When he’d resolved to ride to England alone, David had been fine with letting Pierre determine the moment that he told his people of David’s continued survival, but they hadn’t discussed whether or not Pierre would explain that it was actually the Duke of Aquitaine who had passed through their commanderie. While the men in the commanderie needed to know to whom they owed allegiance, keeping his and Philip’s identities a secret might still be the difference between life and death.
They rode a while more, both men concentrating on the road, though a glance at Henri indicated that he might not be seeing it. His eyes were focused on a spot between his horse’s ears, and David saw the moment he came to his conclusion—
“Your secrets are safe with me, Lord Ieuan.”
David couldn’t help but laugh. How Henri had come to learn of Ieuan’s existence, he didn’t know. David relied on Ieuan, of course, more than any of his other advisers and friends, with the possible exception of Callum and his own father. Ieuan had pulled together David’s knights, men-at-arms, and archers into a fighting force and earned the trust of all of them—or they didn’t last as David’s companions very long. David was honored to be confused for him, but the lying made him uncomfortable yet again.
David wrestled with himself for a few moments, wondering if it made sense to tell Henri the truth. He might understand being lied to, but part of him would be offended. Ten years older than David, Henri had an air of authority, coupled with a strong sense of righteousness that David guessed wasn’t too far off from his own. And yet, the fewer people who knew specifically that David was the King of England the better. He was out in the open with only one companion. Under any other circumstances, every one of his advisers would be panicked to learn of it.
In the end, David opted to tread a fine line between truth and falsehood. “I do not want to lie to you. I am not in a position to confirm or deny what you suspect. Regardless, I greatly appreciate your discretion.”
“You have it and more,” Henri said.
The miles rolled by underneath them. The first three stations came and went, and as they made fast progress down the road, David realized that he’d been remiss to overlook this unsophisticated way to communicate across great distances. The Templars had, in effect, set up a pony express across Aquitaine, Poitiers, and France. It was, quite frankly, exciting to see.
David had begun a quest for new uses of old technology in order to advance industry in Britain on its own terms, rather than relying on technology from Avalon. Crop yields were up because many of these advances were in agriculture, a field about which David had known essentially nothing before becoming King of England. Most of the ideas for these advances hadn’t come from him: the people who used them had embraced the improvements far faster than some of his other reforms. As a leader, David prided himself on looking for intelligent people, encouraging them to share his vision of the future, and then getting out of their way.
What David had failed to appreciate, however, was that the field of communication could also benefit from doing things the old fashioned way. True, it was expensive to maintain stables and horses—and to pay men to man them—but labor was cheap. Besides which, Templars weren’t paid. In fact, if a Templar died with money on him, he was posthumously expelled from the Order. For economic reasons alone, as much as the one David was using them for, the Order needed to provide havens for their men.
Suddenly, this particular journey was looking far more doable.
That is, until Henri’s horse put his foot in a hole and pulled up lame, and it started raining.
Chapter Eighteen
16 June 1293
Gwenllian
It had been the worst two days of Gwenllian’s life. With nothing to do but mind the boys, she’d been bored silly, and alternating constantly between grief and anger. For the last hour she’d sat in the window seat of the king’s quarters with Arthur, while Lili and Carew talked quietly to one another. Built as they were into the curtain wall, the king’s apartments were the only ones at Westminster that directly overlooked the Thames, which flowed underneath the walls from south to north as it passed the castle on its way east to the sea.
As it was June, the glass had been removed from the windows, and the wooden shutters were open to let in warm air to heat the cold stones of the castle. Here on the western edge of the city, there was a pleasant breeze, and as it cooled her face, one of her blonde strands that had come loose from its clip lifted off her forehead. Gwenllian had hidden behind these curtains before, though not very often, since it was Lili and Dafydd’s bedroom—and really, who wanted to be caught in here by mistake? When she’d last tried it, Gwenllian heard a bit of news about the King of Scotland not known to the general court, but then Dafydd and Lili had gone all gooey (another favorite twenty-firster word), and Gwenllian had fled the instant they’d left the room.
Since they were supposed to be quiet during Alexander’s nap, Arthur sat across from her in the waist-high and three-foot deep window seat, playing with a wooden horse, while she stared down at the water as it flowed passed Westminster. Her heart felt as sluggish as the Thames, and each of the days they’d been cooped up in here had seemed to last a week.
A knock came at the door, and then it opened before Lili or Carew even gave permission. Clare and Geoffrey de Geneville stood on the threshold. Clare had come each day to ease his mind as to how they were faring, or so he said.
Gwenllian wanted nothing to do with him, and though she wanted to turn her face away, she didn’t. He was a like a wild boar, and the last thing you wanted to do with a predator was turn away.
Geoffrey was speaking to Clare as they entered. “Of course, my lord. What is it that you intend to do?”
“I must speak to Parliament,” Clare said. “We are facing an imminent crisis that I fear cannot be averted.”
Lili was on her feet in an instant. “What crisis is that, Gilbert?”
“As I told you before, I have word that France is preparing an invasion force to take advantage of our disarray,” Clare said. “It will launch within days, if not hours.”
