Bronwen knelt on the window seat and leaned out. They were in a corner apartment on the top floor of the palace. Below them was the River Seine, which surrounded the whole Île de la Cité, acting like a protective moat, and straight ahead was the right bank of Paris. Off to her right, Bronwen could see the brightly lit tower of the Paris Temple and, if she squinted, men pacing the battlements. If she leaned out even more and looked to her left, she could see extensive gardens associated with the palace, entirely empty at this time of night.
She looked back to the room. “Is it close to time?”
“I was waiting until I was sure the guards were gone, but I think now our best option is to make it time. Those guards could return at any minute.” David took an unlit candle from a side table, lit it from the fireplace, and set it in on the windowsill. The flame flickered in the breeze, and David angled his body to protect it as best he could. Otherwise, rather than admiring the view, she suspected he was contemplating how many sheets they’d need to tie together to escape out the window to the garden below.
And then, across the Seine, a light flared in a window, vanished, and flared again.
David motioned for Lili to come closer. “Dot dash dot, dot dash dash dot, dash.”
“That says report,” Lili said.
Even Bronwen knew that one.
David blew out the candle, which had been intended as a way to signal to the safe house where they were and that it was safe to talk, and pulled out a mini-flashlight, one of several distributed among the participants in this mission. Dash dash dash, dash dot dash.
Bronwen knew that too: OK.
No response came, but that was deliberate, since they wanted to keep communication to a minimum. If David’s reply had been anything other than OK, particularly SOS, those watching from the safe house would have leapt into action.
Lili relit the candle and set it in the window, this time on the left side. They didn’t know how long they’d be incarcerated, and they wanted their captors to grow used to the sight of a candle in the window. If it went out, their friends weren’t to worry, but if it was switched to the right side, they needed immediate help. They might not always have time or opportunity for an SOS.
Bronwen looked down towards the river. “Everything within me is shouting that we should be getting out of here right now.”
Lili perched a hip on the window seat. “But we can’t. We can only wait. They have no idea what we’re doing or what they’ve started.”
Bronwen grinned. “They should have paid closer attention to history.”
David barked a laugh. “We all should. Though, truth be told, we know too much as it is. Just look at Humphrey de Bohun. The man is a pain in my side if there ever was one, but he keeps me honest.”
Bronwen nodded. “Unfortunately, Philippe doesn’t have a Humphrey de Bohun.”
If this were Avalon, the war against France would put Bohun’s back up, prompting him to pen a magnificent document called The Remonstrances. In it, he essentially told King Edward no taxation without representation! and refused to go to war with him in France. The confrontation ended with Edward backing down, miracle of miracles, and reconfirming the principles laid out in Magna Carta nearly a hundred years earlier.
Humphrey de Bohun had written that document for the same reason he was a staunch supporter of David today. He had been right to question the absolute power Edward claimed as King of England.
Even if the Normans had brought a kind of feudalism to England, it wasn’t feudalism in its fullest form. English barons, Marcher lords, merchants—even whole towns—believed they had God-given rights, and heaven help the king who encroached or infringed a hair’s breadth on any one of them.
David swung around to kick a piece of wood that had rolled out of the fire back into it. “What Humphrey understands, and Philippe doesn’t appear to, is that a king rules only by the consent of the governed, whether or not the people themselves realize it.”
“Not to mention the fact,” Bronwen said, “that a king’s actions have real consequences to real people.”
All of a sudden, a rustling sound came from inside the far wall, someone cursed in French, and a piece of the paneling, which anyone in the room would have assumed was simply part of the wall, swung open.
King Philippe himself stepped out, looking to all the world as if his appearance from inside the wall of their prison suite was nothing out of the ordinary, and said, “Believe me, that is something I definitely understand.”
Chapter Ten
Day One
Christopher
Christopher had spent the last two hours trying not to fidget. He couldn’t have been the only one who was bored or whose feet hurt in the shoes he was wearing, but everybody else continued to look on the proceedings as if interested. Henri eventually put a hand on Christopher’s shoulder, weighing him down and stopping him from moving.
An hour into the session, King Philippe had stood, whispered something in Nogaret’s ear, and walked off the dais without looking towards his subjects. Bishop Mornay had smoothly taken the king’s place, continuing to hear petitioners until he’d gone through everyone. Ultimately, all were being sent away, if not happy, then at least satisfied. Christopher had been momentarily tempted to step forward himself, in the guise of Christophe de Clare, the man he was pretending to be, and ask to see David, just to see what Mornay would say.
But it wasn’t worth the risk, and he’d known that even as he’d ached to avenge his cousin.
Nogaret himself continued to stand to one side of the throne, studying the crowd with penetrating eyes. This particular adviser of King Philippe had featured heavily in Christopher’s television-watching habits in the years before he’d come to Earth Two. In one show, he’d been called De Nogaret, and it had taken Christopher more than a minute, once David had started talking about him, to realize the character and the live person were one and the same. Typically, in the television show, English speakers had butchered the French and didn’t realize that de simply meant of. The French king had screamed of Nogaret at the top of his lungs, as if anyone would ever do that.
