His head came up. A radio station! In his mind’s eye, he could see the green flag that represented it on the map, located halfway between Bury and Manchester, to the east of the main road. He knew from overhearing his parents talk that their enemies had no real understanding of the communication network Uncle David had built across England. So far, in fact, Balliol had entirely ignored it. Most of David’s allies didn’t understand how it worked either, but the men and women who manned Manchester’s station would believe Cade was who he said he was and help him reach his mother at Chester.
Excited now and more confident that he had some kind of plan, even if his mother would call it reckless, Cade, with some regret, pulled out his belt knife and hacked at the hem of his cloak to make it look uneven and worn. Then he tucked the blade into the small of his back, underneath his cloak, before scooping up handfuls of earth to pat onto himself, turning the blue wool of his overtunic muddy in color and dirtying up his face. Hoping that was good enough, he hopped back over the wall.
The village green lay in front of the castle entrance, with the parish church on the north side of it, to the east of the road Cade and his friends had come down. Michael and Livia had disappeared across the drawbridge, but the rest of the cavalry were still sorting themselves out in front of the moat. The castle wasn’t really a castle—more of a manor house—and the bailey inside, if one could call it that, was too small to house twenty horses. Which put the stables outside the castle.
First, Cade made a wide circle around the cavalry, in order to make it look like he was coming from the stables. Then, once he’d taken in the lay of the land, so to speak, he ran up to a likely looking soldier, grabbed the reins of his horse, and said in his best Saxon: “I’ll take care of that for you, my lord!”
The man was older than anyone in Cade’s family except his grandfather, and his eyes twinkled a bit. “I suppose you’ll be wanting payment.”
“No, my lord. I serve Lord Pilkington, my lord.”
“An honest boy. Those are rare enough to deserve a coin.” He tossed Cade a penny. “See he’s watered and fed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The man walked away without a backward glance.
Cade just managed to stop himself from doing a little hop and skip at his victory. It was a frightening how easily the soldier trusted. But peasants served their lords and didn’t question. His mother and father had told him it should be otherwise, but Cade had known his whole life that if he asked a servant for something, he got it, and he didn’t have to say please either.
At the same time, ever since he was seven years old, Cade himself had acted as his father’s page and trained with the other noble children in the castle. As his father had instructed from the beginning, first and foremost a lord served his people. The worst thing a lord could do to his son was teach him that responsibilities flowed only in one direction, up to him. A man who gave orders, needed first to learn how to take them. A man who asked others to serve him, needed first to learn how to serve.
Cade led the horse away from the castle gate, which faced east, towards the stable, which was conveniently located on the southern side of the castle. Once there, he simply walked the horse casually past it, every so often checking the horse’s hocks as if the animal were injured, like he’d seen his father’s horsemaster do a hundred times. With all the commotion surrounding the arrival of the riders, nobody paid any attention to either of them. The horse was larger than those Cade normally rode, built for a knight in armor, but Cade had been riding horses since he was three years old and refused to be intimidated. When he reached the first stone wall on the southern outskirts of the village, he mounted the horse, settling into the far-too-big saddle, and gathered the reins.
If the horse had been fresh, perhaps he would have been more skittish about having a strange boy on his back, but as it was, he didn’t appear to mind his new rider. Cade didn’t have the owner’s low voice either, any more than his size, but he did his best impression of his father’s off you go, clicked his tongue, and the horse broke into a trot and then a smooth canter.
With every yard Cade rode away from the village, he felt more and more as if he were abandoning Michael and Livia. But he had learned something since he’d jumped off the tower at Chester. The world had turned out to be a whole lot bigger and more complicated than he’d imagined. He was one piece of a very large puzzle, and he thought—hoped—that by riding south to the radio station, he was putting himself into his proper place.
