Castaways in Time

by Robert Adams

  "I think we're in a keep, Emmett, probably in the cellar, but . . . but there're no windows, so it should be dark as pitch down here. Where is the illumination coming from?"

  O'Malley chuckled. "From us, Ken, and from the console. This effect has been noted before. Creatures and objects brought back by the projector have a glow of varying intensities—how bright and how long it lasts seems to depend upon the amounts of metal said creatures or objects incorporate. The console may remain that bright for weeks, our own lighting will likely fade in a few days, quicker if we are exposed to sunlight for a while."

  With the tall, broad-shouldered O'Malley in the lead, they started up the steps, which proved to be steep and slippery with seepage from the walls. The landing at the corner where the stairs made a right-angle turn to the left was less than a meter square and slightly concave, centering a puddle of icy water. After making the mistake of looking back the way they had come, Harold negotiated the last half of the second flight on hands and knees.

  At the top was another landing—this one no wider than the one below but at least twice as long—and at the end of its length was a low, wide door of some dense, dark wood studded with the broad heads of hand-hammered iron spikes. Emmett pushed the door, pushed harder, finally put his shoulder against it and heaved with all his strength, but the portal remained as firm as the very stones of the walls. Stepping back, he checked the power crystal of the heat-stunner, switched the weapon to full heat, and began to play the invisible beam upon the damp, rust-stained wood. Within the blinking of an eye, rotten-smelling steam wreathed about the glowing, cherry-red nail-heads and bent-over iron points; then, with a sudden whoosh, the face of the door became a single sheet of flame.

  Prodded by Emmett, Harold backed gingerly down a few steps and the two men remained, O'Malley standing nonchalantly on the bare foot-width of slimy stone, until the tinkling sound of metal dropping out of burned-through wood told them that the way was clearing.

  The two men used the blades of their broadswords to lift the charred beam that had barred the door, then passed under the archway. Before them lay another flight of stone steps; on the right hand was a blank stone wall, on the left, another door, seeming as heavy and solid as the one they had just destroyed. Harold was for climbing the steps, getting as high as possible in order to get a wide view of this countryside, but before he could speak of this to O'Malley, two sounds came from beyond the door—the first a hoarse, guttural scream of agony, the second a chorus of demonical, cackling laughs.

  The terrible sounds raised the hackles of the two scientists. Harold drew his belt-model stunner and Emmett checked his larger one carefully before setting hand to the door. Another of the hideous screams came as the door swung slowly open, accompanied this time by a sizzling, frying-pan sound. The air that gushed from the unseen space beyond the door was heavy with a burnt-meat odor, underlaid with stinks of wet wool, hot metal, and long-unwashed flesh.

  Although the massive iron hinges of the door squealed shrilly, that sound was lost in yet another horrific scream from the near-nude man hanging by his wrists from a rope looped over one of the beams supporting the next floor.

  To Harold, it was as a scene from the works of Dante—black-streaked stone walls and a soot-coated ceiling, a filthy greasy floor littered with odds and ends of smashed furniture, clothing, weapons, broken crockery, gnawed bones, and a couple of dead, well-hacked corpses. The huge bar that had barred another, larger door was broken in two pieces and lay before that door, which hung drunkenly from a single hinge. Snow blew in to melt slowly into puddles, but it blew from out of darkness.

  Out of darkness into near-darkness, the large chamber was very dimly illuminated. All light came from a couple of smoky torches thrust into wall sconces and from the roaring fire in a recessed fireplace at least six feet wide. The fire seemed to be fueled exclusively with worked wood, probably from the ruined furniture, and a number of iron bars lay on the hearth, their tips thrust deep into the glowing coals. It was with these bars that the hanging man was being savagely tortured.

  The hairy, bearded, black-robed figures grouped about the victim cackled and cavorted insanely, sometimes chanting a singsong rhyme in a language Harold could not understand. Two or three of them had what looked to be a representation of a Celtic cross sewn to the backs of their sleeveless robes; these two or three also seemed to be better dressed and armed, their feet shod in real boots rather than the rawhide brogans of the others.

