Chapter 12 #3
He laughed and passed one hand over my head.
“And you must herewith cover your beauteous hair, which is unruly and brazen and insults the entire world,” he continued.
I stared at him with a stupid grin on my face.
Your beauteous hair, I repeated dreamily to myself.
Jean raised an eyebrow and then glanced down at Brunette.
I could have sworn she raised an eyebrow too.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I admitted shyly.
“Can you give me a hand?” He shook his head in disbelief but looked at me with kindness in his eyes.
He poked around in one of the pouches. “Alas, I do not have a spare thread,” he apologized.
“Perchance you have another method of gathering your hair?”
I took out a velvet scrunchie from my bag, which I’d left beside the spring, and gathered my hair into a low ponytail.
“What is that thing?” Jean pointed at the scrunchie.
“A scrunchie,” I said lethargically.
“Give it to me,” he said, and as I removed it from my hair, I noted that the commanding tone in his voice had an immediate effect on me.
“What do you say?” I asked, still holding the scrunchie. “I’m not some serf of yours.”
He gestured impatiently, and I relinquished my grasp.
He examined the scrunchie thoroughly while I busied myself braiding my hair.
A torrent of sexy visions rushed through my head as I watched him stretch the scrunchie and then release it.
Finally, he gathered up a clump of Brunette’s fur and twisted the scrunchie around it while she barked.
“What. Is. This. Wonderful. Thing?” he asked again, awestruck.
“It’s a scrunchie,” I repeated. Was it possible that after the plastic bottle, the cell phone, the rolling paper, the zipper, and my steady insistence that I belonged to another time, it was the scrunchie that broke through and convinced him I was from the twenty-first century?
“It’s made from elastic and velvet,” I added, hoping this might be a better explanation. I picked up the scrunchie, brushed the dust off, and twisted it around the end of my braid.
“Perchance Thibaut was right? You are indeed a fairy?” he asked, his eyes round like saucers.
“I wish,” I sighed. “I don’t understand it any better than you do. This isn’t something I ever believed possible, but I really am from another time. I was born almost eight hundred years from now, and somehow I’m able to travel to your time.”
Jean sat down by the spring and washed his face.
I thought I heard him reciting a prayer.
My Latin was pretty rusty. “So, what should I do with this?” I pointed in the direction of the white cotton bundle.
“Do you really not know?” he asked, struggling to erase the disbelief in his voice but resigning himself to the situation.
“I really don’t know,” I answered, puffing my cheeks out.
He drew close to me and took a thin strip of cotton from the bundle.
“I would ask if you have a pin, but because I fear further terrifying discoveries, I will use one of my own,” he explained and removed two pins, slightly curved and soft to the touch, from one of his pouches.
“One more discovery like that, and I might lose my male vigor,” he added, winking again.
“God forbid,” I muttered.
He wound the strip around my face and under my chin and secured it to my head with the pin.
He then secured the tip of my braid with the other pin.
He took the thicker piece of fabric and wound it around my head with practiced expertise.
Finally, Jean placed a rectangle of the sheer fabric over the entire thing, so that it cascaded down on either side of my face.
“Lovely,” he declared after surveying his handiwork.
“Do you do this often, putting scarves on strange women’s heads?
” I asked petulantly. For some reason, I wanted to undermine the self-satisfaction that radiated from him.
“I do not,” he said congenially, “but I grew up with a sister who was very fond of me. She allowed me into her chamber at almost all hours of the day when I was a child, and by studying how her maids tended to her needs, I learned many useful things.”
“I wish I could see what I look like,” I said out loud.
Jean scrutinized me, a half-smile on his face, and then his eyes came to rest on my shabby sneakers.
Once upon a time, they were black, with thick silver laces that had faded and now looked like dying worms. Although the dress was long, the tips of my sneakers peeked through like two bulldog puppies under a fancy tablecloth.
“Your shoes are a veritable heresy,” Jean muttered. “They are unsightly and conspicuous,” he added, knitting his brows together. “An oversight on my account. If we chance upon other people, I beg you to make an effort to conceal those under your dress.”
“They’re really comfortable,” I defended my sneakers in a low voice.
“Next time, I will be sure to bring you presentable footwear,” he responded, rearranging the blanket on the ground near the spring.