“Have you sent word to the other barons of Dafydd’s death, Gilbert?” Lili said. “Lord Callum and Lord Bohun, for example?”
“I have sent my men. This isn’t something they should hear over the radio.” Clare waggled his head back and forth as if he didn’t want to say more but then decided he had to. “I have ordered the silencing of the radio stations themselves to all but those broadcasts I approve. The people are volatile, and we must do what we can to prevent panic and unrest.”
Geoffrey’s lips pinched into a thin line, and he didn’t look at Lili or Gwenllian. Clare continued speaking. “I trust you are well, Lili, or as well as can be expected?”
“Not really, Gilbert. I would like to leave London.”
“Oh my dear, I’m afraid that still isn’t possible. Now that we know what the French have planned, it would be too dangerous. You and the boys will surely be a target of French treachery.” His sympathetic look was nearly unbearable for Gwenllian to see, and finally she turned her head away. The water continued to flow beneath her, and as she looked first at the river, then at Arthur, and then at Clare, a plan began to form in her mind.
She recalled the conversation she’d overheard between Carew and Lili on the walk from the throne room. It had frightened her at the time, but Clare’s growing power had her thinking again about the possibility of escape. Traveling to Avalon from the battlements above the main hall had been too scary and dangerous to try, but Clare had brought them to the one place at Westminster where it might be possible.
She could have waited until nightfall, but with Clare speaking before Parliament, she couldn’t be sure that any of them would live to see another night. Gwenllian got her feet under her, leaned forward, and took Arthur in her arms. He looked up at her, frowning, but Gwenllian smiled at him and edged towards the open window. As always, nobody paid her any mind, especially since Clare was again gently e
xpressing to Lili his grief at Dafydd’s death.
Gwenllian just managed to stop herself from scoffing: Clare wanted power, just like every other Norman baron. Dafydd had lectured her more than once about governing, and it was a mantra with him that once a man gained a little bit of power, he would fight tooth and nail—maybe even to the death—to keep it. But then, though none of the Normans glanced at her, when she looked again, Carew had moved ten paces closer, even if his head was turned studiously away and he was looking towards Clare as if he was paying attention to what the treacherous baron was saying.
Gwenllian could tell he was keeping half an eye on her, however. Because of it, she decided she’d better act before she could think too hard about what she was doing and stop herself. After a single indrawn breath, she clutched Arthur to her, faced the river, and crouched over the edge. It was a long way down to the Thames. Gwenllian didn’t see how Dafydd could have done this so many times, but the fact that he had done it even once and lived gave her courage. Maybe he would be angry with her for risking Arthur’s life, but she also hoped that he would be proud of her for doing what had to be done.
She squeezed Arthur tightly. “Hold on, cariad.”
And then she jumped.
Chapter Nineteen
16 June 2021
Christopher
“You are not going to spend the summer playing computer games!” Dressed in a dark purple power suit with matching heels, Christopher’s mother stood on the slate tiles of the foyer, late for work, which was what Christopher secretly thought was amping up her anxiety. She and his father had stayed up late last night arguing about him, of all the crazy things. At midnight, Christopher had put in his earbuds and gone to sleep so he couldn’t hear them anymore.
His little sister, Elen, who really wasn’t all that little anymore, was already in the car. She’d be dropped off at a friend’s house on his mom’s way to work. Christopher had asked for the job of keeping an eye on Elen this summer, since at eleven she was too old for a nanny but not old enough to stay home by herself all day, but his mother had scoffed at him and never taken the offer seriously. She didn’t trust him.
“I stopped by every store in Radnor yesterday to apply for a job,” Christopher said, trying to keep his voice reasonable. A few millimeters under six feet tall, thin but athletic, he ran a hand through his red hair, struggling not to get mad back at his mom. “I’m trying.”
“Try harder!” Elisa turned on her heel and marched out the front door, leaving Christopher alone in his empty house.
He couldn’t say that he was used to his mother’s temper, since she was normally far more reasonable than this, and it seemed to have come on recently, but he took it philosophically as something he couldn’t do anything about. His father had asked that he be patient: Christopher would turn eighteen in three days, at which point his plan was to apply for a police officer trainee position, rather than to attend Dickenson, even though he’d gotten in. It was freaking his mother out, and Christopher’s father guessed that Elisa was hoping that if Christopher got some other kind of job he would change his mind.
Christopher was pretty sure that being a policeman—on the way to ultimately joining the FBI—was what he wanted to do, however, and he hadn’t actually turned Dickenson down. He’d talked to them about the possibility of deferring for a year, the deadline for which was August 1st, and they told him to just let them know. If the admissions office wasn’t complaining, he didn’t see why his mother should either.
It was true that in order to be an FBI special agent he needed a bachelor’s degree. He just didn’t see the need to get one now, though, when David could come back at any time. And if Christopher was already in the work force, he could be of better use than if he was in school. Besides, if he didn’t get any kind of decent work between now and August, he’d go to school. Dickenson even had a major in domestic and international security, which sounded cool.
