Guilamu chattered like a magpie as he picked up John's boots. "The lady was in the Well of Souls as young master Geoffrey dreamed?" "Aye." Chandos offered no further words or explanation. He rested his head on the rim of the copper tub, eyes closed. Water lapped as high as his armpits. "Send those boots to be cleaned, Guilamu, and fetch me something to eat. I am fair starved. I cannot laze in this tub overlong. The king awaits me at Camber." "He would prefer you attend him smelling less of the jakes," Guilamu muttered as he gathered all of the soiled clothing. "Allah help me, but this cursed well must be a vile and devilish place to hold such a stench."

Chandos dunked his head in the water and came up pressing wet black hair back from his face. "Guilamu, tell Geoffrey I will see him in a quarter hour, no less."

"As you wish, most dreaded lord." The servant bowed before stepping out, closing the door softly in his wake.

Sir John reached for the pot of soap and began to wash away the lingering stench, beginning with his hair. The Muslim practice of daily bathing was a habit Chandos had heartily adopted during his sojourn to the Holy Land nine years ago. There, a cool tub did for the body what heated water accomplished in England--comforted and restored equilibrium.

He scrubbed thoroughly then stood and rinsed the thick lathers with a bucket of cold water straight out of the well. As he stepped out of the tub and hastily dried with rough linen, he could not prevent envisioning the woman that had stood with her head bowed and shivering, naked before him at the well.

Why hadn't he beaten her? he asked himself. She deserved punishment. The h.e.l.l of the past week alone was grave and serious enough to call for the forfeiture of her life.

A wife was bound by her marriage vows to love, honor and obey her husband. Chandos no longer cared if his wife loved him or not. The glaringly evident truth that Isabella did not honor him and more importantly did not obey him, were faults that he would no longer tolerate.

Dressed in clean trews, cotte hardie and dry boots, John de Chandos knelt at his prie dieu and fastened his gaze upon the crucifix fitted to his wall. He tried to pray for guidance, but his thoughts kept going back to that stormy night of a week ago, to the scene his French wife had begun with Edward Plantagenet, king of England. The battle had been in full swing long before John de Chandos had gotten his trews on and charged into his wife's chamber to put a stop to her madness.

Now, the past week culminated in one horrifying vision blazed permanently upon Chandos' mind. The sight of Isabella lying in that pool of filth. He'd thought her dead and felt cheated because she lived. G.o.d forgive him, he could not condone her madness, her screams and threats, and the pain and terror she inflicted on her sons.

For the s.p.a.ce of the entire morning the day after the king had departed, four-year-old Henri and his mother could be found. Chandos had ordered the castle turned inside out. And he had prayed and prayed for little Henri's safety, but feared the worst.

Before the bell in the chapel had rung the Angelus, Geoffrey had found his little brother. But as to their mother's whereabouts, both sons claimed ignorance.

A soft knock on his chamber door brought Chandos out of his nightmare. His head turned and he said, "Come."

The door pressed slowly open and Geoffrey's pale face poked around the carved wood. "You wanted to see me, Papa?" "Aye, come in, Geoffrey. We have much to discuss." John de Chandos took a deep breath as he rose from his prie dieu.

This son had been born during his twelve month absence from England while on Holy Crusade. The boy lifted exquisite, expressive eyes as cinnamon in color as his mother's and his fifteen-year-old brother, Robin.

That was the only likeness Geoffrey bore to any of them. He had not a one of his mother's freckles and unlike either young Henri or older Robin, Geoffrey's ears protruded from his large, well-formed head and were obscured by his s.h.a.ggy brownish-blond hair.

Inspecting him with the same careful scrutiny that he applied to any of his sons, John was struck by the singular question that intruded in his thoughts each time he confronted Geoffrey alone. Who was his father? Chandos cleared his throat, forcing his inner question aside to deal with the issue at hand.

"Geoffrey, you will explain to me now why you kept your knowledge of your mother's whereabouts a secret this past entire week."