Brunette stretched out beside it. Next time …
I suddenly wondered what time it was and remembered my real life.
Halimi was probably trying to get a hold of me.
If I didn’t get in touch with him soon, he’d flip out.
I glanced at my wristwatch and remembered it didn’t work here.
“What is that piece of jewelry?” Jean asked, his curiosity aroused.
“I’m afraid it will affect your male vigor,” I said guardedly.
Jean burst out laughing, and Brunette barked. “Never in my life have I met a lady so quick-witted, Lady édith, and I have met some of the wittiest ladies in the world,” he boasted.
I accepted the compliment with a shrug of my shoulders, hoping I looked graceful, and concluded that wit was apparently not the prime virtue of the ladies Jean had met in his life. I removed my watch and handed it to him.
“What is the meaning of these signs?” he asked, examining the watch from every angle, holding it up close, and then moving it away.
“Those are numbers,” I said. “They symbolize the hours of the day.” I recalled that in Europe, they used Latin letters until quite late in the century to symbolize numbers.
“Numbers?” A spark of excitement appeared in his eyes. “According to the Saracen system? I read a manuscript on the topic, by a Pisan named Leonardo Bonacci. Sharp as a razor, I met him in Foggia when I was serving the emperor … It is indeed similar! Do you know him?”
“I’m not …” I began, but Jean was barely listening to me anyway. “What are these needles?” he continued. Brunette wagged her tail vigorously.
“The hands. The needles point to the correct hour,” I said in a vaguely patronizing way. “When it works. I think being dunked in the spring and sucked through to another time didn’t do it any good.”
“May all the saints come to my rescue,” Jean muttered again. “Is it truly possible you are from another time?”
I nodded. Jean fell silent.
“If you want—we can try traveling to my time together,” I suggested and immediately panicked at the idea.
“I fear I have already tainted my miserable soul by my contact with you. Let us tarry awhile before proceeding to further sins,” he finally said.
I sat down on the blanket Jean had spread out by the spring and helped myself to a couple of dates.
The dress and the head covering forced my body, particularly my neck, into positions I was unfamiliar with, and now I really felt like the lady Jean took me for.
Meanwhile, Jean leaned against the tree, his legs stretched out, one crossed over the other.
“So, where are we off to today?” I finally ventured.
“I know not why, but I long to bring you to my estate, Arsur. Would you care to visit there?”
“Arsur?” I asked, startled. “Is it close by? I thought it was the estate of your forefathers in France or somewhere.” Jean looked askance.
“And I thought, my good lady, that you were from these parts. Arsur is situated on the southern coast, only two or three hours away by boat, a pleasant cruise. It was my good mother’s estate, may she rest in peace.”
Finally, I understood. “Do you mean Arsuf?” I asked.
Jean’s eyebrows rose. “The Saracens and the Greek peasants call it by that name, yes.”
Jean, Lord of Arsuf. I visited the National Park of Apollonia once, the archeological site of Arsuf.
We went there one Saturday with Halimi’s sister and her family, and I dawdled by a large arched window that overlooked the sea, where the Crusader ruins stood.
A soft breeze whispered in my ears. I broke out in goose bumps.
“Is Arsuf your estate?” I gasped. “So, why don’t you live there? And why did you travel to Acre to see your wife?”
“I inherited the estate just four years ago, when my father passed away.” He was clearly amused by my avalanche of questions.
“For years, the castle stood neglected. My mother left only a skeleton staff there after marrying my father and moving to Beirut. The town thrives, but the fortress is unfit to lodge lords, and it lacks the splendor and comfort that my wife is accustomed to.” He paused.
I smiled at him encouragingly, and he continued.
“She loves Acre, where she was raised, and feels at home among the bustle and commotion of the town.” I nodded.
He became more animated. “I am strengthening the fortifications and repairing the castle at Arsur, in order that in the coming year, we will be able to live there as befits us, lord and lady of the castle. There have not been such goings-on at the castle since the Coeur de Lion took it back from the Saracens.”
“The Lionheart? Richard?” I asked and couldn’t help but remember the lion in the animated version of Robin Hood.
“Is there another Lionheart?” Jean asked with a smile.
“Not that I know of,” I said as I popped another date into my mouth.
“The weather is clement, the wind is with us, and I must meet with my seneschal. Would you care to sail there with me, Lady édith?”