Unbroken in Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  “Would annexing Aquitaine really solve all your problems, though?” Lili said. “Maybe for a time, but not if you don’t manage the duchy as well as David does.”

  That was a pretty forward question, even for Lili, though it was along the lines of what Bronwen herself was thinking. Lili was basically calling him a spendthrift, which Philippe was, and a bad manager, which he also was—though the extent to which he was a product of his time and upbringing couldn’t be overstated. And a lot of that could be his advisers—though he’d allowed himself to be swayed by them, which was on him not them.

  Philippe made a dismissive motion. “Believe me or don’t. Right now, all of you need to come with me.” He went to the passageway from which he’d come, looked right and left and, seeing nothing, waved them forward. “We need to go before anyone comes through that door and finds me with you.”

  David’s expression gave little away, but even so, he nodded to Lili, who immediately turned on her heel. “Bronwen and I will get the children.”

  “Thank you.” He bent his head respectfully towards Lili. “When I saw you’d brought them, I knew I could trust you.”

  “We brought them because we trusted your honor not to harm them,” Bronwen threw the words over her shoulder as she headed for the door to the adjoining room. She didn’t say the rest of what she was thinking, which was even if you didn’t deserve our trust.

  Constance and Cador had been listening from the next room and were already moving to wake the children when Lili and Bronwen appeared.

  “Are you sure we should be going with him?” Constance asked Lili. “Our own plans are in motion. We don’t need him.”

  “But he appears to need us,” Lili said. “Besides, David said yes, so we go.”

  Constance took that at face value. It was not her place to question her king, and she never would.

  They returned to the main room, Lili holding a sleeping Alexander and Bronwen with Cadwaladr. For this journey, Constance was technically the children’s nanny, and she carried Arthur asleep on her shoulder, while Cador held Catrin’s hand.

  At the sight of the children, Philippe approached and put a gentle hand on the top of Alexander’s head. “He’s lovely.” Then he took in the faces of all four children, before crouching in front of Catrin.

  Bronwen was a little startled by his interest, particularly in the face of his urgent desire to depart. Still, she said, “This is Philippe, the King of France, Cat. Maybe you remember him from the audience hall.” Again she didn’t add where he humiliated your uncle.

  Catrin had startlingly green eyes and long dark lashes that made her look like she ought to be modeling a children’s clothing line. Philippe himself was renowned throughout France as particularly handsome, and thus his nickname, Philippe le Bel.

  To Bronwen’s astonishment, as Philippe gazed at Catrin, tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. But then he wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, and by the time he rose to his feet, she wouldn’t have said from the way he looked that he’d been weeping.

  “What’s their end game, by the way?” Bronwen asked, once they were all moving towards the secret passage. “Surely Nogaret and the others can’t think you will submit to them forever.”

  “Can’t they? Nogaret believes always he is more intelligent than any other man in the room. You saw the way he looked at your king.” Philippe gestured with one hand to indicate David’s being. “You dress like a peasant, therefore you must think like one.”

  David’s eyes narrowed. “If that is the case, and you have carefully constructed this persona, why are you risking it all to release us?”

  “Because this isn’t about money, though I do need it, and I know you have contacts which would fund me for the rest of my reign.” Philippe’s expression darkened. “My current predicament is far worse than simply needing money. I need you to rescue my family.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Day One

  Christopher

  “Merci! Merci beaucoup!” Thank you! Thank you so much! Now that Christopher’s heart rate had slowed, he was almost throwing himself on his knees before the girl.

  She herself didn’t appear to be particularly moved by his fervor and stood before him, arms folded across her chest, wrapped in a robe that was belted at the waist.

  “May I know your name?” he said.

  Despite her skepticism, she answered him civilly enough. “My name is Isabelle. I am lady-in-waiting to Queen Joana.”

  Christopher gazed at the young woman, at a loss for words. He hadn’t actually thrown himself to the floor, so he remained where he was, a few feet away. Light still came through the open window, but the girl gave a little grunt and turned to her bedside table to light a candle. She brought it closer and held it up so she could see his face.

  The light also gave Christopher the opportunity to see her clearly for the first time. He’d had some training in watching and assessing people by now, and he thought his initial impression was correct: she was about his age, give or take. Even Callum said it was nearly impossible to tell a woman’s exact age if she was between sixteen and twenty-five.

  Isabelle plucked her sleeping cap from her head, since it had gone askew, and tossed it on the bed, revealing curly dark brown hair that ended nearly at her waist. If he was a spy like James Bond, he might have made a pass at that point. But while the movies were fun, they weren’t a very good template for being a good human being—or even doing any actual spying.

  “Why are you here instead of with Queen Joana?” he asked.

  “The queen is not in residence at this time.”

  Christopher was again momentarily flummoxed, not by the news, which he knew, but by the briefness of her answer. The girl didn’t seem to be much of a talker, but she wasn’t kicking him out of the room either, so he asked the next obvious question. “When did you last see her?”