Chapter Twenty-nine
4 April 1294
Livia
They were walking into a nightmare, and Livia was helpless to stop it. Michael beside her appeared to be nothing but calm, but she could feel the men’s eyes on her, and with Michael a prisoner too, she didn’t think they would be respectful of the idea that the two of them were married. Everyone knew the Middle Ages had no code when it came to prisoners. Since Valence had said he was going to kill them anyway, she was fair game, unless she could somehow be traded or ransomed. David would try to rescue them once he knew about their capture, but he was heaven-knew-where, and by the time he found about it, it would be far too late.
“Breathe,” Michael said.
“I’m trying.”
“I’m not going to pretend everything is going to be okay, but we just time traveled here from Avalon. Time travel is real, and we are here for a reason. Hold on to that thought.”
On the road here, and once they’d been helped by the peasant, Livia had been thinking maybe the stories about society in the Middle Ages were exaggerated for modern audiences, to make them feel good about the levels of cruelty and depravity in their own era. But while Livia appreciated Michael trying to make her feel better, this particular story had gone very quickly from A Child’s King Arthur to Game of Thrones.
They crossed the drawbridge and entered the courtyard of the manor house, and then were herded across the dirt yard to the front door. There, on the porch, they were instructed to scrape the mud from their shoes, which Livia and all the men did without comment. Then they entered, though now their only companions were the first man who spoke to them, the four who’d dismounted to corral her and Michael, and the young lord who wanted to kill them, whom Livia realized by now had to be David’s arch-enemy, Aymer de Valence.
The hall was exactly as Livia imagined a medieval hall might look, with a high ceiling and heavy beams supporting the roof, which was thatched. But contrary to her expectations, the walls and pillars were whitewashed and painted in primary colors. There were arched windows in between the tapestries that lined the walls—four on each side—and the room was lit with daylight and dozens of candles.
The high table looked as it should too, except for not being on a raised dais, and there was a fireplace in the center of the hall rather than on a side wall with a great mantle. A fire burned brightly, however, and they skirted it to approach the high table. Wooden tables lined the walls of the hall—four on each side, each of which could have sat at least ten people, though only a handful of men were present this morning, by the looks all soldiers too.
A middle-aged man with a thick graying beard looked up as they entered. His eyes narrowed, and he said, “What have you brought me, Aymer?”
They were still speaking French. Just ahead of her, Livia sensed Aymer bristle. She supposed he wanted to be called my lord and was annoyed that he wasn’t. It was immediately obvious the two lords were not getting along. That was something Livia and Michael could perhaps use to their advantage, though at the moment she didn’t know how. From David, Livia had an accounting of what Aymer had done in this world, and she knew more from her own reading of his actions in Avalon. None of it gave her a moment’s comfort or any hope for her future.
“We have spies amongst us, Roger,” Aymer said.
Michael’s step faltered. “Are you Roger ... Mortimer?”
Beside Livia, one of Aymer’s men snorted. “He is Roger Pilkington, lord of this pissant village and
not much else.” He spoke loud enough for Michael—and everyone else—to hear, including Roger Pilkington.
Roger’s expression remained serene, however, and his eyes stayed on Aymer de Valence. “You didn’t have to come to me for help. I’m taking a great risk defying the king.”
Aymer made a slashing gesture in the direction of the man who’d been rude. “We appreciate your hospitality, Sir Roger. But the king is surely dead by now.”
“So you keep assuring me, and I keep hearing otherwise.”
“As you yourself said, he wasn’t with the army that marched north.”
“That’s because, as Lord Callum assured me, he had ridden ahead to Barnard already.”
“Alone? While his army rides north in haste?” Aymer shook his head. “I don’t think so. He didn’t make it out of Chester alive, and they’re covering up his death.”
Roger didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue further and motioned with one hand. “Who is this exactly? Come forward. Let me take a look at you.”
A hand shoved at the small of Livia’s back, and she had to take a few quick steps not to fall on her face. She and Michael fetched up five feet from the high table, opposite the place Roger sat. Livia kept her eyes downcast, hating every second of her demureness, but at the same time understanding the need for it. Survival was all.
