Out of Time

by Loretta Livingstone

  OUT

  OF

  TIME

  Loretta Livingstone

  Copyright © 2015 Loretta Livingstone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the context of reviews.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover by Chris Graham of TSRA Book Covers

  www.http://thestoryreadingapeblog.com/authors-resources-central/tsra-doings/

  For Liz, my best friend for more years than I can remember.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  Early May 1191

  Near Sparnstow Abbey

  Giles was annoyed. He had been intending to spend some time at his manor, which had been too often neglected of late, but John had summoned him, with a handful of others, to act as escort. He had not been present at John’s meeting but, to judge by his expression, things had not gone well. The whole thing was beginning to smell suspiciously of treason. A murrain on John and his accursed intrigues. Giles did not want to be involved in this but could see no way out.

  He allowed himself to lag behind, a sour expression on his face. John noticed and slowed his mount until he, too, had dropped behind the others. Nudging close to Giles, he snarled, “Remove that look of disgust, de Soutenay, and remember to whom you swore allegiance.”

  Giles was about to point out that allegiance did not include treason, when his horse whinnied in protest as a bee buzzed around its ears. Giles swatted at it, and the bee moved irritably away. Attracted by a bright splash of colour, it flew to investigate.

  John, resplendent in a mantle of saffron silk, made to brush the bee away as it landed on his tunic. The bee, already annoyed, reacted instinctively. John gave a yelp of pain, and his horse reared. Giles smirked and rode to join the others in the entourage, leaving John swearing as his head cracked on an overhanging bough.

  John brought his mount under control and, rubbing his brow, cantered to the head of the troop. Half a mile down the road, Giles’ amusement turned to alarm as John fell from his horse.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Early May 2006

  Sparnstow Abbey

  “Go on, then. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  “Mum!” Chloe glared at me, exasperation oozing from her. “You are just so embarrassing.”

  I ignored her huff. “And…”

  “And yes! I have got Shannon’s epinephrine jab. Do I ever forget? Seriously?” She stood there, hands on hips, bristling with fourteen-year-old outrage.

  Shannon has a rather scary allergy to bee stings. The whole family are trained to know how to deal with it, and, haphazard as Chloe can be on occasion, she is very reliable where Shannon is concerned. We don’t want to wrap the poor kid in cotton wool. Nevertheless, I like to be within range of them both.

  Thinking of the spare I should be carrying, I rummaged in my bag – yes, there it was, along with the other paraphernalia we mums carry around with us. It always surprises me that you can’t tell which women are mothers by the longer length of one arm from hauling all the family necessities around year after year.

  “Off you go, then. I’ll stay here and read. It’s much too hot for me. Have fun.”

  They each blew me a kiss and scampered across the grass.

  I sat in the car and dug out my novel. Peace at last. Opening the book, I lost myself in its pages…for about twenty minutes. Overhead, the sun seemed even brighter than it had been at noon. It beat down, unhindered by clouds.

  Heaving a sigh, I fanned myself with the book. Even with all the doors thrown open and my legs sticking out as far as they could go, it was stifling.

  Groaning, I got out. It made little difference. Why on earth were there no trees in this car park? I grabbed a diaphanous piece of cotton which I’d tossed into the car at the last moment thinking it might come in handy to sit on or maybe throw over my shoulders to protect them from burning. My legs were ok. Sweaty but shaded in a sage green, ankle-length dress, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about sunscreen for them. Sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades. It was no good. I couldn’t sit here waiting for the kids; I needed to go and find some shade.

  We were visiting an old, ruined abbey. Both my girls were history crazy at the moment, thanks to a particularly inventive teacher. I hadn’t been able to face tramping around the grounds with them, but twenty minutes of sitting in a tin-can in the full glare of an over-zealous sun had changed my mind.

  Not a cloud softened the azure sky; not a breath of wind stirred the air. Even the birds seemed too hot to sing. Wearily, I threw the shawl-cum-scarf over my shoulders, then removed the satnav, stuffing it in my bag. Locking the car, I plodded across the wide expanse of grass to the ruins of the Abbey where, at least, I could sit in the shade of a nice, cool, stone wall.

  It wasn’t a very large abbey, well the ruins weren’t, but apparently, it had been quite well loved in its day.

  The attendant, in his small ticket office, looked even hotter than I felt.

  “That’ll be £10 love, please. Phew! Wish I had a fan in here,” he gasped, flapping at himself with a brochure.

  He held out a sweaty paw, and I dropped my cash into it with a sympathetic smile. As he pressed a button, I pushed at the turnstile, which made an agonised squeal as though even it was protesting about working today.

  Once inside, I wandered around a bit but there were far too many people for my liking. I was about to pass the tea rooms when I paused. There were a few unoccupied chairs inside and none at all outside, except for those few with no shady umbrella. I dithered as I took in the long queue of noisy kids and grumpy parents snaking out of the door and a couple of angry wasps buffeting against the window, but I could see there was an ice-cream freezer chest inside. It’ll be worth it, I promised myself.