The memory of the scene provided a bit of amusement in an otherwise unamusing evening. Near midnight, as the royal audience was finally winding down, a new companion who’d arrived in the city only the day before, John Jr. of Brittany, drifted nearer, a closed look on his face that matched that of many other men, who were easing in the direction of the door.
“Did you speak to your father yet?” Henri asked him.
“No.”
The flat denial carried the weight of a lifetime of emotion. John Jr.’s father was the Duke of Brittany and Earl of Richmond and had been up on the dais with King Philippe. Not yet thirty years old, John Jr. had joined the English court in January when he’d come to England to inspect his father’s domains, which he would one day inherit. His elder brother, Arthur, would become Duke of Brittany. Even in this suspicious age, David had accepted John Jr. into his circle—after a full vetting, of course. John Jr. had described the conversation he’d had with Callum as the most terrifying afternoon of his life. Given the household in which he’d been raised, that appeared to be saying something.
David didn’t much like John Sr.—nor he David—but until arriving in France in June, the English court had been under the impression that the duke wasn’t a particular ally of King Philippe either, since for the last twenty years he’d been objecting—loudly and often—to the meddling of the kings of France in his duchy. John Jr.’s mother was Beatrice, a daughter of King Henry III of England. Since David’s mother, Meg, was also rumored to be a daughter of Henry III, albeit illegitimate, that made David and John Jr. cousins. If the throne of England had been decided by who had the better claim, rather than by acclaim of the English barons, John Jr., or his brother Arthur, might have become king instead of David.
Christopher had befriended John Jr. deliberately at David’s suggestion, because David wanted to know how much of the father was i
n the son. Not much, as it turned out. Though two years older than David, John Jr. was still a boy at heart. His father’s harsh lessons, rather than making him tougher, as John Sr. had intended, had instead sloughed off whatever hard edges he might have been born with, so he wore his emotions always on his sleeve. Christopher seemed positively stoic by comparison.
Christopher had kept an eye on John Jr. during the brief ceremony with David. Even in that short time, Christopher had seen in his face anger, dismay, curiosity, fear, and back to anger again. None of those were as natural to him, however, as cheer.
“Given that our timeline is accelerated, it is all the more urgent that you speak to him,” Henri said sternly. “You were at the very least to elicit an invitation to dine tomorrow for you and Christopher.”
“I intend to speak to him now,” John said.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Christopher said.
The relief in John’s face was almost comical—and a little dangerous. Fortunately, his part in the plan didn’t require him to be someone he wasn’t. “I wasn’t sure, when it came to it, you’d really back me up.”
Christopher was a little offended, but he was not unaware that John’s ‘friends’ in the past had been fair weather ones, and he hadn’t ever learned he could count on anyone to help him—least of all his father.
“Can you maintain your alias?” Henri said to Christopher. “This will be a significant test.”
“Yes,” Christopher said. “I am Christophe, nephew to Gilbert de Clare. Needless to say, I haven’t found favor in the English court.”
“Nobody has more right to claim Clare than you.” Henri had been there when Christopher had driven his car through the space-time continuum into the bailey of Westminster Castle the day Gilbert de Clare had been attempting to take the English throne from David. In fact, Clare had died on the front end of Christopher’s car, something even two years later he preferred not to think about. He could still feel the thunk as Clare collided with the front bumper. “Embrace the name and what you know about yourself, and you’ll be fine.”
Christopher accepted his advice without reminding Henri that he’d been an officer for DG for a year now and had scouted and spied in Ireland and England before he’d come to France. This particular false identity wasn’t yet second nature to him, but claiming it was a little bit like pulling on a new shirt. If it was soft and fit okay, he was good with it. Weirdly, he, among all of his friends, seemed to be able to take on and shed different identities and accents with relative ease. It wasn’t a gift he’d known he had before coming to Earth Two.
Christopher had even managed to grow a bit of a mustache and beard this year, so while King Philippe might remember him from two years ago, recognition was unlikely to be instantaneous. None of King Philippe’s current advisers, fortunately, had been in his retinue at Calais when he and Christopher had met. Really, that should have been the first red flag that something wasn’t right in Philippe’s court.
Somewhere down on the list of plans—maybe E or F—David had the idea that he would deliberately drop Christopher in front of Philippe as a last-ditch attempt to get through to him. Given what had just transpired on the dais, Christopher himself wasn’t feeling particularly generous towards the French king or wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt. But it was David’s deal. The rest of them were just along for the ride.
John Jr. squared his shoulders. “I’m ready.”
By the time they made their way to the dais, only John Sr. and Bishop Mornay were left anyway, Nogaret and Flote having departed as soon as the audience was over. Archbishop Romeyn was the last petitioner, the only one unsatisfied, making a final attempt to object to what had happened to David.
John Jr. planted himself a few feet from his father, who remained focused on Mornay and Romeyn. He stood there for a good minute before he worked up the gumption to clear his throat and speak. “Father.”