Of course, Roger directed his questions at Michael, as had the cavalry commander. “Who are you?”
It was Aymer who answered. “Michael de Palermo.” He snorted. “A false name if I ever heard one.” With one foot, he kicked out at the tender spot behind Michael’s left knee, and Michael went down hard. Fortunately, Michael’s hands weren’t tied, so he could catch himself and didn’t land on his face.
Roger studied Aymer. “I was speaking to this young man.” Then he returned his attention to Michael. “Get up.”
Michael stayed on the floor a moment longer, his head hanging. In addition to the pain behind his left knee, he’d gone down hard on his right knee. The floor was made of stone, and the rush mats covering it would have provided little cushion. He would be limping for a while if he tried to walk.
Livia’s head had come up when Michael had fallen, and she had almost gone to help him to his feet. But she stopped herself. MI-5 had been a tough place at times, but it had nothing on Earth Two. If she helped Michael, she knew instinctively it would make him look weak in the eyes of Roger and Aymer, and that was something she couldn’t abide. Michael could choose not to play their game, but she wasn’t going to make that decision for him.
Now Michael rose to his feet, his head high, and met Roger’s gaze. “I am Michael de Palermo, as Lord Aymer said.” Michael’s French was fluent in Avalon, and thus strangely accented here. That, along with his skin color, gave Livia hope he might just pull this off.
“And your father?”
“William.”
“A knight?”
“No, my lord.”
“You rose through the ranks, then.”
Michael tipped his head. “As you say. I was honored by King David himself.” Michael stood a little straighter.
Aymer snorted yet again and put his back to Roger in order to face Michael, who was now standing at parade rest. Then Aymer moved on to Livia, who instantly looked down at the floor again, though for a heartbeat she had met his eyes. They were cold and calculating. He reminded her of every warlord MI-5 had ever interrogated. Men such as he didn’t play second fiddle to anyone.
She could admit she was afraid of him, and all her instincts were screaming at her to either pull her gun from its holster still strapped to her thigh and shoot him in the head ... or run. When Livia had started her training for MI-5, her hand-to-hand combat instructor had told her a good officer disengaged whenever it was reasonable to do so. Running from a fight was an ethical choice, particularly if she was the only one threatened. Aymer de Valence had wreaked a path of destruction across the UK and Ireland that had to stop. The only way forward might be for him to die. She just didn’t know that now was the time or she was the one to do it.
Roger was tapping a finger on the arm of his chair. “So you are a spy.”
“No, my lord,” Michael said. “My wife and I were robbed on the road and left for dead. We borrowed clothing from a peasant woman.”
“Why aren’t you with King David’s army?”
That was a good question and tricky to answer, but Michael had a reply, “My king resolved to take only a few men with him to Ireland, and I was not among them. He gave me leave to travel to Sicily to see my father, who was dying. My wife and I were on our return journey, having landed at Dover, when we learned of the rebellion. We began heading north at once to join Lord Callum’s army.”
“King David is dead.” Aymer was insistent.
By now, Aymer had moved to stand to Livia’s right, but Michael didn’t turn his head to look at him, instead keeping his eyes on Roger. If he was feeling fear, he wasn’t showing it. “King David is alive. You have chosen the wrong side.”
Aymer laughed derisively. “A fool and a liar.” He brought out Michael’s knife and laid it on the table in front of Roger, who merely looked at it before meeting Michael’s gaze.
“Where’s your sword?”
“Stolen,” Michael said.
Roger sat back in his chair, studying not Michael but Aymer. “David is the King of England and, until we hear otherwise, most knights in England still serve him. To do otherwise would be treason. Beeston fell to Callum’s forces two days ago. What is to stop Barnard from falling as well when Lord Callum reaches it?”
“Hakkon has brought a strong force to our shores. He stands in Shrewsbury’s way.”