"What now is has already been; what is to be, already is..."

ECCLESIASTICS 3:15.

-4.

Evening Chandos Enceinte "Jesus, Ari, help me!" Bella woke herself, screaming.

She sat up, horrified, remembering the macabre snake dance of the electrical power lines, the horrible pain that had jolted through her entire body and sent her reeling head over heels through that h.e.l.lish pit.

Her nightmare went deeper, leaving lasting images fixed inside her mind. She had pa.s.sed herself in that dreadful vortex of darkness and light. Herself--raising horribly gashed wrists heavenward in despair. Blood, dark red blood cascaded down her image's pale white arms. Clenched in the other woman's hand was the horrible butcher's knife that had severed her arteries. Suicide.

No. No. No! It wasn't me! Panting for lost breath, her heart hammering in terror, Bella held her hands before her face in the dim light. She held no knife. There were no gaping wounds splitting open her veins.

Turning her hands over, she found a host of minute scratches marred the backs of her hands and forearms. Bella flipped her hands back and forth, taking deep calming breaths to quiet her fears.

Not dead. I wasn't electrocuted. I'm not dead. The panic drove her to throw back the coverlet and yank up the hem of her nightgown. She gasped as she saw her right knee. A deep, awful looking burn seared her flesh just above her kneecap. The joint was swollen, tender as she probbed it carefully. A raw abrasion had crusted over.

She ought to be dead. She ought to be. That thought swam round and round in her head. One couldn't live through being electrocuted...it wasn't possible.

She felt her left wrist for her pulse and closed her eyes, attuned to the steady, throbbing beat, confirming that she was indeed alive. Living, breathing, thinking. She should be in a hospital, shouldn't she?

Bella took a deep, calming breath and released it slowly. That was a very good question to ask herself. Where should she be after what she'd been through today?

Only then did she begin to take in her surroundings. She sat in a huge canopied bed. Its heavy drapings were closed at the foot and on her left. On the right they were folded back and tied to thick, deeply carved posts. She had a view across the chamber to the fireplace where a small fire still burned rather cheerfully.

The solidity of the bed soothed her, for it was real, solid and tangible. The quality of the linens imparted a calm that went some ways in a.s.suring her that she was in a clean, safe environment albiet unusual. It was the kind of bed she'd seen displayed in several castles she'd toured in Britain, very grand and ornate and probably of priceless value. She had no explanation for waking up in this particular bed, and that troubled her.

Bella would have much preferred that the lingering impressions from her nightmare could be disproved. So far, they were not.

A coa.r.s.ely-woven, long sleeved cotton gown slid off her shoulder. A large black and white cat opened one eye and lifted its tail in a question mark curl against her feet.

The animal blinked, yawned and stretched. Then it padded up the bed and stepped onto Bella's lap, meowed loudly, and nudged its brow against Bella's chin in a demand for attention. As she'd never seen that cat before, its reaction bordered on strange. Bella scratched the ruff of white fur under the pet's chin, asking, "Where did you come from?"

"G.o.d be praise, milady, you have awoken," piped a cheerful voice from a dim recess beyond the fireplace. A moment later the servant who had helped Bella with the bath came out of the shadows, setting aside a swatch of knitting and needles in a basket. She brought a single candle to the bed where Bella sat.

It was still raining. Bella heard the sound of it on the roof above her head and she looked for and found a window on the wall opposite the fireplace.

Clarise put her candlestick on a table next to the bed, folded her hands before her ap.r.o.n and studied Bella with a grave expression.

Bella realized then that she had not woken up a few moments ago when she'd suddenly lurched upright in the bed. She must still be dreaming else that oddly dressed woman who had been in her bath dream earlier would not be standing before her, now.

"Will you be wanting something to eat, milady?" "Is it possible to eat when one is in the middle of a dream?" Bella asked. She studied the woman's costume. It certainly looked authentic in style and cloth...old, but Bella could not affix a date to its simple lines. The cat settled in Bella's lap, grooming itself. "Where is Aristotle?"

