Winds of Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  Chapter Two

  I marched along the southern side of Hadrian’s Wall, to the north of the road the Romans had built in order to connect their forts together and so they could better patrol their northern border. It was approaching nine o’clock when I reached the remains of a fort where I could rest for the night. I had passed the remains of fortlets which the Romans had placed every mile along the wall, but none felt secure enough to stay in. Besides, I wanted to walk as long as it was light.

  My history told me that the major forts were six miles apart, but this was the first one I’d come to. Either I was walking more slowly than I’d thought, or I had missed one that wasn’t actually attached to the wall or was so much a ruin I hadn’t recognized it.

  This fort was relatively intact, I was pleased to see, with the walls standing well above my head, still fifteen feet high. In the twenty-first century, this fort would be nearly two thousand years old and much decayed. Now, it was only a thousand years old and it made a difference to be here before that extra thousand years of weather and people pillaging the stones.

  The darkness grew as I tried to find the entrance. I had never been much of a night person, and dawn came early to England in summer. Better to sleep now, if I could, than walk on until it got completely dark and find myself without shelter. I followed the wall of the fort as it jutted out perpendicular to Hadrian’s Wall and walked some ways until it turned to head west again. I hadn’t realized how big a three acre fort could be. I had only been to a small section of Hadrian’s Wall before (in modern times), near Newcastle, and had learned then that the forts could hold more than a thousand men.

  Finally, I reached the southern gateway and crossed the threshold into a large space. It was magnificent. A shiver went down my spine and I remembered again what it had been like that first time in Wales, traveling through the countryside with Llywelyn.

  The fort stretched before me. A large courtyard was surrounded by smaller buildings, mostly wrecked. I headed towards those on the eastern side, looking for shelter so that I could sleep, at least for a little while. I didn’t believe that anyone would come to the fort so late at night—if they ever came at all—but I didn’t want to be discovered if they did.

  As with the Roman fort I’d passed through with Llywelyn (I really wasn’t going to be able to keep him out of my head, was I?), one of the rooms at the fort contained an altar with a picture of a bull carved into the stone. Roman soldiers had worshipped Mithras here, as part of the secretive, all-male cult popular in the Roman legions.

  I stood uncertainly in the doorway, surprised to see footprints in the dirt in front of the altar and a dark stain across the front of the stones, evident even in the failing light.

  The stain looked like blood. Surely men didn’t still worship here?

  Christianity had taken over England long ago—but perhaps not everywhere. Perhaps a fringe group found refuge here from time to time. I walked forward and ran my hand gently over the stone. The worship of Mithras had involved animal sacrifice, usually goats or sheep. Please let this not be human blood! No matter what had made the stain, it had long since dried. I was imagining things; perhaps the footprints were quite old and had remained undisturbed for many years. There was a roof over this section of the fort, so the outside weather would not have touched them.

  I backed out of the room and made my way across the fort through the rubble to a different section. I settled upon a private space built into the western wall of the fort. It appeared to have once been a guard tower. It had a roof that would protect me from any sudden rain, though I wasn’t concerned about the weather. As changeable as weather in England could be, stars glittered above my head, giving me enough light to see by.

  I set my pack against the wall, sat down, and leaned against it. I unscrewed the cap to my water bottle and tilted all but the last inch into my mouth. I would need to find more water in the morning. Fortunately, there were many little streams and rivers near the Wall. As I’d walked earlier, I had gladly filled my bottle from them when I found them, hoping for the best in terms of sanitation. I assumed there would be more as I went along tomorrow.

  Hadrian’s Wall was only seventy-miles long, straddling the north of England with Newcastle in the east, and Carlisle in the west. Even if I was quite far east when I started, it couldn’t be long before I would reach a settlement where I could find food. Two or three days without food, as long as I had water, would not kill me. I scrunched down further and rested my head against my backpack so I could stare up at the ceiling. I tried to relax my shoulders and empty my head of worries. It wasn’t really possible, but after I counted several hundred sheep, I fell asleep.

