Life Goes On

By Cathy Gillikin

Brought back to life after the assassin’s blade intended for her husband pierced her heart, Gunhild of Wessex has been told that the only way to die is to find true love, a seemingly simple task in a world where love is a husband who doesn’t hit too often and puts enough food on the table. A thousand years and 22 husbands later, Gretchen James has practically given up on finding the right man; until her medieval history professor decides to reveal her identity to the world, that is. Now the veteran survivor must face a challenge that threatens not only her life, but her heart as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cathy Gillikin
• Release date: May 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533725202

Book preview

Chapter 1

I’ve lived too damn long. I sighed and started copying the questions Professor Barnes was writing on the board. Our midterm was in two weeks and Barnes was one of those teachers who gave us all the questions in advance but he’d choose two to be answered on the actual test day. I wasn’t much of a fan of the system because it took away the adrenaline rush that comes with the unknown.

Granted, there’s little that I didn’t have some kind of firsthand knowledge of, especially of that covered in a bachelors level European history course, but still, I get my thrills in the smallest places. I decided that complaining wouldn’t make me any friends, though, so I quietly scratched away. I like my fountain pen, even if I do get funny looks about it. At least I had finally broke down and use a cartridge for ink, back in the seventies I was that oddball with the ink-well.

Maybe I just won’t bother to study for the test, I thought, writing: ‘Compare and contrast the House of Wessex and the House of Denmark and explain the effect of the Danish kings on England’. I chuckled to myself at the irony surrounding modern complaints about revisionist historians—supposedly liberal scholars who go out of their way to alter the past into a form that promoted their views for a New Age world. I remember clearly the way that my tutors had cursed the bloody Danes, pretending that all effects of their reign had been wiped out.

For as long as modern ‘professional’ historians have studied early England, the stories they’ve uncovered have never been half as wrong. History is usually told from the winner’s prospective and the truth almost always lies somewhere in the middle. If that means revising earlier histories as we discover more evidence to make them more accurate to what was real life, then what is the problem? The world wasn’t entirely the WASP ideal that modern conservatives promote. I’ve lived through a lot of history that is just now making it into the books...and even more that will never be ‘common knowledge’.

Professor Barnes dismissed us and I went back to my apartment, done with classes for the day. I thought about that question he’d asked and started chuckling again. The Danish kings sure had a hand in my English life; if it wasn’t for some obscure Danelaw, I might have lived a much simpler, and shorter, life.

My father was the English king Harold Godwinson, to use the modern English spelling. You probably know him as the Harold who died at Hastings in 1066. I used to go by the name Gunhild, and still do sometimes when I play Dungeons and Dragons and other medieval-ish roll play games with friends, especially when I feel like pretending that I have a great imagination. I don’t, for the record. Real life goes far beyond anything my imagination could create.

After my father’s death, I got my first taste of formal education at Wilton Abbey, learning everything that was proper for a woman of my breeding. That stupid Danelaw made me a woman worth her weight in gold, to use an ancient concept. It made me heiress to some of my mother’s lands, near impossible under English law, which men hoped to convert into their own.

One Alan Rufus decided that I would be the ideal bride and stole me away from the Abbey to marry me against what will I had, which admittedly wasn’t a lot. I was, and still am, a small woman while Alan was uncommonly tall. At the time I was flattered and submitted to my husband as was customary. In retrospect, ugh. He was fifteen years my senior and a brute in bed, but it was a long time before I learned that small fact. Sex education has always been lacking in the public sphere, though thankfully I eventually found female friends scandalous enough to enlighten me.

In any case, Alan, again seen in retrospect, made my life miserable from the first time we met. His actions toward me caused rumors to spread, and while the Middle Ages weren’t nearly as...conservative? (for all my years, I don’t think that I will ever keep track of what words mean what and when) as some may think, and I was still the laughing stock of our town. Alan laughed, too, and then he would proceed to show me how happy I should be to have him. Sigh, my poor naïve body. Still, what ‘friends’ I had told me to enjoy the fact that he was rich and that I was to be a Countess when he founded the Richmond Castle, even if my pride was slightly wounded. I knew that I was in the best position possible.

For all that I hate...well, seriously dislike, the way he treated me, now, I did love him. Or at least, I felt whatever passes as love in 1080. He was my world, or possibly, some small part of me knew that the world that I enjoyed would disappear should anything happen to him. We had no children, though not for a lack of his trying, and I had no one who would care for me.

My lands had passed legally into his possession and together, they would pass on to his heir, his brother, whose only legal duty to me was as he would care for a sister, as the Bible says. But it wouldn’t be the first time that such duty was shirked in a world where Christianity was still just beginning to take hold, especially when I was still young enough to make a suitable bride. In essence, my choices were limited to the husband I had or the husband I didn’t yet know. Humans are creatures of habit and it took me a long time to embrace the thrill of the unknown. I would die to protect the man who was so vital to my life. And I did.

