“Anything?” Bronwen said to Anna, who was bent over a pot they’d left in the warm September sun, following a recipe David had found on the internet for ‘penicillin tea’. Anna lifted the heavy cast-iron lid, and together they sniffed the brew.
“Vile,” Anna said.
“Let me see!” Abandoning the leather ball he’d been kicking with a friend, four-year-old Cadell came racing over. He peered inside the pot. “Ew!”
“It does smell nasty, doesn’t it?” Anna said to her son.
“It would be worth drinking if it would save your life,” Bronwen said.
Anna settled the lid back on the pot and shooed Cadell back to his game. “That’s why I gave a test sample to one of the girls in the infirmary.”
Bronwen raised her eyebrows. They’d set up a hospital and quarantine zone in a long low building within the city walls, adjacent to the Windsor parish church. The church was dedicated to John the Baptist and tended by a small community of nuns. Only adults who’d already had the many diseases from which the patients in their hospital suffered were allowed in. Scarlet fever was their primary concern at present. Bronwen remembered vividly a doctor laying her across his lap and firing a shot of penicillin into her rear when she was five years old. She’d screamed bloody murder and had hated visiting the doctor ever since. But if the antibiotics they were developing were going to help these people, they were going to do it without needles.
“Is the girl very ill?” Bronwen said.
Anna’s mouth turned down. “It’s Jenet.”
Bronwen nodded, knowing the girl Anna was talking about. “Hers is one of the worst cases. Nothing we do brings down her fever, and she’s very dehydrated.” Up until now—as with nearly every illness people suffered in the Middle Ages—she and Anna could do little for Jenet but manage her pain and keep her comfortable.
“Her parents agreed I could give it to her,” Anna said. “I explained that the drink was made of moldy bread and water. It isn’t really that scary, even for people in this time.”
“She kept it down?” Bronwen said.
“For once,” Anna said. “Like Cadell, she throws up from the fever, not because she has the stomach flu. She hasn’t been able to drink anything for two days, so it was this or she was simply going to die.”
“Then I’m glad you did it.” Bronwen turned away, but then hesitated and looked back at Anna, who had lifted the lid again to look at the liquid in the pot, even though there was nothing to see that was different from before.
“Cadell and Bran are staying far away from anyone who is ill,” Bronwen said. “They are as safe as we can keep them.”
“Which isn’t very safe at all. Fear for them is like a cold fist in my chest,” Anna said.
“For my Catrin too.”
It was the horror of losing a child to a disease that the twenty-first century had conquered that drove both women on. Bronwen’s ten-month-old daughter hadn’t suffered through any illness more serious than a cold so far, and because Catrin was her first, Bronwen couldn’t understand it the way Anna could. Anna and Math’s second son had died of measles at six months old. Even without that practical knowledge, the fear Bronwen felt was enough to bring her to her knees if she allowed herself to dwell on it.
“Math tells me time and again that I have to let the worry go,” Anna said. “I know I do, and yet it keeps me awake at night.”
“I know.” Bronwen touched Anna’s arm. “Speaking of sleep, Lili sent word that Bran is awake.”
Anna sighed and abandoned her vigil. “You should come too, for Catrin.”
“I’ll be along in a minute,” Bronwen said.
Anna gave one of the young Oxfordians guardianship over the pot and departed, calling Cadell to her. They left the lower ward for the upper one where their family was staying. Meanwhile, Bronwen made her way towards her husband, Ieuan, whom she’d just spied coming through the village gate into the lower ward of the castle. Accompanied by Sir Nicholas de Carew, he’d been heading for the barracks, but changed course at the sight of Bronwen.
“We’ve got trouble,” he said, as she took the hand he offered. That was all the public display of affection that was acceptable between a noble couple at an English court.
“What kind of trouble?” she said.
“Valence kind of trouble.”
Bronwen gasped. “No! How is that possible? He’s in Ireland!”
