Touch of Enchantment Read online

  Tabitha smiled a small, secret smile, hoping the old man liked fried chicken and creme brulee. But her smile faded when she realized Colin was still eyeing her with suspicion.

  "Maybe this Brisbane fellow is going to free us," Tabitha hissed as she and Colin marched through the dank maze of tunnels beneath the castle.

  "Or execute us."

  Tabitha nervously touched her throat as they trotted up a steep incline at the prodding of the guards. "I've always considered myself something of a cynic, Mr. Ravenshaw, but you really should examine your own attitude. A positive outlook on life has been known to ward off illness and extend the life span by a number of years."

  "Death!" boomed a jovial male voice. "Death to the Scot and his strumpet!"

  As they emerged from the gloom into blinding sunshine to the catcalls and hisses of an enthusiastic mob, Tabitha feared it might take more than just a positive attitude to extend their life span. She shaded her eyes against the sun, feeling exposed with her rumpled pajamas and tousled hair. Even her chipmunk slippers seemed to be losing their irrepressible joie de vivre.

  "Ravenshaw's a boor! Defended by a whore!"

  Tabitha cringed, expecting Colin to shoot her a reproachful look, but he stood tall and straight, wearing his manacles as if they were twin Rolexes. A thrill of pride caught her off guard.

  As the sun's glare abated, Tabitha realized they were standing at the foot of a broad ribbon of straw-sprinsand. The ribbon unfurled between a wooden platform and a colorful flock of tents topped with scarlet, green, and buttercup-yellow flags that rippled and snapped in the warm summer breeze. It was as if they'd stumbled into a remake of Prince Valiant.

  She might have been charmed by the pageantry if the invisible director hadn't borrowed his cast from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. A mob of peasants dressed in the grunge equivalent of medieval garb swelled against the fence surrounding the sandy belt, their grimy faces distorted by toothless sneers and feral snarls. As the guards shoved Tabitha toward the platform, Colin nudged her sideways to keep her from being spit on. A rotten onion sailed past his own ear.

  The occupants of the platform looked somewhat neater, if not much cleaner. While the peasants had been dressed in dull shades of brown and rust, their noble counterparts wore rich reds, dazzling purples, and apple-greens and yellows.

  Tabitha blinked, overwhelmed by their brilliance. She'd somehow expected the past to be etched in grainy black and white or washed in sepia. The vibrancy of the scene made their predicament feel even more immediate.

  The mocking chants subsided as a man lounging on a massive throne used the advantage of the platform's height to sneer down his nose at them. Sunlight glinted off his golden hair, but Tabitha saw only the tarnish of corruption.

  Brisbane had traded his hose and tunic for a brocade bathrobe similar to the one she'd bought for Arian last Mother's Day. Its forest-green hue had probably been carefully chosen to match the shade of his eyes. Tabitha felt a flare of rage when she realized his milk-white hands were stroking Lucy's smoky fur. He had fastened a ruby-encrusted collar around the kitten's tiny throat, making her look more like a prisoner than a pampered pet.

  Tabitha didn't realize she had bared her teeth at him until he drawled, "If it's not the lady with the comely teeth and her bold champion."

  Several of the veiled and wimpled women seated on benches behind him giggled. From the plainest to the prettiest, their smiles revealed startling gaps where teeth should have been.

  "I'll have you know these teeth cost my father a pretty penny," Tabitha retorted. "If you'd like, I can give you my orthodontist's number. Maybe he could whittle down your fangs."

  Brisbane didn't have to understand all of her words to know he was being mocked. "Comely teeth and a sharp tongue. Perhaps I should pull the one and cut out the other."

  Tabitha didn't remember inching closer to Colin, but suddenly he was there, his presence at her shoulder a palpable comfort. "Your quarrel is with me, Roger. Not with her."

  Brisbane handed Lucy off to one of his ladies and glided down the platform stairs. When he reached the ground, Tabitha realized that she towered over him by almost two inches. He hastily retreated to the last step, but not before an amused smirk had touched Colin's lips.

  "Where did you find such a treasure, Colin?" Sarcasm dripped from Brisbane's beautifully modulated voice. "In the brothels of Egypt?"

  "Look at her shoes!" shouted a bell-capped fool. "Mayhaps she was traveling with a band of mummers!" He topped off his joke with a jingling somersault.