I wasn’t quite twenty-five that year, when a man walked into the great hall demanding a duel with Alan. I still have no idea what precisely caused this, I later suspected my husband’s fidelity, and I would not be surprised to hear that he had acted inappropriately with some woman in the man’s life. His name was Hugh de Montgomerie and he wanted my husband’s head for what he’d done. I, still the naïve child and willfully ignorant of the world around me, was certain of my husband’s innocence and stupidly stepped into the middle of their argument, which put my heart in the direct line of Hugh’s dagger.

My breast stopped the hilt of the dagger, but not before the full ten inches of the blade passed through my body. I don’t recall most of what happened next, but I was told that the room went silent and Hugh’s face turned a ghastly shade of white. Alan, to his credit, caught me before I hit the floor and held my body until a trio of village women instructed him to take me to the kitchen and lay me on the table before telling everyone to leave the room. No one ever told me whether he shed any tears on my behalf, probably out of fear that he would retaliate. I remain on the fence as to whether he showed any emotion over my injury, though for a long time I liked to believe that inwardly he was broken.

The women stripped my bodice away and did their magic. Literally. They never told me exactly what they did, no matter how I asked, but after three hours or so I was suddenly aware again. I cannot say exactly where I was for those three hours; all I remember is feeling fuzzy, like my entire body had fallen asleep, blind and deaf. I hurt when awareness returned.

Not just my chest, but my head, and especially my eyes and ears. It was as though three hours without even the minutest sound was too much. The buzz of a fly across the room was too loud, though this pain subsided after a few hours. The pain in my chest took longer to fade away, which turned out to be a good thing. Instead of being labeled a demon returned from the dead, I was congratulated on my good fortune that the dagger didn’t sever anything major and cause my death. The villagers stopped laughing at the way my husband possessed me, and proclaimed that I was a miracle, blessed by the angels.

The trio, though, knew the truth and shared it with me. I had died and they brought me back. It was the first time they’d tried such a spell and they didn’t know what the effects would be. What they did know was that I was bound to this Earth until I found love. But I was young and married. I knew that I had already met the requirement demanded by the spell that saved me. We actually shared a laugh at my good fortune, since I could easily have been destined to be an old maid. If the trio’s laugh sounded hollow, I didn’t notice, but I did strive to love my husband more. So what if he wouldn’t admit to crying over my lifeless body? He was a warrior. Warriors do not show emotion publically, and the best warriors do not show emotion privately.

At first I welcomed the comments on my youthful appearance, and ignored the implications that they foretold. It wasn’t until Alan was on his deathbed that I finally admitted to myself that my body was no longer aging. He’d collapsed while riding around the estate, checking on its progress. When he was brought into our bedchamber he was delirious and no longer recognized those who’d been with him for over fifteen years. But he recognized me immediately as I settled onto the bed beside him, confirming my worst fears. He admitted a number of secrets which I suspect he wished to die with him and which I will not repeat out of respect to a dying man. It did nothing to change my opinion of him and still does not. The fact that he opened up in such a way suggested that he did not believe me to really be there with him, thus proving that I did not in any way resemble a woman of thirty-eight years. He died the next day leaving me heartbroken and confused. The last of the trio had passed away two years before and I still had no children to care for me.

I turned to the man who now held my fate in his hands, Alan’s brother, also named Alan. We’d never been close, but after my Alan’s funeral, I confided in him about my fears for the future. He asked me to marry him and I accepted, wondering how I could tell him about my ageless status. He proved to be a better man than my first Alan, at least when it came to caring for me. He admitted to lusting after me for years, but he was discreet enough to hide these feelings while his brother was alive. He also proved to be more attentive in bed, though still not to the caliber of some of my later lovers. But his most valuable asset was that he recognized my problem without my ever having to tell him. After three years of marriage and no sign that I had restarted aging, he helped me forge my death and prepare for my new life on the road.

Chapter 2

My apartment isn’t too large, but bigger than the ones usually rented by solitary second year college students. I tossed my keys into the Tiffany bowl someone had given me two centuries before, and went into the kitchen to put a small macaroni and cheese casserole from the freezer into the oven. I do not miss the old days where I kept a pot of stew in front of the fire at all times, throwing in new food whenever I had it.

I was just settling down into the leather overstuffed recliner in front of the picture window overlooking the mountains with my reading assignments for the next day when the phone rang. That might be my least favorite invention. I groaned and crossed the room to my desk to answer it.

Ms. James? a male voice asked.

Speaking, I told him only half politely. I really dislike phones.

This is Professor Barnes. I was wondering if you could meet with me next week to discuss your midterm.

