The Knight Before
Yeah, I stayed.
I suppose I expected Nottingham to ring a bell or press a secret button or something and to be waited upon by the staff. Nope. He had smiled that devastating smile, said, “I’ll be right back,” then turned abruptly, walking like a man on a mission.
Now that he was gone, I was...tense. I kept thinking that Irons would show up in some form or another to spook me or that I would have one of those mind-blowing, really debilitating Witchblade visions. I shivered, suddenly feeling cold, and walked over to the fireplace.
I should have left before he came back, before he could take my hand again... I could just picture the look on Nottingham’s face, though, if he had returned to find me gone. He didn’t deserve that. I hadn’t come here to...hurt him. I had come here to give him a thank-you gift. I had done that. So what am I still doing here? I must be nuts.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I am still here because a flower isn’t an appropriate thank-you gift for what he had done for me – and for what that little boy had gone through because of me. Being here and talking with him without an agenda...that, I realized, was my gift to him.
I am nuts. I sighed. That better be damn good ice cream.
I unzipped my jacket and took a step back to get a better look at the painting hanging above the mantle. The painting was of a man on horseback. His left arm held a sword up high and ready to strike, blocking his face. His sword arm had a cuff with a large blue stone. I had a flash of a memory – a portrait of a bare chested woman, her hair covering her face, an arm with a similar sword, a cuff with a red stone that I recognized as the Witchblade...
I shook my head. It might make sense one day. Or not. Maybe I’d ask Nottingham about it. I turned away from the painting, just as Nottingham entered the room. He had two very large bowls in his hands and a silly grin on his face.
He indicated one of the sofas and waited for me to sit. He offered me a bowl of plain chocolate ice cream (which I took) then sat next to me. How could he know I liked my ice cream unadulterated? How much did he follow me around?
I could see his had chocolate syrup and coconut flakes. Damn, that looked good.
“The first time you have something as good as Cook’s ice cream,” he said with a little smile, “it should be pure.”
I returned the little smile, shaking my head. Guess he doesn’t know everything about my life... I took my first spoonful of Cook’s chocolate ice cream. It was the best ice cream I’d ever had. Ever. I closed my eyes as I savored my next spoonful. When I opened my eyes, I found Nottingham watching me intently. He quickly looked down at his own bowl as if he had been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to.
“How is it?” he asked.
I smiled. “Fantastic.”
Nottingham dug into his ice cream. The way he was wolfing it down.... “Nottingham, did you eat dinner?”
With a mouth full of ice cream, he smiled a closed lip smile and nodded. I had to laugh. He was like a little kid.
He cocked his head, looking worried for a moment, then grinned again as he resumed attacking his ice cream.
I was going to ask him about the painting. Instead, I found myself saying, “When I was a kid, my dad would take me to get ice cream after school – even in the middle of winter. We went to this little place a few blocks from our house. We’d talk about his work and school and stuff. God, that was good ice cream. Why is it that no matter how good the ice cream I have is, it doesn’t quite taste as good as that?”
I concentrated on preparing my next spoonful and started to think about Dad. Before I could get lost in my memories, Nottingham asked, “You still miss him?”
His question had a strange, almost disbelieving tone.
“Yeah.” I smiled a little sadly. “Yeah, I do.”
He looked both thoughtful and confused, as if not quite sure what to do with the information.
I raised another spoonful to my mouth and added, “I miss him, and I miss what we never had.”
Nottingham’s brow furrowed and he frowned slightly, waiting for me to explain.
“The little things,” I said, “...the little things that in hindsight don’t mean anything but at the time would have meant everything. He wasn’t there to intimidate my first boyfriend or to see me graduate from the police academy or to yell at me for smoking in high school. We had talked about getting a dog. He died before we could get one so we never walked a dog together.” I shrugged. “Things like that.”
I had never told anyone that. Not even Danny. I was never one to dwell on the past, on could-have-beens...but with Dad...I just...missed him. Dad was my knight, my protector. Everything had been fine when he was around. I know what Nottingham would have said to that – something about how he could make everything fine again or some other romantic crap Vicki would love. So I said nothing. The ice cream hadn’t loosened my tongue that much.
I ate another spoonful of ice cream,
trying not to look at Nottingham. His expression was sad and I had to wonder
if that was because he was sad for me or because he was thinking about Irons.
I briefly wondered if he and Irons had ever shared ice cream, but I wasn’t
about to ask.
He said quietly, “I miss father’s presence.”
I bit back a smart remark because he sounded apologetic not accusatory. He looked at his bowl, his lips pursing slightly. I thought he was going to say more but he didn’t, as if that one statement said it all.
“What do you mean?”
Nottingham opened his mouth to say something then abruptly closed it. He sighed, shaking his head. “If you had known him before, you would understand.”
He set his bowl aside on the floor – something I’m sure Irons would not have approved of. He grinned at me as if knowing what I was thinking and that spooked me enough to be wary of him again. My instincts told me to find a new, safe topic.
“Tell me about the painting.” I cocked my head towards the mantle. “It’s kinda weird for a portrait not to show a face, isn’t it?”