Clarise pursed her lips and said, "Lady Bella, Aristotle is right there, licking his paws. The poor beast has done nothing but pine and howl since you disappeared a week ago. Believe me, he hasn't left your side since Sir John let him in."

"This cat is named Aristotle?" Bella raised her hands from the large, overfed feline scrubbing its ear.

"Yes, milady."

"This is weird. My brains have been thoroughly scrambled. I guess I should expect that from being

electrocuted, shouldn't I?"

There was a wooden bowl full of fruit on the small table beside the candlestick. Experimenting, she took

hold of both a pear and the paring knife, marvelling over the fact that she'd never had such a vivid dream. The pear was small and soft, more gold than green, and the knife cut through it easily. Juice dribbled down her hand as she put a slice in her mouth. She licked the sticky rivulet from her thumb and chewed, contemplating the sweet taste. That too was odd, because she couldn't think of any other dream she'd had in her life where she'd tasted any food and recalled it as being sweet, tart or bitter.

c.o.c.king an ear to the steady patter on the roof, she asked the woman standing before her, "How long has it been raining?"

"Eight full dreary days, milady." A curtsey accompanied the woman's answer.

"Eight days? Don't tell me I've been asleep for eight days. That's impossible."

"No, milady, you've only slept the afternoon. You were so exhausted, you almost fell asleep in the bath."

The cat sniffed at the pear in Bella's hand, put its paws on Bella's b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and inspected the corners of her mouth with delicate twitching whiskers. She pushed it firmly down. She would not call the cat Aristotle.

"What is your name?" "My name? Why, milady, I am Clarise. I have been your lady's maid since the day you wed Sir John." Bella shook her head firmly. "No, you are mistaken. My husband's name is Ari, Aristotle. Do you know that he did nothing to help me? I can't believe he just stood there watching while I was electrocuted. I can a.s.sure the rat, I'll be filing for a divorce, now. He can make book on that." All pretense of reticence faded from Clarise's round face. "My lady, Sir John has been pressed as far as I think he will allow. I beg you not to goad him further by claiming you are married to someone other than he. My lady, think of your sons."

"My son? How would you know about Iain?" Bella asked.

"Oh, I get it. This is a dream so why shouldn't you know about Iain." Bella cut another slice of pear and put it in her mouth. "He was a such a wonderful son. I know its been four years, but I still miss him so much. Who is this Sir John person? Tell me about him. You are talking about the man who brought me to this room, aren't you? Is that Sir John?"

Looking more alarmed than before, the woman nodded. "My lady, you know he is."

Bella sighed, swallowing the morsel of the pear nearly whole. "My son can't be here--he's dead. Where is my husband? Do you know? What part of England is this? Where the h.e.l.l am I?"

Clarise answered quickly, in the soothing tones one used on someone very ill, "My lady, you're at your home, Chandos Enceinte in Suss.e.x. Sir John has ridden to Camber to meet the king. You must not worry about the young masters. They are each as healthy as stoats. I will send word they are to come at once. Be there anything else I can do for you?"

"Yeah." Bella nodded. "Food, I need food, something filling to eat, and it would sure help if I knew where the bathroom is."

"Bath--what?" Clarise exhaled in exasperation.

"You know, the toilet. The ladies, the loo, the water closet, or whatever you English call it. Where is one?"

"Toilette?" Clarise echoed confused.

Bella realized they weren't communicating at all. Not only did the lady wear funny clothes, she had the oddest accent Bella had ever heard, yet. England abounded with people who talked with funny accents, but Clarise's took the cake. Bella wondered how the woman would react if she asked who's on first?

Deciding diplomacy was better than confrontation, Bella put the pear core in the wooden bowl and swung her legs over the side of the bed, disturbing the cat. Lord, but the bed was high off the floor! She looked down at the long drop, and spied a bright Oriental carpet lying on the polished oak planks.