  When the laughter had died down, Brisbane snorted. "A band of camp followers more likely."

  "Perhaps 'tis your tongue that needs the trimming," Colin said, his eyes hinting at the fury smoldering just beneath his implacable facade.

  "Do forgive me," Brisbane murmured without a trace of remorse. "Have I offended you by impugning the honor of your lady?"

  Tabitha waited for Colin to say, "She's not my lady," or some other, more insulting variation of "She's no lady! She's my wife."

  But he simply stared Brisbane down until the man's thin lips curled in a petulant sneer. Brisbane gestured toward the platform, his gem-encrusted fingers glinting in the sunlight. "My guests and I are in dire need of amusement so I've decided to give you one last chance to defend your lady's honor and your own."

  "I thought your taste in amusement ran to defiling children and baiting bears," Colin said.

  "Ah, but baiting you, my friend, is so much more gratifying."

  The peculiar mixture of contempt and familiarity simmering beneath their banter caught Tabitha off guard. She had assumed they were simply rival barons battling over land.

  His cold grin undaunted, Brisbane borrowed a leather glove from a nearby knight and whipped it across Colin's face, leaving an angry welt. Tabitha flinched. Colin did not. "Do you accept my challenge, sir?"

  "With pleasure," Colin replied.

  "Very well. If you win the joust, you and your lady may go free. If you lose…" Brisbane paced up the steps, then down again, tapping his pursed lips as if deep in thought. "I suppose I could ransom you to your family, but oh, I forgot… they're all dead."

  Tabitha knew her outrage could only be a shadow of the hatred Colin must be feeling.

  Brisbane shrugged with mock regret. "If you lose, I suppose I'll just have to take both your heads."

  Chapter 8

  The world shimmered before Tabitha's eyes as the crowd erupted with bloodthirsty cries of approval. She expected a smug "I told you so" from Colin, but as her knees threatened to buckle, he braced himself against her to keep her from falling. Thank God she had eaten. She didn't think she could tolerate being beheaded on an empty stomach.

  Colin seemed to agree. "That repast in the dungeon must have been Roger's twisted idea of a last meal."

  Terror spoiled Tabitha's relief at being excused from his suspicions. "Don't accept his challenge," she whispered fiercely. "Tell him you've changed your mind."

  He cast her an incredulous look. "And forever lose the chance to redeem my honor?"

  "Would you rather lose your honor or your head?"

  Before he could give her an answer she didn't want to hear, he was torn from her side by half a dozen guards. She might have fallen had a mob of Brisbane's women not swooped down from the platform to seize her by the arms and drag her up the narrow stairs. Tabitha struggled, but it was like battling a fleshy dragon with an infinite number of limbs and a dozen tittering heads. She had to hold her breath to keep from choking. Not even several layers of spicy perfumes could disguise the sour taint of body odor. No wonder Colin had noticed her fresh-from-the-shower scent.

  As they dragged her past a tonsured priest filling out what she assumed was a medieval coroner's report, she craned her neck to peer over the bobbing feather of his quill. Her glasses were still tucked away in her pajama pocket so she had to squint to make out the date etched in his flowery script – Year of Our Lord Twelve Hundred and Fifty-Four.
r />   "Twelve Fifty-Four. Twelve Fifty-Four," she muttered.

  There was something naggingly familiar about that particular sequence of numbers. One. Two. Five. Four. She groaned as she remembered magnifying the amulet's image within those precise parameters. Why couldn't she have chosen one, nine, seven, and six? Then she wouldn't have had to face any challenge more daunting than the advent of disco.

  As they thrust her into the chair next to Brisbane's throne, Lucy's plaintive mew sounded from somewhere behind her.

  She leveled a steely glare at her assailants. "Let go of me, you bullying cows, or I'll… I'll…"

  Sue for assault?

  Dial 911?

  Give you a verbal reprimand?

  Tabitha sputtered to a frustrated halt.

  "You can't blame the wench for being vexed," crooned one of the women as she forced a coronet of flowers over Tabitha's tousled hair. "After all, she'll soon be losing more than her temper." Clucking in mock sympathy, she ran a finger across Tabitha's throat.

  Another woman fanned herself with her pudgy hand.