Romeyn broke off his sentence to look at John Jr., but his father took another ten seconds to notice him, a deliberate snub—and John Jr. would take it as such.
“What are you doing here?” John Sr. was several inches taller than John Jr., so he would have stared down at him regardless, but since he remained on the dais while John Jr. was one step below, he was even taller—and the stare was more of a glare.
John Sr. was giving his son no welcoming smile or pleased look, let alone a hug. Christopher and his father hadn’t always gotten along great, but they were the best of friends compared to what John Jr. had to put up with. John Jr. was a nice guy too. It wasn’t even that he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the box. He was plenty smart. What he wasn’t was confident or ambitious, neither of which John Sr. was exactly helping with.
“I came to see you, sir,” John Jr. said stiffly.
“Can’t you see I have affairs of state to attend to?”
Bishop Mornay coughed into his fist, perhaps as daunted as Christopher by John Sr.’s total lack of welcome to a son he hadn’t seen in months. “My lord, perhaps you could introduce me to this young man of yours and his friend.”
John Sr. hesitated, still behaving as ungraciously as possible, but he couldn’t refuse the bishop. Even he seemed to realize that he’d taken his disdain for his heir further than was socially acceptable. “Your grace, this is my son, John. John, this is Bishop Mornay, the Bishop of Orléans and Auxerre.”
John Jr. bowed. “I am honored to meet you, your grace.”
John Sr. now looked at Christopher. “I don’t know you.”
John Jr. made a graceful gesture in Christopher’s direction. He knew the forms, and there was nothing in his behavior on the surface that should have garnered such animosity from his father. “May I introduce to you Christophe. Of the Clares.”
“You!” Romeyn said, staring at Christopher, who would have given him a thumbs-up gesture if it wouldn’t have given the game away. “How dare you come here so brazenly?”
John Sr.’s eyebrows went up, for the first time indicating he was paying genuine attention. “Are you really?” He transferred his gaze to his son. “For the first time in your life, you’ve done something interesting.”
Ignoring John Sr.’s astounding rudeness and Romeyn’s horror (feigned as it was), Bishop Mornay beamed, a sharp contrast to the beady eye he’d fixed on David a few hours earlier. “What a well set-up young man you have here, John. You must be very proud.”
“Very.” If John Sr. had spoken the word dryly, it might have almost been funny, but he was entirely without humor, and he remained unamused.
Romeyn was equally so, though for different reasons, of course, standing as he was with his arms folded across his chest. “If we could return to the matter at hand, your grace.”
“Of course, but not this evening. You may share the breaking of our fast tomorrow.” Bishop Mornay waved a hand. “These two young men should attend as well.”
John Sr. shot him a sharp look and even opened his mouth for a moment, a second from expressing his displeasure.
Throughout, the bishop continued to beam at John Jr., implying he was oblivious to the glares of either of his companions. But then he went on, speaking more clearly and revealing he knew full well what was going on between father and son and didn’t approve: “Your son will be Earl of Richmond one day, John. It’s time you introduced him to the court.”
Christopher couldn’t agree more, though for entirely different reasons. “Will the king be breakfasting with us?” he asked, all innocence.
“Don’t be absurd,” Bishop Mornay said. “John will be presented in due course, when he’s earned it.” His tone held the harshness he’d shown David—though the procedures for acceptance into the English court were much the same. “He may never meet him, but that will be up to the king himself.”
Christopher nudged John Jr., trying to get him to stop staring at his feet. “It’s late. We should leave the good bishop and your father to their conference.” He didn’t add before your nerve fails you.
They backed off, even though it wasn’t expressly required not to turn one’s back on an empty throne, and anyway, John Sr. and Bishop Mornay had already turned away to resume their huddled conversation.
John Jr. heaved a sigh of relief and whispered, “I’m glad that’s over.”
“You did well.”
“Hardly.” John Jr. wasn’t comforted. “You did well.”
Then Bishop Mornay broke off in mid-sentence, and John Jr. put a hand on Christopher’s arm, stopping him from leaving, even though it definitely was the moment to retreat all the way down the hall.
Instead, they watched Nogaret stump back onto the dais, his footsteps echoing hollowly, returning from wherever he’d been in the far reaches of the palace. Once Nogaret stopped in front of the bishop, Christopher couldn’t see anyone’s face, since the bulky form of John Sr. blocked his view. John Jr.’s view was worse, since he was another pace behind Christopher. But both stayed totally still, heads slightly bent towards each other, pretending not to be paying attention, though their ears were pricked and their eyes angled towards the dais.
“Is something wrong, Guillaume?” Mornay asked.
“Have either of you seen the king? He isn’t in his chambers.”
Chapter Eleven
Day One
Callum
“Lights, my lord! Hundreds of them!”
The call came from a trooper at the top of one of Angoulême’s towers. The watchman had been looking northeast towards territory held by the King of France and his allies.
Unbroken in Time Page 6