“Apparently, he isn’t. One of our riders has reached Windsor with the news that Valence landed a flotilla of ships at Southampton yesterday. They started marching north immediately.”
Bronwen put the back of her hand to her mouth, appalled and uncertain as to anything she could say that would properly convey the enormity of this disaster. Valence’s plots had marred the whole of this last year, and in several instances it was only through blind luck that David’s forces had defeated him. They couldn’t count on luck a third time, especially since Valence appeared to have decided that a straight-forward fight was in order, rather than mucking about with schemes and subterfuge.
“You’re awfully calm about this,” Bronwen said.
“Panicking won’t help.” Ieuan touched her cheek with one finger. “We’re marshaling our forces but they’re scattered in and around London to keep the peace and ensure the safety of the roads. Dafydd always plans ahead, you know that, though I admit Valence has caught us by surprise.”
“England is at peace with Scotland and Wales,” Bronwen said. “Who’s left to fight—France?”
Ieuan jeered at the idea too. The King of France, Phillipe IV, had grand plans for his country, possibly on a par with David’s, but he was exactly the same age as David and was still finding his feet in his domains.
“You say that Valence is marching north. Is he coming here?” Bronwen said.
“My scouts should be tracking him, but only the one rider has arrived at Windsor. He brought the news I told you, nothing more.”
Bronwen pictured the map of southern England that David had stuck on the wall in his office. It wasn’t a modern map—more a best guess as to places and distances. Many hands, including her own, had gone into making it as accurate as possible. Thus, she knew that it was fifty miles as the crow flies from Portsmouth to the outskirts of London, where Windsor lay.
“To get here, Valence has to pass through Winchester,” Bronwen said.
“We can’t deploy an army quickly enough to stop him from taking the city if he wants it,” Ieuan said. “I’ve sent a message to the bishop, John of Pontoise, expressing my regrets, but of course it may be days before I hear back.” The cathedral city was the seat of the Bishop of Winchester, a powerful man in the English church.
Bronwen nodded. One of the most dramatic differences between medieval and modern warfare was the lack of information about the movements of enemy forces, or even one’s own. “Worse would be to act before you’re ready. Valence is crafty. He may be hoping that we’ll act rashly, and if we don’t do so on our own, he’ll try to force us into it.”
Ieuan’s jaw showed nothing but determination. “I’m glad Math is here. He can help me think like Dafydd might.”
Bronwen scanned the bailey, accepting without thinking it strange that everyone looked to David for leadership. He was all of twenty-years-old, but everyone in Britain knew by now what an unusual person he was. Everyone but Valence, that is. She supposed Valence kept himself going by telling himself that David’s victories over him, and the failures of his various plots and plans, had been due only to luck. While David admitted that he’d been extremely lucky, the rest of the world believed he was blessed by God.
In the few minutes Bronwen and Ieuan had been talking, word of the invasion had spread, as news did within a castle, in the blink of an eye. Small groups began to congregate in the noon sun. Bronwen looked back to the pot of penicillin tea, noting the half-dozen people who’d gathered around the scholar tending it. Their penicillin was going to get a far greater test than whether or not it would h
eal one girl—and far sooner than either Anna or Bronwen had anticipated or wanted. They weren’t ready for a full-scale war.
“How many men does Valence have?” Bronwen said.
“According to the rider’s best guess, some two thousand,” Ieuan said. “He brought fifty ships and packed his men into them. What he didn’t bring—and thank God for that—was more than a handful of horses.”
“He must have been planning this for a while.” Bronwen gave a laugh, though what she was thinking wasn’t funny. “In order for him to reach Portsmouth today, he must have left Ireland shortly after David left Windsor. Do you think Valence knows that David isn’t here?”
“I couldn’t say,” Ieuan said. “This is a direct challenge to Dafydd’s authority, however, and we’ll have to answer, regardless of whether or not Dafydd is here to lead us.”