  One of these men tucked an iron bar back into its fiery nest, wrapped a piece of wet hide around the hearth end of another, and pulled it from the fire, its tip glowing and sparking. But when he made to press it into the helpless man, Harold—peace-loving Harold—leveled his stunner and pressed the stud and felt well served when the unconscious man crumpled to the hearth and rolled into the fire.

  The stunners made no sound, of course; therefore, Harold and Emmett had dropped most of the original dozen torturers before one of them turned and saw their attackers. It seemed that every greasy hair on the short, stout man's head stood up straight, his bloodshot eyes bulged out from the sockets in a face suddenly gone the color of curds. He screamed once, then spun about and ran out the broken door. The others tried to follow, but were brought down by the stunners.

  Harold used his sword to saw through the rope above the bloody, lacerated wrists of the terribly burned victim, while Emmett eased the body to the floor. After only a moment, however, he straightened and stepped back, shaking his head.

  "He's dead, Harold. With all that those bastards had done to him, his eyes and all the rest, death was probably the most merciful thing that could've happened."

  Harold heard but could not answer until his stomach had ceased spewing up its contents. Then, weakly, "Oh, my God, Emmett, I . . . I'd thought . . . I'd hoped we'd left this kind of senseless atrocity behind us."

  Before Emmett could frame an answer, there was a metallic clanking just beyond the smashed door, then that portal was thrust aside with such force that the last hinge tore loose and the ironbound panel slammed onto the floor. Framed in the opening were two man-shapes; their black, sleeveless surcoats bore the red Celtic cross and partially covered full suits of plate armor. The one on the right gripped the foot-long hilt of a sword that looked to be five feet or more in the blade, while the one on the left carried a weapon that the scientists recognized from their studies as a Lochaber axe.

  One of the armored figures shouted something incomprehensible and both rushed toward Harold and Emmett, moving much faster and far more easily than Harold would have thought possible for men burdened by such weights of steel.

  "Did you hear him?" crowed Emmett, in delight, seemingly oblivious of the sharp-edged death bearing down upon him. "Did you hear him, Ken? That was Gaelic he was speaking, Scots Gaelic, and not really archaic, though somewhat slurred."

  Harold tried to shout, to tell Emmett to stun the two, but no word would come. Frantically, with palsied fingers, he fumbled out his belt stunner and tried to set it for maximum range. The coming killers were half the length of the room before he aimed and depressed the stud, shifting from one to the other, back and forth, horrified when they did not immediately crumple.

  Crumple unconscious, they did not; stop, they did, briefly. A mighty stench of burning again filled the room—burning cloth, burning leather, burning flesh. Dropping their weapons, both men began to scream and tear at, tear off, helmets and portions of their armor. One man's black surcoat smoldered, then burst into flames, flames which singed off his lank, greasy hair, his bushy eyebrows, even the stubble on his pockmarked face. Howling like moon-mad hounds, leaving weapons and helmets behind, they raced out into the snowy night.

  Harold turned to find Emmett doubled over in laughter, his green eyes streaming. "Oh, Ken! Ohhhho, Ken! You set . . . Ohohohh, your stunner was set on heat. Those bastards must've thought they were roasting alive, with all that steel super-heating around them."

  ——«»——«»—
—«»——

  "Man, what a hotfoot," commented Bass Foster.

  "Hotfoot?" queried the Archbishop, raising his thick white eyebrows.

  Briefly, not wishing to break the old man's train of thought, Bass explained. Then he asked, "Well where were you Hal?"

  Smiling Harold of York shrugged, "Where else, my boy, but Whyffler Hall?"

  CHAPTER 10

  "Of course, the Whyffler Hall of near two centuries ago was not the Hall in which we now sit, Bass. The old tower sat on a low hillock, most of which was leveled when the present hall was added fifty years later. There was no circuit wall then, only a timber stockade on a stone-and-earth ramp at the base of the hill, fronted by a dry ditch, with a few rude outbuildings between stockade and tower."

  "As did you and your friends more recently, Emmett and I had arrived at a critical juncture. The Balderite Heresy was in its full flower and the entire Scots border was aflame."