  As I reached the head of the queue and pointed out my choice, the lady behind the counter gave me a harassed smile. “You’re lucky I’ve got any left, love; it’s a madhouse here today. I’m tempted to lock the door, climb in the freezer and eat them all myself.” She took my money and handed over an orange lolly. “You know what you want to do with that? Before you take off the paper, run it round your wrists. That’ll cool you down nicely…” She broke off to glare at a child who was carelessly discarding a wrapper. “Oi! Pick that paper up and put it in the bin…and you! Get your sticky mitts out of my freezer. I’ll get it out for you. Which one did you want? Honestly, kids!” She turned her attention back to the queue behind me, dismissing me with a wave of her hand.

  Taking her advice, I discovered she was right – it did cool me down a bit, running it round my wrists. I peeled off the paper, chucked it in the bin and bit into the ice-cold oranginess. Lovely.

  Next, I wanted to locate my girls. Chloe, who has decided to call herself Eleanor thanks to an inspired idea of the aforementioned history teacher who let them choose their favourite medieval name to be used during her class and, it seems
, at home, was likely to be the ringleader in any escapades they were up to. Chloe is a natural leader. Shannon, a couple of years younger, is content to trail in her wake. Shannon, by the way, is now Rohese – there not being many Shannons around in medieval times according to her sister. I wouldn’t know. Not being much of a history buff, they could tell me anything and I’d believe it.

  Of course, Chloe would choose Eleanor; it is the name of some medieval queen, she tells me. Apparently, she was one of the most beautiful women in history. Also talented. Not particularly given to modesty, our Chloe/Eleanor. She tells me my name doesn’t need a medieval overhaul. My mother, Ann, grew up on the tales of Robin Hood. It was inevitable really, wasn’t it? I am, of course, named Marion.

  Where were those girls? Best do a quick check before I settled myself down somewhere.

  Peering around me, I heard a yell. “Muuuuuuuum! Mum! Up here. On the walls.” I looked up, squinting against the brilliance of the sun, wishing I had remembered to grab my sunglasses instead of leaving them, carelessly, on the table in the hall.

  “Here, here!” A glimpse of scarlet caught my eye – Chloe’s red tee shirt. Two pairs of hands were waving frantically at me from some kind of walkway at the top of the Abbey wall. I waved back and ambled off to find somewhere out of the way. It’s funny, you would think red would be the worst colour to wear if you want to avoid bees but, from the research we’ve done, it seems to be a safer choice than blue or yellow. Of course, opinions vary, but from what I read, bees have trouble seeing the colour red. I hoped we were right.

  I wandered around until I reached a small kind of hollow in the walls out of the way of the main tourist trails. Kicking my sandals off, I stretched out my feet blissfully against the grass. That was better. A nice cool, if rather unyielding, wall against my back and a good book. Now, I could have that peace and quiet I’d promised myself.

  I was just getting into my book again when I realised there was a continuous buzzing in my head and…I sniffed…whatever was that? I looked to my left and saw a huge pile of canine excrement with its obligatory contingent of loudly buzzing flies.

  Collecting my belongings hurriedly, I schlepped off down a grassy slope away from the Abbey. I could see an old tree down there on the right with a sort of fence around it. Plenty of shade there, and not a soul taking advantage of it. The girls wouldn’t miss me for an hour or so.

  The sun was hot on my head. Thinking longingly of my big, shady hat, which was lying next to my sunglasses on the hall table, I pulled the throw up to cover my head. I looked ridiculous, but it was better than getting sunstroke.

  Heading towards the tree, I gradually became aware of another buzzing in my head. Not more flies, surely? No, it didn’t sound like that, more like a swarm of bees. I looked upwards worriedly. If there were bees about, I needed to get back to Shannon fast.

  But the skies were clear. The noise seemed to be coming from the tree itself, and there were no bees around that either. It echoed in my head, making me dizzy. It seemed to vibrate through my whole body. I could feel it in my fingers, my ribs, even my teeth. The grass shimmered, almost like a mirage. The sun was still beating down, but now I was covered in a cold sweat. My head spun, and I stumbled – I could hardly walk.

  I tried to turn round and head back to the car, but I couldn’t. Something seemed to be tugging me, almost as though there was a rope tied to me with someone hauling on the other end of it. I staggered forward. On and on, with a black mist dancing in my eyes, the buzz in my head engulfing me.

  The tree was getting nearer and nearer. I felt so ill. If only I could just sit for a minute, but my unwilling feet kept moving forward, drawn by some irresistible force.

  I felt sick and giddy, and I could hardly see, but I kept staggering towards that tree. The fencing around it seemed to have vanished, or maybe I’d found a gap; I didn’t know. My eyes weren’t focussing at all. Putting out a hand, I felt the gnarled trunk of the old beech, rough beneath my palm, before I pitched forward and fell into blackness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Early May 1191

  Etheldreda had been looking forward to harvesting the watercress needed for the infirmary potions and cures. The day was hot; the sun was high, and a trip to the stream outside the Abbey was in the nature of a treat. That was until Sister Ursel had told her who her companions were to be.