“We can take care of this ourselves. Valence will never get to London.” Edmund Mortimer came to a halt beside Ieuan, having entered the castle with two dozen soldiers. Bronwen hadn’t noticed his presence earlier since her eyes had been on her husband.
“I know we can.” Ieuan gave Edmund a quick bow in greeting.
Edmund turned to Bronwen. “Valence believes himself to be a hero and that the people of England and its barons—” He put a hand to his own chest, “—me among them, will rise up in support of him to overthrow King David’s oppressive rule. All he has to do is make the first move.”
“Do you really think so?” Had the last months gone so awry and unrest swelled among the populace to such an extent that Valence was right? How had they not noticed?
“Of course not,” Edmund said. “I didn’t say this was true, only that Valence believes it.”
Bronwen shook herself, casting off doubt as reason reasserted itself. “How could he possibly think that the people would rise up and support him? He’s not even English. And when he served King Edward, most of your fellow Normans didn’t like him.”
“‘Hatred’ might not be too strong a word for what some of us felt about him,” Edmund said.
“He’s been listening to the wrong people,” Ieuan said, “people who tell him what he wants to hear instead of the truth.”
“I hope you’re right,” Bronwen said.
“King David was hailed as king by the people of London and by his barons,” Edmund said. “He was crowned by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. While some lords may have gotten more than they’d bargained for when they agreed he should be king, he has done nothing to arouse the wrath of his people. They love him.”
“He has cleaned things up a bit,” Bronwen said, doubt still in her voice. “Some haven’t liked that.”
“Corrupt officials never like to be removed from office,” Edmund said. “He has the sheriffs in his purse, along with the merchants, and, if I may say so without offending, the heart of every woman from Dover to Chester to York. As long as that is true, he has England.”
Bronwen nodded, somewhat reassured. That women loved David was hardly surprising. Not only was he tall, well-built, and good-looking, but he’d established policies about subjects women cared about, from education to medicine to domestic violence, an issue about which no English king had ever had a policy. A Welsh woman had a right to divorce her husband if he beat her. Now, with David’s rule, an English woman did too. The church might not like it, but church and state were not the same thing in David’s reign.
In addition, David had summoned his sheriffs and castellans to him at midsummer, after Arthur’s birth. The meeting had gotten off to a rocky start because many of the sheriffs had believed David’s intent was to either fire them or coerce them. They feared that anyone who failed to toe the line would find himself in prison or missing his head.
With the help of John de Falkes, the castellan of Carlisle Castle, David had eventually convinced them that what he really wanted was to know what everyone thought—about any topic they cared to discuss. The fact that Falkes walked free, despite having imprisoned David and Ieuan once upon a time, went a long way towards persuading them of the king’s sincerity.
“Perhaps Valence will garrison Winchester and come no further,” Bronwen said.
“That would be best for us, but less so for the people there,” Edmund said. “Bishop John has not been what I might call a friend, but neither has he been an enemy. He truly seems to care about the welfare of his flock and has no further aspirations beyond the office he currently holds.”
That was so rare it actually seemed likely. “And Winchester’s sheriff?” Bronwen said.
“Ingeramus de Waleys.” Ieuan laughed. “I can’t make head or tail of his name, but he seemed to be a solid enough fellow when I met him in July.”
“We’ll see what kind of mettle he has when he sees Valence’s army advancing on the city.” Edmund said. One of his men approached, and Edmund acknowledged his presence with a raised hand. The man stopped, waiting for Edmund to complete his conversation with Ieuan and Bronwen.
“I’ll let you go,” Ieuan said. “We meet in council in one hour.”
Edmund put his heels together and gave first Ieuan, and then Bronwen, a quick bow. “I will be there.”
Edmund turned away, and Ieuan put an arm around Bronwen’s shoulders. “We will need you and your healers and—” He waved his free hand, “—whatever you’ve come up with.”
“Anna and I will do our best, but we’re not ready for a war.”