  Now it was Foster's turn to speak and ask, "Balderite Heresy, Hal?"

  Harold steepled his fingers. "Your wife tells me you were born and reared a Roman Catholic, Bass. Have you not noticed something singular about the practice of Catholicism here?"

  Bass chuckled. "How long a list do you want? A cardinal named Ahmed, knight-crusaders with names like Ibrahim, Riad, Sulimen, Murad and al-Asraf. I could go on forever."

  "No, Bass, something more basic. Think! In our history, Bass, yours and mine, the practice of Roman Catholicism was bound up inextricably with the Cult of the Virgin—the Earth Mother Cult, really, which had predated Christianity in many parts of Northwestern Europe and had been incorporated in northwestern European Christianity. In our history, the Council of Ephesus declared Mary theotokos—'Mother of God'—over the strong objections of the followers of Nestorius and many others, which fact served to fragment the Church. Here, in this world, that did not happen; the Council supported Nestorius."

  "Now, true, the Virgin Mary is venerated, but more as high-ranking saint than as an outright divinity. The Council of Ephesus took place in the early fifth century; two hundred and fifty years later, the Council of Whitby declared the Roman forms to be the only acceptable forms, and began the long struggle to bring the Cluniacs into line. After a while, it seemed that the Cult of the Virgin and the Cluniacs were both extinct, but then, more than a thousand years after the Council of Ephesus, the Balderites burst upon the world."

  "No kingdom wishes to claim the first Balderites, naturally, but it is thought that they originated in western Scotland. A few were ordained priests; most were not, but they were powerful and persuasive orators, preachers, to a man. Their creed was a mixture of Cluniac Christianity, Virgin Cult-Earth Mother paganism, Druidic Naturalism, and, at least in the Scottish Highlands, a strong streak of Celtic nationalism. The Balderites spread out from their place of origin, and in less than three years' time, all Scotland was in chaos and two of the Irish Kingdoms—centuries-old enemies—were marching against the High King, while a third kingdom was racked by civil war."

  "The Balderites gained a few converts in parts of Wales and Cornwall, but on the whole they did not fare too well south of Scotland. The English folk were more apt to stone them than to listen to them, and quite a number were burnt by episcopal authorities, here and there. But the realm was then involved in one of the perennial wars with France, so the poor Borderers were on their own, militarily, for a long while. Too long a while, for many of them. Too long a while, at least, for Sir Hubert Whyffler, whose seared body Emmett and I cut down after we'd stunned the Balderites who had been torturing him, hoping that his screams would bring the remaining defenders down from the upper levels of the tower."

  "Of course, Emmett and I did not know that there were people in the tower, above us, and we didn't explore, because we were fearful that more opponents would come through that open door and trap us. Emmett did what I could not; he went from stunned body to stunned body, cutting throats. He spared only one of the better-dressed men, but bound him securely with the bloody ropes from off the body of Sir Hubert."

  Then he urged me to sleep while he kept watch. I knew I could not, but I did, nonetheless. He wakened me half through the night and I watched while he slept, but no one came near the door. Though the bound man had recovered consciousness, I could not understand a word he said, nor, apparently, could he understand me; moreover, he seemed in dire fear of me—moaning, whining, and weeping whenever I came near to him."

  "The reason, of course, was our 'glow,' but in all the excitement, Emmett and I had completely forgotten the radiance we emitted. For that reason, plus what I had unintentionally done to the two leaders—Scots knights, both of them, one, the chief of Clan Grant—we had completely broken the almost victorious besieging force, and although we knew it not, they were all headed back for the Highlands as fast as flesh and bone could bear them."

  "As it happened, Whyffler Hall was one of only four border keeps that were not overrun by the Balderites before King Henry came north with his own army reinforced by French and Flemish Crusaders. When all the border keeps were once more in English hands and secure, Henry marched on to relieve the siege of Edinburgh, and went on to help King Robert scour Scotland of Balderites. That accomplished, the French, Flemish, and Burgundian Crusaders, along with six hundred English knights and several hundred Scots, sailed to the assistance of the Irish High King. Emmett sailed with them, but I—sickened almost to the point of insanity by all the carnage I had seen—stayed behind, in England."