He sat back, crossing his legs and placing his hands casually on his thigh. He studied me intently and for a brief moment, I saw the Irons in him – an elegant, discerning, erudite man. His expression softened to one that was a little more pained, a little more Nottingham.
“That face is not for everyone to see. You could,” he looked pointedly at the Witchblade, “if you wanted to.”
“His face still wouldn’t tell me who he was.”
“Sara, the Witchblade can show you more than his face.”
I thought that sounded a little patronizing, but I let it slide this time because I now really wanted to know about the guy in the painting – mostly because Nottingham didn’t seem too forthcoming with information.
“Or,” I suggested, “you could tell me what you know about him.” As an afterthought, I added with my best girly grin, "Please."
Nottingham looked at me sternly and I was pretty sure there was an internal battle going on behind those bright eyes of his. In that moment, I glanced at the Witchblade as it grew warm on my wrist...
The little boy from before – Nottingham – looking up at the painting, asking Irons, “Who is that man?”
Irons asking, “Do you see him, Ian? Can you draw him?”
The little boy sketching a face that looked a lot like present day Nottingham
“His name was Cullen...”
I forced my attention back to Nottingham who was saying, “...and his story predates the known history of the Witchblade. Ancient Celtic writings tell the tale of an army of Witchblade Wielders – men and women – chosen before their birth to fulfill their warrior destiny.”
I almost choked on my current spoonful of ice cream. “There was more than one Witchblade? Enough for an army of Wielders?”
Nottingham shook his head. “No, you have the only Witchblade that has ever existed. They only wielded it and briefly at that.”
“Why?”
Nottingham shrugged. “To bond with the Witchblade? To guarantee their loyalty? To be connected as no other warriors can?”
He paused and I met his eyes. There was something he wanted me to understand... something just beyond...
A memory from another time of Irons’ voice, “We are linked, you and I, does this disturb you?”
Breaking the eye contact, Nottingham shrugged again. “It is an old legend and an incomplete one.”
“So, this Cullen was one of these knights?”
“Yes.”
I waited for him to tell me more. I didn’t know much about art or history or legends but I did know that paintings were rarely of Joe Shmoe foot soldier.
“And?” I prompted.
“This chosen army was trained in the ways of battle by the Witchblade Wielder. Her name...” Nottingham hesitated, briefly closing his eyes. “Her name was Banrighinn. She and Cullen were lovers.”
I felt the Witchblade warm on my wrist, demanding my attention again...
Cullen/Nottingham with a feral smile, “Your mighty weapon doesn’t seem to work against me.” Pinned to the ground, struggling against his body, anger mixing with desire, his voice in my ear, heated with passion, “Tell me to stop and I will.” His lips on my neck, the briefest touch of his tongue, his voice more insistent now, “You don’t want me to stop, do you?” Pressing my hips up to him in response, his laugh so sexy and so very male, his face before mine with that damned smile dancing on his lips, “My mighty weapon seems to work against you.”
Together, bodies intertwined and languorous after sex, his hand absently stroking the Witchblade, “It calls to me.” My reply with a sudden, intense jealously, “I know.“
Nottingham had stopped talking, somehow knowing that the Witchblade had my attention. I let out a shaky breath. “Go on.”
“Banrighinn grew angry with her lover and henceforth men were prohibited from handling the Witchblade.”
Cullen fighting a battle, the Witchblade on his arm reveling in his bloodlust. Later, placing it on my wrist, the Witchblade demanding, “No! No! Back with him...”
A different day, yelling at him, not caring that the others heard, “You repay my tenderness with bruises.” A flash of sadness in his beautiful eyes, ”I told you I wasn’t a kind man, Banrighinn.” The Witchblade raised in anger yet not willing to transform into a gauntlet, my angry bitter words, “This is why you bed me. So you can wield it. But no longer.” A mad scream at the sky, invoking ancient gods to curse the Witchblade and forbid men to wield it.
I almost dropped the bowl. The visions had come to me without warning and hit me like punch to the stomach...the Witchblade’s fury, Cullen’s bloodlust, Banrighinn’s jealousy – all the emotions strong and as real as if they were my own.
Nottingham was now standing in front of the fireplace, looking up at the painting, his hands clenched at his sides. He was angry again–perhaps at the Witchblade for what it showed me or at me for what he thought I might think of him because of what I saw. I wanted –needed– to know what he knew of the story, what he thought I had learned from the Witchblade.
“Why was she angry with him?”
Nottingham turned sharply to me, surprised more than angry and maybe with a little bit of relief.
“That’s one of the unclear parts of tale,” he said. “One version of the story says she was jealous that the Witchblade...preferred him. Another says that he was a cruel man and that she finally saw him for what he was. A third version says that he eventually betrayed her to her enemies after he was no longer allowed to wield the Blade.”
I watched Nottingham for a long moment. Was he worried that I thought he would betray me? That he had betrayed me? No...that wasn’t him. That was Irons. Did he think that I would care that the Witchblade would like him more than me? I already knew it did from the way it reacted to him.
He seemed to be waiting for me again.
I asked, “What happened to the army?”
“The legend says that the Darkness came and the army was destroyed. Some writings say that some of the Wielders survived and that their children will once again wield the Blade.”
To be continued...