  * * * * *

  I awoke to the sound of crying. Heart racing, I sat up. My ears strained to hear better. Then it came again, the distinct sound of a child weeping. I got to my feet, took a few steps into the center of the room, and then thought better of it. Instead of shouldering my pack, I stuffed it behind a fallen rock and took a moment to layer several smaller ones over it. It was the best I could do in the dark. I didn’t want to risk a medieval person coming across it by mistake.

  I hurried from the room, following the child’s sounds and arrived in the main courtyard of the fort. The moon had risen while I’d slept, illuminating the stones. A young boy huddled with his back to the wall by the door.

  I stopped short at the sight of him, truly stunned. What on earth could a child be doing here in the middle of the night? I glanced towards the room that held the altar, but no light appeared inside it and it seemed the boy was alone. He looked up as I approached and held out both hands as if to push me away. “Don’t hurt me!”

  I stopped again. For all that I’d been working with medieval English (and medieval Welsh, of course) for the last ten years, it took me a second to register what he’d said and to orient my thoughts so that my words would come out right.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I won’t harm you.”

  “Are you a ghost?”

  So that’s what he was thinking. Most medieval people avoided the Roman ruins because spirits might haunt them. “I am no spirit. Just a traveler like you.”

  “I’m not a traveler,” the boy said, gaining courage. “I’m a squire!”

  I closed the distance between us and crouched in front of him. The shadow of the wall obscured his face, but from his size, I guessed he was ten or twelve years old.

  “You are young for such a big job,” I said. “How did you end up here?”

  “The Scots.” The boy spat on the ground. “I rode out of Carlisle with one of my uncle’s companies and we ran into—” The boy swallowed hard, unable to finish his sentence.

  I touched his hand and was glad when he turned his palm face-up and allowed me to grasp it. “Did any of your uncle’s men survive?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Where are they now, the Scots I mean?”

  “Riding north—or they were,” the boy said. “They didn’t tie my feet and I slipped off the back of the pack horse they’d thrown me over. This was before the moon was up. I ran here. I didn’t see anyone follow.”

  “So they captured you? Only you?” I said.

  He nodded. They’d wanted him for ransom, probably, recognizing the fine cut of his cloth and that he wore mail armor, even though he was just a boy. I was surprised the Scots had ridden this far south, and even more surprised his uncle hadn’t ridden with him.

  “What is your name?”

  “Thomas Hartley. My uncle is Sir John de Falkes. He crusaded with King Edward and now guards his northern border against the Scots.”

  I caught my breath, my heart pounding. I was close, so close! It could be 1284, it really could! Hysterical laughter rose in my throat. I bent my head forward, glad that Thomas couldn’t see my face any more than I could see his. He coughed under his breath but didn’t comment. Maybe he thought I was crying.

  Relieved that the boy wasn’t in immediate danger, I cleared my
throat. “Give me a moment. I need to gather my things. Then we’ll start walking again. We need to get you to your uncle.”

  I left him by the front door and ran back to the side room, pulled out my pack, and once again dumped the contents on the ground. I pawed through them for anything small enough to fit into the pockets of the jacket I wore, which fortunately had inner as well as outer pockets.

  The first aid kit went in first, followed by the ibuprofen, my nail clippers, safety pins, and two maxi-pads. I looked longingly at the socks, but put them back in the pack. The unusual clothing I wore was bad enough without adding to it.

  Since I was going to be female from now on, I dropped the hat in the pack. I hurriedly combed out my hair and braided it … and then stopped, still holding onto the thick plait with one hand. What to tie the end with? A scrunchie wouldn’t do. They didn’t have rubber bands in the Middle Ages. I rummaged in the pack and came up with a dark blue ribbon from the hem of the broomstick skirt. I cut a length of it with the scissors from the first aid kit.