  Bass said, "Pardon me, Hal, but I don't see how any kind of war could be, could have been, more savage, bloodier, than our recent campaigns against the various Crusaders. You were in the very thick of a lot of it and, if it did bother you, you sure as hell didn't show it."

  The Archbishop smiled fleetingly. "Violence no longer bothers me, Bass; I now realize that it is a fact of life. But in those days, when first I came here, I was in effect a forty-odd-year-old child—I had read of violence, heard of it, even, but so sheltered had been my existence that I never had seen a single instance of bloodshed. Possibly, you, Captain Webster, dear Krystal and the rest could not understand, coming as you did from a more primitive and far more violent period than did I, but my emotional trauma was devastating."

  Bass thought of the soul-sickness he had felt upon viewing by daylight what he and his men and the double-charged swivel-guns had wrought on the field near Hexham. "Yes, Hal, yes, I think I can. But, from what you've said, your friend O'Malley seemed unaffected."

  "Emmett O'Malley was an atavist, a throwback to your time or even before. He visibly blossomed here, proving as bloodthirsty and as savage as the people we had been projected among. He was knighted on the Field of Badenoch by King Robert himself, and could have returned to Scottish lands and titles, had he not elected to stay in Ireland, at the court of the High King."

  "As for me . . . I did not lose my sanity, as you can see. The hypnotape courses had made me a respectable craftsman of jewelry and I had a fairish supply of gold and cut stones, even after Emmett had taken a share, so I established myself in York, which then as now was one of the King's regional seats, and I prospered for a few years. Occasionally, I had letters from Emmett."

  "The Irish High Kings had had an ages-old reputation for welcoming to their court at Tara artists and fine artisans of all descriptions and any nationality. With his well-earned Scottish title and his metallurgical abilities, Emmett soon became a favorite of the then High King, Brien VIII, and was even married to one of the multitudinous royal bastards. He was granted lands and the wherewithal to support him and his family, and invested with the title Swordsmith to the High King. It was through him that I came to the notice of King Henry; he and Brien VIII were third cousins and old friends."

  Foster cleared his throat. "Pardon, but I'd gotten the idea that a more or less permanent state of war existed between the Irish and the English."

  The Archbishop chuckled. "Right, Bass, but only up to a point. The High Kings have not formally
declared a foreign war in centuries, for all that they have and do now maintain the largest standing army for a country their size in the known world. Ninety percentum of their fighting is internal, and never in all the long years I've been here have there been as many as five consecutive years of peace in Ireland."

  "These days, men speak of the Five Kings—which figure does not include the High King, who is less an Arthur-type king than a referee—but there have been times when there were seven, or nine, or even eleven. Most of the borders are hotly contested; those of Meath, the High King's, are the only generally constant and unquestioned ones . . . but only because he happens to be a strong, ruthless man with a large armed force, not because of his rank."

  "In those long-ago and yet-to-be days when we were preparing to project out of our own world and time, Emmett used to rant and rave about the long and brutal and illegal occupation of Ireland by the English and later the British, but in the here and now it's easy to see just why they invaded Ireland . . . well, one of the reasons. Whenever the kinglets of Ulaid Araidi and Laigin and Muma aren't busy fighting each other, they like nothing better than raiding England, Scotland, France, Spain, even Scandinavia and Iceland. And it used to be worse before Ailich and Connacht, with their bigger fleets, became involved in their New World settlements to the extent they now are. Perhaps, after the current unpleasantness be done, Arthur will put paid to these old accounts."

  ——«»——«»——«»——

  As 1501 became 1502, Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, lay dying and nothing the physicians could do for or to him seemed efficacious—bleeding and purging only seemed to make the sixteen-year-old boy weaker; rare and expensive medicines compounded of unicorn horn, genuine mummy dust and other such esoteric ingredients were promptly vomited up. Arthur's royal father was frantic, for if Arthur should die, there would be only little Henry, and if something should befall him, too . . . the horrifying specter of the vicious and long-drawn-out Wars of the Roses could then bid well to follow the King's death.