  "One night with Ravenshaw may cost her both her head and her virtue." She offered her companions an impish wink. " 'Twas well worth it, no doubt. The rogue's prowess in bed surely exceeds even his prowess on the battlefield."

  The women tittered. Tabitha stiffened. They'd have probably been laughing louder had they known she'd failed to incite even the most perfunctory lust in Sir Colin. At least while he was conscious.

  Her tormentors put the finishing touches on her humiliation by draping an ermine-trimmed cloak over her shoulders. She was beginning to feel like Miss America – without the scholarships. Still whispering and giggling among themselves, the women withdrew to their benches. Tabitha barely had time to steal a breath of fresh air before Brisbane drifted back to his throne on a cloud of tart fragrance that smelled vaguely like Lemon Pledge.

  "Shouldn't you be down on the field?" Tabitha snapped. "Defending your honor… or your lack of it."

  Brisbane's nonchalant shrug was enhanced by the ripple of his robe. "Every man and woman has the right to choose their own champion. I've chosen mine and ah… here's yours now."

  Malice oozed from his voice, but Tabitha still couldn't resist leaning forward and gripping the rail that encircled the gallery.

  Jeers and hoots of derision assailed her ears as Colin was led onto the field riding a shaggy pony. They'd stripped him of both armor and shirt, leaving him wearing nothing but his boots and a pair of loose black breeches. He should have looked ridiculous, but even half-horsed and half-naked, he still looked like a man capable of slaying a dragon or two. Robbing him of his shirt only revealed the powerful ripple of muscles honed by warfare and bronzed by the Egyptian sun.

  As one of Brisbane's smirking squires paraded him past the platform, the knight's indomitable dignity shamed the crowd to silence.

  Tabitha was relieved to note that his wound still showed no sign of fresh bleeding. She'd learned from experience never to discount the restorative powers of a Big Mac. And Colin had wolfed down three of them.

  She expected Brisbane to hurl a taunt, but it was the priest who rose from his bench, raised his arms, and piously intoned, "Go with God, my son, and – "

  "I've no need of your blessing, Father," Colin called out, his voice ringing in the shocked silence. "The Church may have failed to protect my property and family as they vowed to do while I was on Crusade, but God always fights on the side of right."

  The priest retreated, muttering something about arrogant whelps and heresy. Tabitha covered her mouth with her hand, both touched and horrified by Colin's naiveté.

  "Cocky bastard," Brisbane muttered. "Let the priest save his blessing for the wretch's burial."

  Tabitha slanted him a rueful glance. If this man called Colin "friend," she would hate to meet his enemies.

  She gasped in unison with the crowd as a monstrous ogre of a man appeared at the far end of the field, his chain mail glinting in the sunlight. He wore a metal helm molded to resemble the snout of a mighty boar. Steel plates protected his elbows and knees, making Colin look painfully vulnerable in contrast.

  "Scot-Killer! Scot-Killer!" the crowd chanted with renewed vigor.

  Brisbane leaned over and whispered, "King Henry knighted Sir Orrick for valor after he killed over thirty Scots during a border skirmish. He brought their heads home in a bloody sack and piked them on his bailey walls like rotten melons."

  She refused to give him the satisfaction of glancing up at the jagged spikes adorning his own castle walls. "Did he also strip them of their armor first? Or were they defenseless women and children?"

  Brisbane settled back in his chair, a pout pinching his lips. "I can assure you, my lady, that Colin has never been defenseless."

  Tabitha found that difficult to believe as Sir Orrick's squire led his master toward the platform. Orrick's magnificent sable stallion dwarfed Sir Colin's pony. She sucked in a breath as she realized Brisbane had added insult to injury by giving Colin's own horse to his opponent. The stallion shied sideways, unaccustomed to the bulk of his new rider. The Scot-Killer drew back his golden-spurred heels and drove them into the horse's flanks, laughing heartily when the squire's tenacious grip on the reins kept the terrified horse from bolting.

  It was the first time Tabitha had ever seen Colin flinch.

  After the horse had stopped bucking and stood trembling in submission, Sir Orrick bowed his head and humbly accepted the priest's blessing. The crowd murmured its approval. Tabitha watched with mounting horror as the ham-handed knight was outfitted with an iron-studded shield and an enormous lance. Delicate ribbons laced its length, but not even their festive splash of purple and yellow could disguise the deadly point at its tip. She feared the ribbons would soon be stained with Colin's blood.

