Poul Anderson - The Shield of Time

“A thousand times over.”

“To hear you say that pleases me more than a battlefield victory. Come, drink if you are thirsty, sit down”—Lorenzo spread her cloak on the ground—“and we will thank God for His bounty by taking our pleasure in it.”

I think he means that, flitted through her. He does have his very serious side; yes, real depths in him, which it would be … interesting to explore. She chuckled inwardly, dryly. However, the observance he has in mind today is not religious, and that cloth isn’t laid for purposes of sitting on.

Tension seized her. This is the time!

Lorenzo gave her a close regard. “My lady, are you faint? You’ve turned pale.” He took her hand. “Rest yourself. We need not go back for hours.”

Tamberly shook her head. “No, I thank you, I am quite well.” She realized she was muttering and raised her voice. “Bear with me a moment. I’ve vowed a daily devotion to my patron saint while on this journey.” Sending a slow look his way: “If I perform it not at once, I fear I might forget later.”

“Why, of course.” He stood aside and took his plumed cap off.

For this occasion she had been wearing her communicator out in the open. She raised the disc to her lips and thumbed the switch. “Wanda here,” she said in American English; Temporal sounded too alien. She heard her heartbeat louder than the words. “I think the situation is set up, just about how we hoped. He and I are alone in the hills and, well, if he isn’t pawing the ground it’s because his tactics are smoother than that. Get a fix on my location and give me, m-m, let’s say fifteen minutes for things to get lively. Okay?” Not that Everard could respond without derailing the plan. “Out.” She switched off, lowered the medallion, bowed her head, crossed herself. “Amen.”

Lorenzo made the sign likewise. “Was that your native tongue wherein you prayed?” he asked.

Tamberly nodded. “The dialect of my childhood. It feels more, more comfortable thus. Mine is a motherly saint.” She laughed. “I feel purified enough to be ready for mischief.”

He frowned. “Beware. That edges the Catharist heresy.”

“I did but jest, my lord.”

He put his doctrines aside and smiled like the sunshine on the water. “Yon’s an unusual badge. Has it a relic inside? May I see?”

Taking consent for granted, he laid hold of the chain, his fingers brushing across her breasts, and lifted it over her head. The case bore in low relief a cross on one side, a crozier and flask on the other. “Exquisite work,” he murmured. “Almost worthy of the wearer.” He hung it from a nearby twig.

Unease touched her. “If you please, sir.” She moved to retrieve the thing.

He moved into her way. “You don’t want it back immediately, do you?” he purred. “No, you’re overdressed for this air, I see perspiration on that white skin; let me help you to freshness.”

His palms cradled her cheeks, slid along them, displaced the cloth that covered her head. “What gold blazes forth,” he breathed, and drew her to him.

“My lord,” she gasped as a proper woman ought, “what is this? Bethink you—” She kept back the martial arts, and strained only slightly against his strength. His body was hard and supple. The musk on his breath, the springiness of mustache and beard, made awareness whirl. He knew how to kiss, he did.

“No,” she protested weakly when his mouth strayed down her throat, “this is wrong, it’s mortal sin. Let me go, I pray you.”

“It is right, natural, my fate and yours,” he insisted. “Walburga, Walburga, your beauty has raised me to the gates of Heaven. Cast me not thence into hell.”

“But I, I must depart erelong—”

“Cherishing forever the same memories that shall bear me onward through the crusade and the rest of my days on earth. Deny not Cupid, here in his own abode.”

How often has he said the same? He’s practiced in it, all right. Does he mean it? Well, a little, I suppose. And, and I’ve got to keep him on the hook till Manse arrives with the gaff. Whatever that takes. I thought fifteen minutes was safe, but golly, this is like shooting rapids.

Before long—though time was a tumult—she didn’t beg him to stop. She did try to keep his hands from going quite everywhere. That effort faded fast. Suddenly she noticed they were down on the cloak and he was ruffling her skirts past her knees and well, if this is how it is, I could make a lot worse sacrifices for the cause.

Air banged. “Sinner, beware!” roared Everard. “Hell gapes for you!”

Lorenzo rolled clear of Tamberly and bounded to his feet. Her first, confused thought was, Oh, damn. She sat up, too shaky and pulse-pounding to rise immediately.

Everard brought his timecycle to earth, got off, and loomed. A white robe covered his burliness. Great wings rose iridescent-feathered from his shoulders. Radiance framed his head. He was almighty homely for an angel, she confessed; but maybe that gave a convincing force to the illusions that a Patrol photon twister generated.

The crucifix in his right hand was solid. Within it, she knew, was embedded a stun gun. He’d told her he probably wouldn’t need the weapon. Their badger game ought to work. He and Keith Denison had pulled a similar stunt in ancient Iran, and thereby straightened out a lesser historical mess than this.

“Lorenzo de Conti, most wicked among men,” he intoned in Umbrian, “would you besmirch the honor of your guests on the very eve of your wedding to a pure and trusting maiden? Know that you damn far more than your wretched self.”

The knight lurched back, aghast. “I meant no harm!” he wailed. “The woman tempted me!”

Tamberly decided that disappointment was an inappropriate reaction.

Lorenzo forced his gaze to Everard’s countenance. He had never seen it before, though the Patrolman knew his well, from a time line annulled. He doubled his fists, squared his shoulders, drew a sobbing breath. “No,” he said. “I spoke falsely. The fault is none of hers. I lured her here intending sin. Let the punishment be mine alone.”

Tears stung Tamberly’s eyes. I’m twice as glad we’re letting him live.

“Well spoken,” Everard declared, poker-faced. “It shall be remembered when judgment is passed.”

Lorenzo wet his lips. “But, but why us—me?” he croaked. “The thing must happen a thousand times daily around the world. Why does Heaven care so much? Is she—is she a saint?”

“That is a question for God,” Everard answered.

“You, Lorenzo, have transgressed greatly because His intentions for you were great. The Holy Land is falling to the paynim and in danger of being altogether lost because those Christians who have held it under Him have fallen from righteousness, until their presence profanes the sacred shrines. How can a sinner redeem them?”

The knight staggered where he stood. “Do you mean that I—”

“You are called to the crusade. You could have waited, preparing your soul within the peace of matrimony, until the German king marches. Now your penance is that you renounce this bridal and go to him at once.”

“Oh, no—”

A terrible disruption and fuss, especially if he dares not explain why to anybody but his priest. Poor, spurned Il - aria. Poor old Cencio. I wish we could’ve done this different. Tamberly had proposed taking Lorenzo back in time and making him decline the proffered marriage at the outset. Everard had responded, “Don’t you understand yet how precarious the balance of events is? You’ve talked me into the biggest gamble I can possibly square with my conscience.”

To Lorenzo: “You have your orders, soldier. Obey them, and thank God for His mercy.”