The instant she had the money, she left, and Nicholas went back inside the church. Slowly, he walked to the tomb, his tomb, and ran his fingers over the carving of the death date. Had he died when he’d traveled through the void? When the witch had conjured him forth to this time—the churchman had said it was now 1988, four hundred and twenty-four years later—did that mean she had killed him in 1564?
How could he make her understand that he had to return? If he had died on 6 September 1564, that meant he had proven nothing. It would mean he had left too much undone. What horror had befallen the people he’d left behind?
Nicholas had dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor and begun to pray. Perhaps if his prayers were as strong as the witch’s magic, he could overrule her power and return himself.
But as he prayed, his mind raced. Phrases ran through his head: The woman is the key. You need to know. These words were what he heard over and over.
After a while he stopped reciting prayers and opened his mind to his thoughts. Witch or no, the woman had brought him forward, therefore only she had the power to return him to his own time.
Yet, for all that she had brought him forward, she did not seem to have a use for him. Perhaps, Nicholas thought, she had not meant to call him forth. Perhaps she had great power, but knew not how to use it.
But, again, perhaps he had been pulled across time for some reason neither of them knew.
So why had he come forward? he wondered. Was he to learn something? Was this witch to teach him something? Could it be possible that she was as innocent as she claimed to be? Had she been weeping over some base lovers’ quarrel, and, for some reason neither of them knew, she had conjured him forward to this dangerous time when chariots drove at unimagined speeds? If he learned what he needed to know here, would he then return to his proper time?
The witch was the key. The phrase kept running through his mind. Whether she had brought him forth through malicious intent or by unhappy accident, he was sure that she held the power to return him. And if that were true, then, through her, he was to learn what he must in this time.
He must bind her to him, he thought. No matter what the cost to his peace, no matter if he had to lie, slander, blaspheme, he knew that he must bind the woman to him. He had to see to it that she did not leave him until he discovered what he needed to know from her.
He remained on his knees, praying for God’s guidance, asking advice, and pleading with God to stay with him as he did what he must do and learned what he needed to know.
When the woman returned to the church, Nicholas was still praying, and while she was complaining about the money Nicholas had given her, he offered God his thanks for the woman’s return.
THREE
Who are you?” Dougless asked the man wearing the ridiculous costume. “And where did you get these coins?” She watched him get off his knees, and from the ease with which he moved in the heavy armor, she knew he must have been rehearsing with it for a long time. “Are the coins stolen?”
When she saw his eyes ignite, she stepped back. She didn’t want him to press a sword against her throat again. But she saw him calm himself.
“Nay, madam, the coins are my own.”
“I can’t accept them,” Dougless said firmly, holding out the coins. “They’re quite valuable.”
“They are not enough for your needs?” he asked softly, even giving a slight smile.
Dougless gave him a suspicious look. A few minutes ago he was attacking her with a sword, but now he was smiling at her as though he meant to . . . well, to seduce her. The sooner she got away from this crazy man the better off she would be, she thought.
When the man made no effort to take the coins, she put them on the edge of the tomb. “Thanks for offering them to me, but no thanks. I’ll make do some other way.” She turned to leave the church.
“Pause, madam!” he said loudly.
Dougless clenched her fists at her sides. This man’s pseudo-Elizabethan grammar was getting on her nerves. She turned to face him. “Look, I know you have problems. I mean, maybe you cracked your head and can’t remember who you are, but that’s not my problem. I have problems of my own. I don’t have a penny to my name, I’m hungry, I don’t know anyone in this country, and I don’t even know how I’m going to get a bed tonight, even if I could afford one.”
“Nor do I,” the man said softly, looking at her with sad, hopeful eyes.
Dougless sighed. Needy men, she thought, the bane of my life. But this time, she told herself, she wasn’t going to fall for it. This time she wasn’t going to help an insane man who, when angry, pulled a sword on her. “Go outside the church, take a right—be sure and watch out for cars—walk two blocks, then take a left. Three blocks past the train station is a coin dealer. He’ll give you lots of modern money for your old coins. Then take the money, buy yourself some proper clothes, and check into a good hotel. Miss Marple says there are few problems in life that can’t be solved by a week in a good hotel. If you take a long, hot bath, I’ll bet your memory will return in no time.”
Nicholas could only stare at her. Did this woman speak English? What was a “block”? Who was “Miss Marple”?
At his blank look, Dougless sighed again. She could no more leave him alone than she could leave an injured puppy in the middle of the highway. “All right,” she said at last. “Come with me to the telephone and I’ll point you on your way. But that’s it. That’s all I’m doing! You’re on your own after that.”
Quietly, Nicholas followed her out of the church, but he stopped in his tracks when they stepped outside the gate. What he was seeing was too horrifying to believe.
After only a few steps, Dougless realized the man wasn’t behind her. Turning, she saw him gaping at a young girl on the opposite side of the road. She was dressed in the current English idea of chic: all in black. She wore tall black high heels, black hose, a tiny black leather skirt, and a huge black sweater that reached to the top of her thighs. Her short hair was sprayed purple and red, and stuck up like a porcupine’s quills.
Dougless smiled. The punk rocker-influenced fashions were a shock to anyone, much less to a crazy man under the illusion that he was from the sixteenth century. “Come on,” she said good-naturedly. “She’s ordinary. You should see the people attending a rock concert.”
They walked to the phone booth, and Dougless again gave him directions but, to her annoyance, he didn’t leave, but stood outside the booth. “Please go away,” she said, but he didn’t move. I’ll ignore him, she thought as she picked up the telephone, but she put it down quickly and turned to him. “I think