Earth did he afford Castle Grimm? It was massive, very medieval, yet cozy at the same time. Safe, maybe? Covered in tapestries and centuries-old relics, it boasted the ambience of times gone by, and she could easily imagine ladies in long, flowing gowns slipping down passageways for trysts in shadowy alcoves, and men in tights and tunics, swords strapped to their sides, striding across the great hall floor carrying roasted leg quarters and shouting Aye! at the tops of their lungs.
Ellie suddenly noticed something.
There were no pictures. No photos of parents, of grandparents. No brothers or sisters, nieces or nephews. Didn't he have a family? Anybody? Or was it simply Gawan and the ghosts? And Nicklesby.
Weird.
Uncurling her legs, Ellie rose and crossed the hall to stand before the large tapestry of Eleanor of Aquitaine. The scene depicted a battle, with a regal Eleanor dressed as a warrior and straddling a magnificent rearing steed.
Behind her, an army of others, some on horseback, some on foot. The fine stitching showed the most minute detail, including the adoring looks on the soldiers' faces as they stared upon her.
As Ellie gazed over the tapestry, which looked to be centuries old, one of the soldiers in particular caught her eye. She hadn't noticed the detail before now, but then she hadn't taken the time to study it. A mounted warrior, long, wild brown hair hung in disarray down his back, wearing what appeared to be a heavy, steel-studded leather vest, gripped with powerful, hose-clad thighs and tall boots, the sides of a magnificent black horse. With a sword that looked as big as Ellie poised high above his head, that guy meant business. His face was streaked with an indigo blue war paint, so his facial features weren't too clear. But something else was.
Down the length of the bare, muscular arm wielding the sword were markings stitched so tight and fine into the tapestry that Ellie had no trouble at all recognizing them. Tattoos. Ancient markings.
The same ones that Gawan had.
Ellie's memory ebbed and flowed, until something washed up. Eleanor of Aquitaine had been a great queen of both England and France. She was fierce and brave and, according to legend, had led an army into battle during the Crusades. Of course, she'd finally been sent back home, being a woman and the queen. Probably didn't go without a fight, though.
A memory sliced through her ... voices ...
You were named after your great-great-grandmother, Eleanor. Who was named after her great-great-grandmother. All the way back to the greatest of Eleanors.
Oh, Dad, everybody claims to be related to someone famous in history. There're at least ten kids in my grade that say they're related to George Washington. There's no way I'm related to Eleanor of Aquitaine.
Ellie's vision blurred, clouds swirling before her as though she were lost in a thick, soupy fog.
Through it pierced a small shaft of light that grew wider and wider, until a scene appeared before her.
Another great hall. No, just a living room, cozy, much smaller, with a fireplace. A sofa, with a tall, nice-looking man sitting beside a young girl. Fifteen, maybe? Father and daughter. A photo album stretched across both of their laps, their heads bent as they flipped through the pages, pointing and laughing.
The girl suddenly glanced up and looked straight at Ellie.
"Ellie?"
The vision vanished and Ellie jumped at the raspy, lilting voice of Gawan, who was standing right behind her. She knocked her head against the tapestry. "Ow!" she said, rubbing her forehead. Just the sound of the buttery-smooth accent, and in such close proximity to her ear, made her stomach fill with butterflies and, God help her, made her knees go weak.
Dang it.
She really was in no mood, or capacity, to have the hots for some rich, gorgeous, sword-swinging Welshman.
"Sorry," Gawan said. "Is there aught amiss? Are you ill?"
Ellie wondered why he kept staring at the corner of her mouth. Inconspicuously, she
Ellie suddenly noticed something.
There were no pictures. No photos of parents, of grandparents. No brothers or sisters, nieces or nephews. Didn't he have a family? Anybody? Or was it simply Gawan and the ghosts? And Nicklesby.
Weird.
Uncurling her legs, Ellie rose and crossed the hall to stand before the large tapestry of Eleanor of Aquitaine. The scene depicted a battle, with a regal Eleanor dressed as a warrior and straddling a magnificent rearing steed.
Behind her, an army of others, some on horseback, some on foot. The fine stitching showed the most minute detail, including the adoring looks on the soldiers' faces as they stared upon her.
As Ellie gazed over the tapestry, which looked to be centuries old, one of the soldiers in particular caught her eye. She hadn't noticed the detail before now, but then she hadn't taken the time to study it. A mounted warrior, long, wild brown hair hung in disarray down his back, wearing what appeared to be a heavy, steel-studded leather vest, gripped with powerful, hose-clad thighs and tall boots, the sides of a magnificent black horse. With a sword that looked as big as Ellie poised high above his head, that guy meant business. His face was streaked with an indigo blue war paint, so his facial features weren't too clear. But something else was.
Down the length of the bare, muscular arm wielding the sword were markings stitched so tight and fine into the tapestry that Ellie had no trouble at all recognizing them. Tattoos. Ancient markings.
The same ones that Gawan had.
Ellie's memory ebbed and flowed, until something washed up. Eleanor of Aquitaine had been a great queen of both England and France. She was fierce and brave and, according to legend, had led an army into battle during the Crusades. Of course, she'd finally been sent back home, being a woman and the queen. Probably didn't go without a fight, though.
A memory sliced through her ... voices ...
You were named after your great-great-grandmother, Eleanor. Who was named after her great-great-grandmother. All the way back to the greatest of Eleanors.
Oh, Dad, everybody claims to be related to someone famous in history. There're at least ten kids in my grade that say they're related to George Washington. There's no way I'm related to Eleanor of Aquitaine.
Ellie's vision blurred, clouds swirling before her as though she were lost in a thick, soupy fog.
Through it pierced a small shaft of light that grew wider and wider, until a scene appeared before her.
Another great hall. No, just a living room, cozy, much smaller, with a fireplace. A sofa, with a tall, nice-looking man sitting beside a young girl. Fifteen, maybe? Father and daughter. A photo album stretched across both of their laps, their heads bent as they flipped through the pages, pointing and laughing.
The girl suddenly glanced up and looked straight at Ellie.
"Ellie?"
The vision vanished and Ellie jumped at the raspy, lilting voice of Gawan, who was standing right behind her. She knocked her head against the tapestry. "Ow!" she said, rubbing her forehead. Just the sound of the buttery-smooth accent, and in such close proximity to her ear, made her stomach fill with butterflies and, God help her, made her knees go weak.
Dang it.
She really was in no mood, or capacity, to have the hots for some rich, gorgeous, sword-swinging Welshman.
"Sorry," Gawan said. "Is there aught amiss? Are you ill?"
Ellie wondered why he kept staring at the corner of her mouth. Inconspicuously, she
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