Weird. Umm...we haven’t taken the midterm yet. I frowned at the phone, but put the receiver back to my ear when he started talking again.

I know. I like to discuss the questions with students before the test to make sure that they’re on the right track with the material.

Oh. Okay. I guess I can stop by. Is next Monday at four fine? Definitely weird.

Perfect. Was it me or did he just purr? Creepy. I will see you in class Thursday. Goodnight. He hung up before I could reply.

I stared at the receiver before I replaced it. I would never have thought that the slightly stooping, sixty year old man would have called me in such a way. I couldn’t remember if I’d seen a ring on his finger, but if there was one, I think I would have to hurt him. I can take getting hit on my random men, but a man cheating on his wife, I cannot stand.

I sighed and went out onto the balcony to stare at the mountains. I picked this university for the scenery more than anything else. I didn’t need another degree, so why should I study in an ugly box? The sunset over the mountains did a great deal to relieve the ache I felt forming in my temples after that phone call. I honestly couldn’t believe that my professor would proposition me, but what other explanation was there? I know that if he was serious about the midterm he would have mentioned it in class and had us arrange meeting times then.

The timer on my oven rang. Oh, the beauty of modern conveniences. I took my casserole into the living area and ate while I watched the evening news. More death and destruction; same old, same old. There were a couple human interest stories, though, which always warm my heart—if only everyone could take the time to do more good than harm.

After supper I checked my appointment book, adding in the meeting with Professor Barnes. I had a meeting with the Habitat for Humanity club the next day to discuss the plan for the house we were working on this Saturday. I’d spent enough of my life living in a dirty hovel and I wanted to make sure that other families don’t have to do the same.

I was just settling down, again, to read over my assignments for the next day when I saw that the teaching assistant for Professor Barnes class had included his email address on the syllabus. I decided that it couldn’t hurt to have a bit of foreknowledge about the meeting with Barnes. Maybe it really was purely a professional meeting and he’s just socially awkward enough for it to come across as creepy—it wouldn’t be the first time that has happened. I sent a short email to the TA to ask him about one of the questions then slipped in a comment about not knowing how to prepare for the pre-midterm meeting with Barnes.

I guess he was online at the same time I was because I was browsing one of the on-line newspapers when I got a reply:

Gretchen,

You’ll want to focus on how Harold’s death at Hastings affected the future of England, specifically how the Norman kings’ rule differed from that of English kings.

I admit to being ignorant of a meeting between Professor Barnes and the students prior to the midterm. I’ve never known him to arrange any meeting except when the student risks failing the class. I’m hesitant to make any guess as to what the two of you will discuss, but if you wish for me to be in the area during your meeting, I will be there. I understand and respect a woman’s need to protect herself from harassment of any type and if...if his intentions are less than honorable I will stand by you.

Please, let me know what else I can do for you,

Nick

I decided that having back-up would be a good thing no matter what happened, so I quickly responded with the date and time of our meeting and my thanks that I was probably over-reacting, but it would be better to be safe than sorry (for his safety, not my own, but I didn’t include that part). Our final correspondence of the night was his message to me confirming that he would be in the waiting area outside Barnes’ office during the appointment, but that we wouldn’t try to infer more about it than what we already knew.

I closed my computer and picked up the pile of neglected printouts as I walked towards my bedroom, laid them on the bedside table and went into the bathroom for a shower. I sighed as I examined my face in the mirror before I undressed. For some reason, I’ve been called beautiful for most of my life. My thick reddish gold hair, which usually curled gently down my back, was tangled and frizzy. The abnormally warm March was wreaking havoc on it.

The light brush of freckles over my nose and cheeks hadn’t extended their reign over my heart shaped face since I actually was twenty-four years old. I hadn’t gotten a decent tan since then, either. I’ve been told that my pale green eyes are evidence of my old soul...to me they just look tired. I scrunched my face to see what I’d look like with wrinkles and wondered if I’d ever earn them for myself. Wrinkles are a badge of honor to be worn proudly...or so says the girl who hasn’t aged a day in over nine hundred years. Was I beautiful? Probably not this century, since I was six inches too short according to the magazines and not as petite as I could be given my height. Fifty years ago, though, I was a babe—curvy girls were definitely in.

I sighed again and turned the water on before I undressed. Indoor plumbing is definitely the best thing ever invented and I spent five minutes just enjoying the hot water. Then I felt guilty about wasting the water and quickly finished the task. Shaving was still something I found annoyingly tedious and made me wonder why women had bothered to make it fashionable in the twenties. I put on a pair of men’s boxer shorts, probably the most comfortable thing I’d ever found to sleep in, and a t-shirt before I climbed into bed to read myself to sleep.