  “Months ago. Nogaret—” the name was accompanied by a sneer, which exactly fitted Christopher’s thoughts as well, “told me just this morning that he saw no reason for me to remain at the palace and that I should return to England.”

  Isabelle seemed to have a remarkable power to befuddle him because, while this conversation was being conducted in French, it sure wasn’t making sense to him. Or maybe he just didn’t understand women. “Why England?”

  She laughed. “Because I am as English as you are.”

  This last sentence was spoken in English, and Christopher almost cursed at the way he’d been laboring along in French all this time. His French was excellent, if he did say so himself, but it wasn’t the same as his native tongue.

  “How did you know I was English?”

  “Your accent.” She eyed him. “I’ve seen you around—and not always dressed as you are today. You were serving in the hall a few weeks ago.”

  His stomach dropped into his boots, but her gaze was so steady, he knew he couldn’t deny it. So instead he said softly, “Why are you here? Do you have a father?”

  “My father is Master Norris, commander of the Paris Temple.”

  Christopher’s mouth opened, closed, and then opened again as he came up with the only question that made sense. “How is that poss—”

  She made a chopping motion. “Many knights join the Order later in life. My mother died when I was a young child, and my father felt called to the Templars. That’s why I am here instead of with my aunt and uncle in England.”

  “So do you know who I am?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “An Englishman, clearly, though why you are hiding from another Englishman, I do not know.”

  “How do you know the man at the door was English?”

  She conveyed her disdain with an elegant snort. “His accent was far from French as well. He could have been from Brittany, I suppose, since their French is an abomination, but his clothes didn’t speak of it.”

  Christopher was genuinely afraid to ask what she thought of how he dressed, but he didn’t have to say anything at all since
she was finally talking.

  “So who was he—that man at the door? You were afraid of him.”

  “He is someone to be afraid of.”

  She canted her head. “I have never heard a man admit such a thing.”

  Christopher raised one shoulder. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard how he was different that way. His friend, Aine, back in Ireland, had said much the same thing once. He was glad, in a way, that his time in DG hadn’t made him less honest about what he was feeling. It wasn’t macho, and it wasn’t medieval, but he saw nothing wrong with admitting fear. Callum, David, his dad—pretty much everyone—had told him the same thing: admit you’re afraid, accept it as your reality, and then get on with doing the job anyway.

  “Master Norris really is your father?”

  “He is.” She looked at him sideways. “I can only conclude that you are a spy. For David?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, nodding to herself. “You must be. Nothing else makes sense.”

  He licked his lips, hesitant as to what to say, if he could say anything. It didn’t make it better that he could feel Callum glowering over his shoulder.

  Isabelle waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. As I said, I am as English as you are.”

  Little did she know that wasn’t saying much, since he wasn’t actually English at all. But her acceptance was emboldening, and he took a tentative step forward. “I do need your help.”

  “You just had my help.”

  “Then I need it again. I was hiding from that man because he knows me, and I know more about him than I did an hour ago. He plans to abduct Arthur, King David’s son.” He decided he wouldn’t tell her King Philippe might know of the plan. That might be pressing her loyalties too far.

  Isabelle sat abruptly on the trunk at the end of her bed. “How do you know this?”

  “I was in the latrine when I overheard him talking to Pierre Flote. They were a floor below, and speaking in English. Their words were very clear. I didn’t misunderstand them.”

  Her own expression cleared. “Do you mean the latrine with the little window that overlooks the Seine?”

  “You know it?”

  “When one grows up with a father who preaches honesty and secrecy in the same breath, one tends to have a liberal view of eavesdropping.” She kicked her heels. “I’ve been bored these last weeks and months I’ve been here. I didn’t actually want to come at all, but my father felt my aunt and uncle allowed me too much freedom. He thought it his duty to ensure I learned proper manners.”

  “Those couldn’t be learned in David’s court, a little closer to home?”

  “My father doesn’t serve in the London Temple. Besides, he views some of the behaviors of the women of the English court to be—” she hesitated rather than finishing her sentence.

  Christopher grinned. “Unseemly? King David allows his women too much freedom?”

  All of sudden she grinned back at him. “Exactly. I myself do not agree.” Then she stood again. “If you would put your face to the wall, I will dress and help you find a way out of the palace, though at this hour, I can’t take you beyond its gate, you understand?” She paused, her expression turning grave. “You have a way to save the boy? I could speak to my father—”

  Christopher put up a hand. For now, he was still abiding by the mandate to never allow a link in anyone’s mind between David and the Templars. “If you can get me out of the palace, the plan will not succeed. I promise.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Day One

  David

  From beside David, Lili caught her breath. “Nogaret holds your family hostage?”

  “Yes.”

  They’d been talking for maybe ten minutes, and it had been another ten since Nogaret had left. They had no idea how long they’d be left alone, but even so, David still didn’t follow Philippe into the passage, immediately distrustful again at the way Philippe was parceling out information. He seemed genuine, but David had been fooled before, and he didn’t relish being shot trying to escape.

  “I thought you just said Nogaret didn’t know you weren’t with him in all things. Why then would he take your family?”