Christopher completely understood why his mother minded. She was afraid that he would a) get a police officer position; b) like it; and c) die in the line of duty; or d) (and worst of all) take the skills he’d learned in the line of duty and go to the Middle Ages with David the next time he came back.
Meanwhile, the dad of one of his friends had refurbished an old mill on his property (he was a surgeon in his day job) and had been teaching Christopher about all sorts of ways to use a watermill to not only create electricity but to power everything from mill stones for grinding oats, to saws, drills, and the bellows for a forge (along with an occasional lecture on human anatomy and medicine). Christopher hadn’t known how important a crankshaft and flywheel could be, and he’d learned more cool things in the last six months since they’d gotten back from Wales than in his entire high school career.
He’d also gained ten pounds of muscle in his upper body working with Jon’s dad, and he’d started doing a hundred push-ups and a hundred sit-ups every day to augment the process. He’d need the strength for the police academy when he went. For whatever reason, his mother didn’t approve of Jon’s dad either, so Christopher didn’t bother to tell her that he was going to Jon’s house this morning, rather than continuing his quest for a job.
He settled into his 1998 Honda Prelude, which his father called his chick magnet, though only under his breath so Christopher’s mom couldn’t hear. On the Main Line, where every other kid Christopher knew drove a hand-me-down (or new!) BMW, Mercedes, or Lexus, the little Honda stood out. It had even been stolen once, since old Hondas made great street racers. The thieves had painted it matte black, put on three thousand dollar tires, and made a giant hole in the dashboard when they’d taken out the stereo. What’s more, even after two hundred thousand miles, the sunroof didn’t leak, and whatever the thieves had done to the engine had made it one of the fastest cars at his high school.
Not that he was supposed to know that.
The cops had recovered it because the guy who’d stolen it had been driving around suburban Bryn Mawr at midnight without headlights or a muffler. Once pulled over, the driver had proved to have a gun in the driver’s side door, one on the passenger seat, and a military knife in his boot. The cop’s comment to Christopher’s father had been, “Stealing your car is the least of his problems.”
Christopher really wanted to be a cop.
That wasn’t going to happen today, however, so rather than stew any more about his mother’s attitude, Christopher headed to his friend’s house. Jon lived southeast of Radnor, and the best way to get there was to drive the back road past Bryn Mawr College, swing around the train station, and then cut across Lancaster Avenue heading south. Halfway there, however, he heard a rattling from the front right fender and realized that the driving light had come out of its socket again. When the police had recovered the car, it had still been a work-in-progress for the thieves. In the process of turning it into a street car, they’d stripped the screws on some of the lights. Christopher was responsible for paying for his own car, so he’d replaced this particular screw three times himself, rather than take it to a shop. It was probably time to let a professional handle it.
For the moment, however, he pulled across the cobbles in front of the train station and stopped in a parking spot for taxis. A train wasn’t due for another twenty minutes, and he figured he’d be long gone by then. He got out of the car and walked around to the front to squat by the light. Sure enough, the screw had worked loose again. It was clear that the issue was the stripped threads in the fixture itself, not the screw, which appeared to be intact. He stuffed it back into place anyway, and then popped the trunk. Duct tape was the logical solution until he could get it fixed properly.
It was only after he closed the trunk and was holding the duct tape in his hand that he noticed the girl and boy sitting on the bench as if they were waiting for a taxi. The little boy was crying, and the girl had her arm around his shoulders and was whispering into his ear. She looked Amish in her long dress and braids down her back, and the boy was w
earing a dress-like garment too, though on closer inspection it was more like an oversized shirt belted at the waist.
At the thud of the closing trunk lid, the girl looked over at Christopher, and he realized that she was closer to twelve than the fifteen he’d first thought. Though she was blonde and tall—maybe as tall as his mom (without heels)—her face was really young. He didn’t think intervening in an Amish family issue, which he figured this had to be, was the best idea on the planet. Plus, he was about to be later than he’d told Jon and Paul he’d be there. But the girl was so close in age to his little sister that he couldn’t just drive away and leave them crying on the bench.
“Are you guys okay?” he said from where he was standing beside his car. He thought it would be better not to actually go over to them yet. They might be afraid of a stranger.
The girl’s eyes widened. “What did you say?” She spoke with a bit of an accent, which he couldn’t place.
“I asked if you guys were okay,” he said.
The girl looked at him warily for a second, and the boy stopped crying enough to look at him too. Christopher risked stepping closer. “Are you waiting for someone?” When they didn’t answer that question either, he added, “I’m Christopher.”
“I’m Ar-ar-arthur. I’m four, and this is Gwenllian. She’s almost eleven.” Arthur said the girl’s name with that spitting sh sound Christopher had heard in Wales.
Christopher swallowed hard and moved onto the sidewalk. “Did-did you say your names were Arthur and Gwenllian?” He knew he wasn’t pronouncing the girl’s name right, but he thought he might be close.
The girl nodded.
Christopher’s heart started pounding hard. With some more tentative steps, he crossed the sidewalk and crouched in front of them, one hand on the arm of the park bench they were sitting on. “Um … I’m David’s cousin.”
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