  Then I slipped the chain, on which my ex-husband’s diamond ring was strung, around my neck, took off my watch (very reluctantly) and stowed it in the pack, which I put back behind the stones. There was no help for it. I couldn’t keep it. I stacked a few more rocks to hide it better and mused that an archaeologist of the future was going to get a major surprise.

  By the time I got back to Thomas, he was on his feet. He glanced at the moon. “I reckon it’s after midnight now.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. “Would you rather stay here until morning?”

  “No!”

  “So let’s get walking.”

  Much cheered, Thomas led the way out of the fort and headed west on the southern side of the wall (so as to avoid any stray Scots). I followed, trying to keep a steady pace, but Thomas, who’d been sad and scared before, rather than injured, was irrepressible now that he had company. At one point he broke into a run. When I refused to keep up, he slowed and then stopped to wait for me.

  “My uncle will be very worried about me,” he said.

  “How many men were in your company?” I said.

  “Twelve, in addition to me.” Thomas bit his lip.

  “Was it your first scouting trip?”

  Thomas nodded. It might be a long time before he was allowed out again.

  The wall rose and fell to our right, following the hilly terrain. Neither Thomas nor I had any idea how far it might be to Carlisle. We walked for several hours, but some time before dawn, clouds blew in to cover the moon. I couldn’t see see the dips and stones in the road any longer and stumbled twice on rocks before falling to my knees on a third impediment.

  “We have to stop,” I said.

  Thomas gazed west, his hands folded on the top of his head and his eyes straining for any sign of the city. “It can’t be much farther.”

  “It really could, Thomas. Let’s rest until morning.” A small stand of trees grew to our left. I eyed it, thinking it might provide enough shelter for us to pass what remained of the night. As soon as the sky began to lighten, we could set out under better conditions.

  Reluctantly, Thomas allowed me to lead him across the fifty yards of grass to the trees. As we passed under them, their leaves obscured the moon and it was quite dark. Thomas found a tree that was free of brambles, and settled himself at its foot. Neither of us wore a cloak so I sat beside him and put my arm around his shoulders. He leaned into me, resting his head against my breast.

  “I never asked your name,” he said, after a minute.

  I smiled. A ten year old’s oversight. “You can call me Margaret.”

  “You speak strangely,” the boy said.

  “To me, you speak strangely too. I have never been here before and much of this land is unknown to me.”

  Thomas didn’t reply and I thought he might have fallen asleep.

  “Thank you for saving me,” he said.

  Within two minutes, his breath came slow and even.

  I eased my back further down the tree so I didn’t sit so upright and closed my eyes too. But I couldn’t sleep. In the cold, dark woods, alone but for a ten year old boy, the fragility of my position pressed on me. I sat a little straighter again, opened my eyes again, and watched.

  Chapter Three

  I awoke to find two boots next to my nose. One of them shifted to poke me in the ribs.

  “Wake up!”

  I could have sworn I had stayed awake the whole night, but just when I should have been watching, I must have fallen asleep. Isn’t that always the way of it in the movies? Thomas still slept, cradled against my side. His weight prevented me from shifting so I could see the speaker. Instead, the owner of the boots crouched in front of me and I found myself looking into blue eyes and the stern face of a man of an age with me—middle thirties, maybe even younger.

  “Allard.” Blue-eyed man threw the words to the man behind him whose face I couldn’t see. “You and Francis lift the boy and bring him to my horse. I will carry him home myself.”

  “Yes, Sir John.”

  Sir John kept his gaze steady on me as Allard and Francis raised Thomas up.

  “He’s not injured,” I said.

  Thomas yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Uncle!”

  Sir John relented some of his sternness and grabbed Thomas up in a bear hug. For my part, I struggled to my feet, very conscious of my twenty-first century clothing. I clutched my short jacket closed and folded my arms across my chest. Sir John looked at me over the top of his nephew’s head. “And you are?”