“The men will appreciate any aid you can give them,” Ieuan said. “Just having so many healers in one place is a blessing. I understand the herbarium is fully stocked.”
“It is.” Bronwen canted her head, thinking about the exchange between Ieuan and Edmund at the end of their conversation. “Who’s in charge of David’s forces: Edmund or Math?”
Ieuan’s expression was rueful. “You wound me to the core, wife.” Then he laughed to show he didn’t mean it. “It would surprise you, then, to learn that I am?”
Chapter Six
September, 2017
Cassie
Cassie and Callum had only been married since June, but in the few months they’d been together, she’d prodded him for information about his former life. She knew about his past girlfriends, about his crush on one of his co-workers, Natasha, and the more nefarious workings of his former employer. Or seemingly, current employer.
Callum had joined MI-5 after returning from the war in Afghanistan. It had seemed a natural progression for him to move from soldier to agent. Many of his fellow agents had a military background. He knew how to follow orders and to give them, and for the most part, he felt that he fit right in. If nothing else, he viewed it as another way to serve his country. It gave him a focus, too, while he figured out how to cope with the onset of PTSD (Post-traumatic Stress Disorder), a result of his service in Afghanistan.
Callum’s arrival in medieval Wales last November had exposed the extent to which he hadn’t dealt with it. By the time Cassie had met him, however, he’d begun to conquer his demons. And in the last few months, he’d grown into his role as the Earl of Shrewsbury, a leader of men, and one of David’s chief advisors. She would never assume that returning to the twenty-first century would send him into a tailspin, even though she feared this world was going to crush her. But she was still surprised at the rapidity with which, in the half hour they were on the coastguard cutter, Callum transformed himself from the Earl of Shrewsbury into an MI-5 agent.
The cutter motored up to the long dock at one of the marinas, in deep enough water that it could moor safely; ships far larger than this—a thousand times larger—were moored in the industrial part of the harbor across the bay. Officer Timmons gestured that the three of them should follow him, and he led them to a gangway, which extended from the ship to the dock. A man and a woman waited for them at the other end.
When Callum lifted a hand to them, they responded in kind. Cassie supposed the woman had to be Natasha, and if so, it showed Callum’s good taste in women (herself notwithstanding). N
atasha wore her dark hair pulled back from her face in a bun, but kept the hair around her cheeks loose. She had dark eyes, high cheekbones, and olive skin. If the sun shone a little more in England, her complexion might have been as dark as Cassie’s.
Callum went first across the gangway, followed by Cassie and then David. The water lapped twenty feet below their feet, and Cassie averted her eyes, not liking the height and the low railing. When Callum reached the end of the walkway and the concrete pier, he halted so abruptly that Cassie almost ran into him. He put an arm behind his back, reaching for her hand, which he grasped and squeezed once. “Wait a second.”
David spoke from behind her, “Callum, what’s up—?” But then he broke off before finishing his question. Fifty yards away, on their side of the chain link fence that separated the parking lot—or ‘car park’ in Callum-speak—from the road beyond, the doors of a black van opened, and five men in full riot gear and automatic weapons spilled out of it.
“What’s going on, Natasha?” Callum said. “I explained when I phoned you—”
“Yes, you did, and that’s why they’re here,” Natasha said. “Thames House has some concerns.” Located in London, Thames House was the head office for MI-5.
“I’m sure they do.” Callum stood at the end of the ramp, watching the men, and not letting Cassie or David past him.
“It looks like they have more than some concerns,” said David under his breath.
“Are we under arrest?” Cassie said.
“We ask that you come with us,” said the man standing next to Natasha. “There is no need for alarm.”
“We already said we would come, Driscoll.” Callum still filled the space at the end of the gangway completely. He held his shoulders stiff, and his hands were clenched into fists. He wasn’t giving an inch, and Cassie wondered how long he was going to stand there waiting for Natasha to bend.
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