  She sighed when told Sister Aldith was to accompany her. Aldith was barely out of the noviciate and thought she knew everything there was to know about being a fully-professed nun. Her pious demeanour seemed more of an act than true devotion, and she had an inclination to the dramatic.

  “…for I am concerned about her attitude,” said Sister Ursel. “And this is to go no further, mind.” She gave Etheldreda a searching look and, seeing acquiescence there, continued. “True piety I mind not, but she is too young for this prideful piety of hers, and too ready to believe she has seen visions. That, in itself, would not be harmful, especially if God has blessed her with this gift – but if it is merely, as I suspect, the product of a fertile imagination, then it needs to be discouraged. An afternoon outside the Abbey, where there are none to impress, may help, I think.”

  Etheldreda nodded her understanding, but sighed inwardly. Sister Aldith, of all the other sisters, was not the one she would have chosen for company this bright day.

  “And Brother Bernard has offered to accompany you.”

  Etheldreda’s spirits sank a little further. Brother Bernard, who seemed to have the ability to make her feel like a lackwit!

  “Now, look not so disappointed, Sister,” chided Ursel, who was well versed in reading faces. “Brother Bernard has a good heart and a helpful one, and it behoves us to see that Aldith gets a good dose of common sense. For she has a vocation, and who shall say her nay? Once we help her to overcome this youthful silliness, she will do well. Meantime, remember it is the Lord who gives us our joy, and by serving our brothers and sisters, that joy is increased, not diminished. Now, go find Aldith, and Brother Bernard will join you at the gatehouse.”

  Etheldreda had come late to the cloister. Married young to a man older and not of her choosing, who had nonetheless turned out to be a good husband to her, she had sincerely mourned him when he died but had no wish to be under a man’s disposal again. When she arrived at Sparnstow Abbey, she had been welcomed into the fold along with her dowry, and once out of the noviciate, had been selected to work for Sister Ursel, the Abbey infirmaress, who also oversaw the small herbarium and the apothecary nuns. Ursel was a doughty soul, full of wisdom and compassion. Etheldreda had learnt much from her, and was hoping, one day, to become sub-infirmaress.

  She pondered on Ursel’s words as she approached Sister Aldith and, refusing to let anything steal her joy, advanced with a smile.

  “Sister Aldith, come with me, if you please. Sister Ursel has a mission for us.”

  The young nun came reluctantly towards Etheldreda, speculation writ large on her face. Aldith was not at all sure what to make of Sister Ursel, who had yet to be impressed by her fine show of piety and was as like to dose her with some noxious tasting medicine when she was in a state of blessed ecstasy.

  Sister Ursel was as far from appearing saintly to Aldith as anyone could be. Down-to-earth, and with a healthy scepticism, Aldith could not understand how the elderly infirmaress seemed to have the ear of Mother Abbess herself. And Etheldreda seemed to be cast in the same mould. This was not how Aldith believed holy sisters should comport themselves.

  Recollecting herself, Aldith lowered her eyes and, pressing her lips together in what she imagined to be a holy demeanour, she listened as Etheldreda told her what they would be doing.

  Despite her determination to be kind, Etheldreda’s heart sank as she watched the young nun veil her expression. Ah, well. Now, to the gatehouse to meet Brother Bernard. At least he had a kindly heart and a joyful countenance, for all his insistence that the Abbey sisters were weak vessels, needful to be assisted in all things. She reall
y must learn to tolerate his determination to be helpful, and maybe he could bring some cheer back into the day.

  Brother Bernard was waiting for them as they walked sedately to the gatehouse, baskets at his feet. Sister Berthe, the porteress, smiled benignly, her large face redder than usual today as she stood in the sunshine watching them depart.

  Etheldreda and Aldith each carried one basket for the harvesting, Brother Bernard having two, one in either hand. They did not chatter but walked in companionable silence. It seemed to Etheldreda, when she glanced at her, that even Aldith was enjoying the day. She had forgotten to prim her mouth, and her eyes roved about her, taking in the beauty which surrounded them. In the distance, labourers worked the fields, calling to each other.

  A golden sun burned brightly overhead, and the stream burbled and sang beside them, not quite drowning out the droning of bees and the birdsong. In an hour or so, it would be warmer, and even the birds would hush their singing. The day, so filled with promise, lay before her, and Etheldreda found her spirits rising again.

  They crossed the bridge, and made their way to the place where the watercress grew in great profusion. Etheldreda slipped her sandals from her feet and prepared to kilt her habit slightly above her ankles.

  Aldith’s mouth turned down in disapproval. Brother Bernard noticed and gave a chuckle.

  “Come, Sister, look not so sour at our good Sister Etheldreda, for she is in the right of it. Would you ruin good sandals by paddling in them? Here am I, removing mine also.” And with that, he slipped his own large sandals from his sturdy feet and kilted his habit to his knees.

  Thus admonished, Aldith had no choice but to follow suit, albeit with a sulky air. Crossing herself as though to ask pardon for committing some heinous sin, she bared her feet reluctantly.