  Thomas released his uncle enough to twist towards me. “This is Margaret, Uncle. She and I walked from the Roman fort together.”

  Sir John’s eyes narrowed. “Which Roman fort?”

  “Your nephew found himself alone and on the run from some Scots,” I said. “He ended up at a fort along the wall.”

  “I might ask what you were doing there, dressed as you are.” His eyes inspected me up and down. “But for now, we best be getting home.” And just like that, he turned away from me and towards his horse, which he mounted on a single, fluid motion.

  Thomas scampered after him. Sir John gave the boy his arm so that he could clamber up after him on the back of the horse. I had followed Thomas from the woods, but now backed away, thinking that continuing the journey by myself wasn’t a bad idea. Sir John had a different notion, however.

  “Francis!” Sir John jerked his head, directing Francis’ attention towards me. Francis nodded. A moment later, I found myself grasped by the arm and urged towards Francis’ horse. “Can you ride?”

  I stared up at the beast and sighed. “Yes.”

  Sir John laughed. “Look after her, Francis. I have many questions.” He spurred his horse away.

  I hadn’t ridden more than a few times since my year with Llywelyn, but I knew what to do. I grasped the horse’s mane and Francis threw me up onto him. I swung my leg over the horse’s back and tried to get comfortable. I closed my eyes. Where will this end? A second later, Francis mounted behind me. Perhaps he feared that I would slip off the back and run away if he didn’t contain me.

  I’d been fortunate so far that neither Thomas nor Sir John had pressed me about what I was doing at the wall. Sir John would corner me eventually, and if I couldn’t get myself free first, I was going to have to come up with a satisfactory story with which to explain myself. I hated to lie and couldn’t trust myself to lie convincingly anyway. My hope lay in finding a truth palatable enough for John, that was also true for me. Hopeless.

  We set off at trot, which quickened to a ground eating canter. The sun had fully risen now and it promised to be a beautiful summer day.

  It took us almost two hours to reach Carlisle Castle, Sir John’s home, located within the city of Carlisle. As the castellan for Edward I, Sir John would be one of the men spearheading Edward’s invasion of Scotland in another few years. Another bit of history that I would change if I could. I decided not to mention that to Si
r John.

  * * * * *

  Once at the castle, Sir John arranged for a servant to lead me to the bathing room, located just off the kitchen. Discarded clothes that needed washing sat in baskets near a back exit that led to the large troughs where laundry was done. A fire warmed the room, which it needed, even though it was summer. It was England after all. The water for the bath was warm too and I made the most of it. Afterwards, the woman presented me with a linen shift and a dress of deep blue that matched my eyes perfectly.

  I had no mirror but I could see something of my reflection in the basin. The servant rebraided my hair in two plaits (tying each with a leather thong), making me look far younger than my thirty-seven years. I shrugged. It would have to do. As my final preparation, I stacked my old clothes in a neat pile in a corner, along with all my goodies but the two rings, awaiting the moment I could collect them again.

  I edged open the door to see if anyone was in the passage. It was empty. Now it begins, and I am such a lousy liar.

  When I entered the great hall, it was full of people eating. I gulped. It had been a long time since I’d faced this kind of audience—in fact, it was the day after I fell into the past the first time, sixteen years ago. And that time, I had baby Anna on my hip.

  Sir John sat at the head table, in the primary position, as was usually the case with lords in their own hall. Thinking of Llywelyn again, I squared my shoulders. I would find courage in his memory. Best get on with it.

  At a signal from Sir John, I walked to him and came to a halt a pace away, on the other side of the table. I folded my hands and looked at him, aiming for an innocent and expectant expression. Now that I wore appropriate clothing, chances were better that I could pass for the medieval woman I was not.

  “If it doesn’t trouble you greatly,” he said, “please break your fast in my receiving room. I have questions for you.”

  “Of course, my lord,” I said.