  The crowd burst into laughter as Brisbane's squire handed Colin a lance that was little more than a tree branch whittled to a blunt tip. He accepted the crude weapon without complaint, handling it with the same care Arthur would have given Excalibur. He was not offered a shield.

  Tabitha sprang to her feet. "You should be ashamed of yourself. This isn't a joust. It's a joke."

  Brisbane's lips curved in a feral grin. "One I'm sure Colin will appreciate. He always did have a droll sense of humor."

  She found it hard to imagine the dour Scot having any sense of humor at all.

  "I should think you'd be flattered," her host crooned. " 'Tis an honor to be crowned Queen of the Tournament."

  "In that dress you're wearing, you should have crowned yourself Queen," Tabitha retorted. The effect of her jibe was spoiled when her makeshift crown slid over one eye. Two of Brisbane's women clapped their hands on her shoulders, shoving her back into her seat.

  The combatants were led to opposite ends of the field. A fat little man who looked as if he'd just waddled off the back of a deck of playing cards lifted a golden trumpet and blew a flourish of brassy notes, signaling the riders to commence battle.

  As the armored giant bore down on Sir Colin, the stallion taking two strides to every one of the pony's, the crowd roared their approval. Tabitha clapped a hand over her eyes, but couldn't resist peeking through her fingers.

  Colin used the giant's size against him, ducking neatly beneath the lance's first thrust. The gallant effort coaxed a smattering of applause from the audience, but it was quickly quelled by Brisbane's sullen glare.

  Sir Orrick howled with rage inside his helm. Tabitha feared Colin would not be so lucky on the next pass. The Scot-Killer reached the end of the field and wheeled the stallion in a taut circle. He seemed to be having more trouble controlling the unruly beast. Perhaps the horse had caught a whiff of his master's scent.

  Brisbane clutched the rail with white-knuckled anticipation as he prepared to give the signal for the second pass.

  Determined to win Colin a few precious seconds to recover, Tabitha leaned forward. "I gather that you and Sir Colin were once friends. What turned you into such b
itter enemies?"

  He cast her a contemptuous glance. "You should ask my twin sister Regan."

  "And what would she tell me?"

  Brisbane snorted. "That her precious Colin could do no wrong. Regan was content to spend hours listening to him boast about winning his spurs, encouraging him to prattle on and on about his eagerness to serve both God and king." His voice rose to a shout. " 'Twas disgusting!"

  The priest cleared his throat. Brisbane recovered from his bout of jealousy only to realize that all eyes were gaping at him. He cast Tabitha a furious look before shooting to his feet.

  "To the death," he shouted, sealing both Colin's fate and her own.

  Tabitha's breath lodged in her throat as the Scot-Killer came thundering down the stretch, leveling his lance at Colin's unprotected heart. Colin never blinked, never faltered, and Tabitha discovered she couldn't dishonor him by burying her own face in her hands. As death raced toward him in the guise of a monstrous boar, she grabbed the amulet from her pajama shirt.

  "I wish…" she whispered.

  Brisbane shot her a look, his sharp gaze tracing the length of the chain to her clenched fist.

  "I wish…" she repeated fiercely.

  But she'd spent too much of her life biting back her wishes. Now, when she needed the words the most, they wouldn't come soon enough. Her cowardice was going to cost this courageous young knight his life.

  But Sir Colin of Ravenshaw had no need of magic, only might.

  As the stallion bore down on him, he stood up in the stirrups – his broad chest glistening with sweat, his dark hair flying behind him – and roared a battle cry that made every hair on Tabitha's nape stand up. Sir Orrick struck low, missing his target completely. Colin struck high, ramming his own stunted lance into the vulnerable gap between chain mail and helm. The Scot-Killer collapsed in the sand, the soft tissue beneath his jaw gushing blood.

  The onlookers surged to their feet as Colin emitted a shrill whistle. The stallion wheeled from its mad flight, heeding his master's irresistible summons. Colin easily vaulted from pony to stallion, then swooped low to snatch Sir Orrick's dagger from its sheath. The horse reared, its nostrils flaring at the scent of blood, but Colin calmed the terrified beast with a stroke of its satiny neck and a soothing murmur.