My Wednesday was as hectic as usual. Most of my classes met in some form or another on Wednesday, but it left me Friday free, which was really worth it. Also, it’s a common day for club meetings, not that I have a lot of clubs, just Habitat, which meet twice a month, plus I volunteer at one of the local elementary schools reading with the kids on Friday mornings and work at the food bank Sunday afternoons. It’s not a fancy life, but I feel at least somewhat fulfilled. Most of my classes were interesting, but the discussion for my American Civil War class was duller than dirt. Actually that’s a lie. I’ve taken some environmental science classes and dirt is actually quite fascinating.

Nobody talks in the discussion section, so it’s just fifty minutes of listening to the TA, Teri, try and coax responses for her obvious questions. I choose to answer one question during each session, just to get my points, though I see the pleading looks Teri has sent me begging for more participation. I don’t like to attract attention to myself, though, so I don’t comply. My goal in life is to blend in with the wall. The Habitat meeting went well, though there were the usual tangents and complaints, like you’ll find in any group made up of more than one person. Mostly we were arranging rides to the job site this weekend and discussing what we’d say at the state conference the next weekend. We don’t have much say in the way the organization as a whole is run; we are just a university club, socializing when we don’t have a job set up by ‘corporate’ within driving distance, but we do send a representative or two to the annual statewide conference to learn all the new procedures and share our progress.

I don’t attend the conferences because I’ve worked for Habitat for about twenty years in four different states and I don’t want to risk being recognized by someone who knew me under a different name, but yet the exact same face. In any case, I was acting as a driver on Saturday so I arranged a meeting time and place with the three others who’d be riding with me. I was reaching for my bag when I noticed a shadow fall across my chair.

Gretchen?

Yes? I asked, looking up at the tall, dark haired, dark eyed man standing in front of me. He looked familiar though I didn’t know him, but then except for the few people in the club that I regularly socialize with, and the leadership of the club, just about everyone in the room only bore only a passing familiarity. Can I help you?

He frowned at me slightly. You don’t recognize me?

Uhh...sorry. I’m awful with names and faces. I call people I’ve known for months by the wrong name and if they’re in the wrong place, they’re as good as a stranger. I laughed softly, wracking my brain to figure out where I know him from. Nothing.

I’m Nick, TA for Professor Barnes’ class, he said slowly.

Shoot! I slapped my forehead. I knew I knew you from somewhere stupid...not that the class is stupid, just... I shrugged. Sorry about that.

It’s okay, the only time I’ve stood in front of the class was on the first day’s introduction. I’d expect better recognition skills if I led a discussion section or something. He smiled and I felt it to my toes. Woo. Cutie. His smile faded. I wanted to talk to you about that email you sent me.

Uh, first, why are you here? Forgive me if I’m leery about being randomly approached.

Oh. Sorry. I’ve been volunteering for Habitat since I was an undergrad. I guess you blend into the crowd too, since we’ve been attending meetings together for, what, a year and a half and I didn’t make the connection until tonight.

Touché. I looked around the room and realized that it had emptied already. Do you want to talk here or go somewhere else? My stomach gurgled; I hadn’t eaten supper yet.

He heard it. Have you eaten? We can stop someplace and get food.

Yeah, let’s go somewhere. I don’t like to miss meals. I’ve had to go days without food, so I’m always the first person to suggest eating.

He laughed. Not many girls would admit that.

They’re stupid. I grabbed his arm and my bag and dragged him out of the room. Let’s eat.

We walked quickly across Grounds towards the Corner, which has two blocks or so worth of restaurants of every denomination. I pointed us towards a Mexican place. Good?

Yeah, it’s one of my favorite places. He stuck his hands in his pockets as we waited just inside the door for a table. Do you come here often?

Every couple weeks or so. I’ve made a goal to eat at every restaurant this town has to offer, but there are a few that I eat at regularly for one reason or another. I waved at Patrick who works behind the bar; we dated a couple times last year.

Is he one reason?

I looked up at Nick’s face. He was staring at Patrick as though he was sizing him up for a challenge. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was jealous.

No idea what you’re getting at, I told him blandly, but I was happy when a waitress finally showed us to a table and took our drink orders. There was no reason for him to feel jealous, at least, not since we’d just met for real today. I studied his warm brown eyes and the way his short hair stood up at odd angles as though he’d just gotten out of bed. His strong jaw line belied his otherwise scholarly appearance and careful observation of his shoulders and chest showed that they weren’t as thin as they first appeared.  

So, I started, setting aside my menu after deciding to order a pork chimichanga, What are we going to do about Barnes?

Nick handed his menu to the waitress who’d just arrived at the table bringing our drinks, and ordered a couple of tacos. I passed along my own food request. He waited until she’d disappeared again before answering.

I don’t think we should really do anything. I’ll stay close in case you need back-up. He took a sip of his soda.

"Yes, that’s what we decided in the email. Why are