down.

  Marcello smiled and glanced back at me, then upward again. “Enough, Alanzo. Open the gate. The Paratores are at home, attending their wounded.”

  “As I’ve heard, m’lord. Well done. Well done! Those dogs will soon rue the day they divided from the house of Forelli and ran to the Florentines.” He turned without further word, and slowly, the gate cranked open. I could hear the clank of thick metal chains. The door itself was of massive, hand-hewn timbers, bound together with a wide, rusting iron band. I could see the divots of a hammer, as if it had been smoothed by hand on an anvil. Which it had, of course. How long was it going to take to absorb where—or rather when—I was? It didn’t matter…all I had to do was grab a nap in this dreamscape, and it would all come to an end. But I had to admit I was just a tad too fascinated to leave just yet.

  As soon as we entered the clearing in the middle of the three-walled courtyard, people streamed from the inner castle. At the front of the pack was a richly dressed, gray-haired lord and a petite brunette in a glorious dress of deep green, followed closely behind by two girls, whom I assumed were ladies-in-waiting or whatever they were called.

  The brunette glanced at me with narrowed eyes but immediately rushed to Marcello’s side and reached up to take his hand. “M’lord, I am so relieved to see you return unharmed.” She clutched her hand to her breast. Oh, please, I thought, that’s a trampy way to get him to pay attention to you.

  Then she said, “When the others returned, one so gravely wounded, I feared t
he worst. I don’t know what I’d do, Marcello, if anything happened to you.”

  “You shall need to learn how to not fret so over me, m’lady. As you know, a lord’s work often entails such danger. Especially in these harrowing times.” He dismounted, then reached out a hand to the larger man beyond her. “Father,” he said, taking his hand briefly, before returning his attention to the girl.

  She looked up at him, dragging her eyelashes upward in such a slow, seductive fashion I almost groaned aloud. “Well then,” she said lowly, “I am blessed by God that you are more than gifted with the sword and shield. I shall have to train my heart to trust in your talent.” Didn’t he see how she was playing him? Maybe boys back in this time were as idiotic as boys in my own. If only Lia were here, I thought. No, it was good she wasn’t. We’d be giggling ourselves off our horses.

  “And who is this?” the girl said, taking his arm and turning toward me. Closer now, I could see she was about my age, and very pretty. Straight nose, wide, greenish brown eyes, full lips. Marcello’s girlfriend, most likely. Behind them, her posse frowned in my direction, but this one was now all sweetness and light, portraying nothing but confidence and hospitality. All an act for Marcello, I was sure. I could see it in her eyes. She didn’t want me here.

  Luca came over and lifted me down off the saddle as easily as Marcello had placed me in it. Did these guys have a weight room where they worked out or something? I shifted, struggling with the pain in my backside, already a bit saddle sore.

  “Father, Lady Rossi,” Marcello said, turning to me, “allow me to introduce Lady Gabriella Betarrini of Normandy.”

  “Lady Betarrini,” the girl said, with a princess sort of nod. Had her eyes cooled a bit at the mention of Normandy? Was that going to be a bigger issue for me than the fact that I was from another time altogether? Problems with your story already, Gabs.

  “Are you on a journey? Mayhap en route to Siena?” Her condescending eyes flicked so quickly from my hair—looking pretty disastrous by this point, by the feel of it—to my short hem, that I was certain no one else had seen it. This girl’s a sly one.