Another carpet was spread before the fireplace where the tub had sat when she'd taken her bath. Now the tub was gone and if any water spots or soap had landed on that gleaming, golden oak floor, someone had very carefully buffed the marks away.

The lone candle on the nightstand and the cheery fire in the hearth provided the only light in the dark chamber. The chamber would be as dark and gloomy as a dungeon without them. Then she would be lost and near to panic without light.

A painted shield hung above the fireplace with two gleaming golden helms on either side of it. That brightly painted shield caught her interest immediately. Bella knew a little about heraldry. Such shields on display in manorial English bedrooms meant this chamber had been slept in by a king. Being as England had had lots and lots of kings, nearly every castle she'd visited had claimed one monarch or another had slept in their master bedroom. Sort of like the signs in New England's boarding houses that claimed Washington had slept there.

What was absolutely unbelievable to Bella's mind was the coat of arms depicted on that shield.

The quartered field sporting fleur de lis in two quadrants and the gold lion rampant in the others were the

arms taken by Edward III when he styled himself king of France in 1347 when he'd launched England

into the Hundred Years War.

Beginning to think her dream was becoming unmanageable, Bella asked jokingly, "Clarise, what's the name of the king who slept in this room?"

"Why, His Majesty, King Edward the Third, may he reign forever, milady. If I may be so impertinent to remind you, it was King Edward's visit last week that caused you to walk out on Sir John, vowing to kill your sons and yourself."

"What?" Bella choked. Which portion of that choice tidbit of gossip nearly made Bella swallow her tongue, she wasn't certain.

No woman in her right mind would walk out on a man like Sir John! And why would any sane woman threaten to kill her son? Or herself?

"I said..."

"No!" Bella jerked up her hand in a gesture that demanded silence. "Don't you dare say that again! It

isn't true. I wouldn't do such a thing. Ever!"

Clarise's expression became one of fear and she took several steps backward, silenced by Bella's sharp words. Bella immediately felt horrible for having spoken so rudely.

"Look, wait, um," Bella backtracked herself. "Forget I said that. I think we're talking apples and oranges, here. Let's clear up a couple of things, okay?" "O Kay?" Clarice asked warily. "It's an American phrase, it means right...all right. Okay-all right. It's the same thing, like saying yes. Ah, I asked about that shield, okay?" "Yes, milady." Clarise curtsied again. "You don't have to do that, curtsey to me. We don't do that where I come from, okay?"

"Yes, milady." "Okay, just so I've got this straight. You said King Edward the Third slept in this bed? Last week? Seven days ago?" "Yes, milady." Clarise nodded and curtsied.

Bella ignored the woman's motions and concentrated on forming her next question, carefully. "And you're telling me I threatened to kill my son, last week?"

"Yes, milady."

"Whoa, this dream get's weirder by the minute," Bella scoffed. "You're crazy." She laughed a little madly for the absurdity of it all, then her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Okay, Clarise, so Edward Plantagenet is King, is he? Then tell me this. How old is the Black Prince?"

"Who?" Clarise asked blankly.

Ah ha! Bella gloated, I have her! She clarified her question. "If the king that slept here last week is Edward the Third then he has a wife named Phillipa. Tell me what their oldest son is named and what day he was born?"

Clarise beamed. "Why, young Edward became six and ten the fifteenth of June as does the Good Lord allow him the grace. Praise Lord Chandos' good fortune, all will be here at Chandos Enceinte to celebrate the prince's feastday with us. Milady, you know all of this."

"Indulge me. I've forgotten. Thank you," Bella said sourly, dismissing the woman with a small wave of her hand.

"Why don't you go see if you can find me something more solid than apples and pears to eat?"

King Edward and the Black Prince, yeah, right! Bella sneered privately. What kind of a hoax was this woman trying to pull? That would make this year, 1346, because Prince Edward, the Black Prince was born in 1330. Bella could stake her sheepskin on that particular fact. She was a whiz at remembering dates.

Okay, so she was having a very, very vivid dream and being electrocuted obviously scrambled one's brain--if you lived through the experience.