  “He didn’t take them. I sent them away.” Philippe pulled a ring off his finger and showed it to David. “Give Joana this, and she will come with you, knowing that it was I who sent you.”

  “I don’t understand.” David stared at the ring but didn’t take it. “If you were the one who sent them away, how can they be hostages?”

  “I allowed Nogaret to convince me my wife was unfaithful. He couched it in such a way that implied her grief at the loss of our daughters had overtaken her, and it was for her own benefit and health that I put her aside for a time. The truth, however, is that he was growing concerned with her outspokenness. She does not mince words, my Joana. She does not like Nogaret in particular, and he grew concerned that she would turn me against him.”

  “I assume your fear now is that if you don’t do as they say, there will be consequences,” David said.

  Philippe nodded, and his eyes turned sad. “My sons are with her, since I couldn’t bear to part her from them, and they are young, like yours. With Joana gone, I lost my last ally in Paris.”

  “And if you start to think for yourself, Nogaret can hold them hostage to your good behavior.” Ieuan hadn’t contributed much to this conversation, but he’d been taking it all in, and now he nodded. “As long as that’s the case, there would be nothing you wouldn’t do for them, and they know it.”

  Philippe made a motion with his thumb across his throat. “They have my sons. I am expendable. Or my boys are.”

  “Where is she being held?” Now David understood far better the grimness that had crept into Philippe’s voice. Lili and their boys had been held hostage by Gilbert de Clare when he’d attempted to usurp David’s throne. Clare had died on the end of Christopher’s car, but if he hadn’t, David wasn’t sure that he could have followed through on giving him a fair trial.

  “At Vincennes.”

  “That’s what—five miles outside the city?” Lili was feigning ignorance, since they knew all about Vincennes—not because of the palace itself, which none of them had ever been to, but because of a nearby abbey, located a mile or so to the east, the abbot of which was an old friend of Archbishop Romeyn. The friendship had allowed Andre to park the plane on abbey land. He’d remained with it, as he had done for the whole year and a half since his arrival, his primary job to ensure that it was maintained for when they needed it.

  Philippe’s eyes widened. “No, not in the least! Vincennes is less than three miles from St. Antoine’s gate! What are you suggesting?”

  Lili looked at him, bewildered, probably wondering if there’d been a problem in translation, though Lili’s French was excellent.

  David didn’t understand Philippe’s agitation either, especially over such a small thing. “She was simply asking how far Vincennes was from the city. Why does it upset you so?”

  Philippe made a disgusted sound that wasn’t quite a tsk but was very French. “We have a saying here in Paris that nothing good happens five miles outside the city. If a man wants to betray a friend, he’ll do it five miles outside the city.”

  Bronwen’s expression brightened. “It’s like being beyond the Pale, which refers to the boundary of Norman occupation surrounding Dublin.”

  “Exactly so.” Philippe’s eyes returned to David. “If you don’t help me, not only will France be at war with England, but eventually I will be forced to do something even worse than take Aquitaine, something irretrievable.”

  David didn’t have to guess what that might be. Everyone in the room but Philippe knew what that might be, namely banishing all Jewish people from France, abolishing the Templar Order, and assassinating the pope.

  And then Philippe did something no French king had ever done: he begged.

  “Please help me. You are the only one who can. Please, I have thought and thought, and
this is my only option. These last months I have gone along with Nogaret, praying you would actually come to France, just waiting for this one opportunity to speak to you.”

  Without waiting for David to agree, his shoulders hunched as if he was afraid of being physically assaulted, Philippe picked up the lantern he’d brought, checked its low flame, and then put a finger from the other hand to his lips. “From here we must be silent.”

  David couldn’t help but be moved by Philippe’s pleas. He took Alexander from Lili, who’d started to bow under his weight, and followed the King of France into the darkened passage. The three women came next, Constance still carrying Arthur, whom she refused to give up. Then Ieuan followed with Catrin, while Cador took up the rear guard.

  It was warm in the passage and in the stairwell that followed, though the sweat that was trickling down David’s back was from more than just heat. David was grateful Alexander remained asleep, since, when awake, he was never silent. He had started saying single words very early, at only eight months, and here at eighteen months could carry on a conversation with complete sentences—though the sentences he did say were a mashup of French, Welsh, and English. Cadwaladr, younger by several months and clearly equally bright, was much more sparing in his speech, most of the time letting Alexander do his talking for him.

  They went through a narrow doorway, so anxious to stay quiet that David was afraid his heartbeat could be heard beyond the walls. Then, up ahead, Philippe missed a step, lost his balance, and banged into the wall before he could stop himself from falling. Thankfully the lantern didn’t fly from his hand and break, or they could have set the whole palace on fire. Thankfully also, Philippe had used the stone wall to his left to brace himself rather than the more flimsy wooden partition to his right. There’d been a distinctly audible thump, however.

  “What was that?” The voice was loud, but thick with sleep and came from the other side of the wooden paneling. The speaker might have been all of two feet away.