That was news to Livia. It would be news to David too, wherever he was.
“As you’ve said.” Roger nodded regally. He might not have an actual castle, but he was the ruler of his own hall. “That doesn’t help with our little dilemma today, however.”
“We should kill them now,” Aymer insisted again. “Word that I am alive cannot be allowed to reach my enemies.”
“I thought you just said King David was dead?”
Aymer glowered at Roger. “He is, but until such a time as his armies believe it, I am a wanted man.”
Chapter Thirty
4 April 1294
Michael
Before bringing him into the hall, Aymer’s men had patted down Michael, coming up with only his knife, which had been tucked into the front of his belt. The man who’d done the job had frowned over Michael’s clothing, but once he saw the knife and realized its quality, all doubts about Michael’s standing appeared to have fled, even if Aymer thought Michael was giving a false name.
More to the point, they hadn’t found the gun at the small of his back. Admittedly, it wasn’t a very big gun, and its shape would be unfamiliar to them. Its weight was comforting now to Michael. Oddly, though, he was less ready to use it than he had been earlier. He recognized Aymer for what he was—a spoiled bully who’d spent his life getting his own way. Such a state of affairs wasn’t uncommon in the son of a rich man. It was just unfortunate he and Livia were subject to him now.
At the same time, Michael didn’t know that he’d ever been more afraid in his life, even when walking into, as the soldier beside Livia had called it, a pissant village held by an enemy force. It wasn’t fear for himself that had his stomach in knots, but for Livia. This was the Middle Ages, they were in an enemy castle, and at any moment she could be taken from him. He might have said it didn’t bear thinking about, but he couldn’t help thinking about it, and he had to think about it.
Roger seemed to spend a lot of time studying Aymer and perhaps swallowing down words he didn’t think it wise to say out loud. “Your confidence is intended to bolster my resolve, but it only makes me more wary.”
“You’re doubting your oaths?” Aymer was outraged. He seemed to spend far too much time feeling that way.
“I bent the knee to Balliol,” Roger said mildly, look
ing at Aymer like he was a particularly loathsome spider. “I don’t back down from a pledge once given.”
“You gave your pledge to King David and look what it meant to you.”
Everybody’s jaw dropped at the provocative words said by a woman who swept into the room. She wore a deep red, high-necked dress, and wore her hair, which was graying, braided elaborately, and piled on top of her head.
“Amery.” Roger said the woman’s name with weight. At first Michael thought he was referring to Aymer, since the names were so close, but then he realized Roger was speaking to the woman, who was his wife. If Michael hadn’t had an icy vice clamped around his chest, he might have laughed to know medieval families were happily gender-bending the names of their children as much as people did in Avalon.
Her words were ones Michael himself would have loved to say. He liked to think it hadn’t been fear that kept him from speaking but wisdom. He and this woman were in very different situations.
Amery pressed her lips together and didn’t add to her comment, but she didn’t leave either, taking a seat at her husband’s left hand. Michael’s eyes flicked from Roger to his wife. The lord of the manor was caught between two people who were taking opposite sides in this fight. Michael was wracking his brains to come up with a way to exploit this division when Livia took a little step forward, focused on Roger, not Aymer.
“My lord, King David would reward you well for our safe return.”
At the arrival of Amery, Aymer had taken to pacing back and forth to the right of Livia, but now he stopped. “We don’t have time for this.”
“Why do we not have time for this, Lord Aymer?” Amery said, looking at him with a similar expression to the one her husband had directed at him earlier. “We have no armies on our doorstep. They’ve all gone, leaving you here, out of the action, dare I say as usual? Weren’t you supposed to be fighting alongside Red Comyn at the Battle of Tara we’ve heard so much about and which the king won? And then, having escaped Red Comyn’s fate, weren’t you supposed to work with Thomas de Clare to infiltrate Chester Castle? Now Red and Thomas rot in prison while you remain free. Why is that?”
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