Out of Time

by Loretta Livingstone

  We seemed not to be able to think of anything to say, were just sitting there in companionable silence. I had thought we would talk non-stop if we ever met again, but there didn’t really seem to be any words which fitted. I should be going but felt a pang that I would never see him again. It’s strange to speak to someone who is alive now but technically has been dead for hundreds of years. I wondered…

  “How did it go with Prince John? Was he okay about things?”

  “Okay?” Giles frowned as he repeated the unfamiliar word.

  I kept forgetting he wouldn’t understand me – this language gap was confusing. I tried again. “Er, was he agreeable to the plan? Did he cut up rough…I mean…”

  “I think I can guess what you mean.” He smiled. “’Cut up rough’ seems a very apt description. In truth, I think my days might have been foreshortened had it not been for the Queen’s intervention. That woman is remarkable. Mind you, I seem to be meeting any number of remarkable women of late.”

  “So are you to keep your lands?”

  A ray of joy lit up his face. “Not only do I retain my lands, I am promised an heiress. Let us hope she will be young and beautiful too. Any amount of lands and wealth would not make up for being married to a shrew with no teeth or a horse-faced wench with a laugh to match.”

  I blinked. “But surely, you choose your own wife?”

  He bared his teeth. “Not when the Queen has gone to the trouble of finding you an heiress. You smile gratefully and keep your tongue between your teeth. Then, you find consolation elsewhere.”

  “Oh.” What else could I say?

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t worry, sweeting. There is many a father anxious to please the Queen by offering his daughter. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a sweet-faced virgin or a desirable young widow. As long as her looks aren’t beyond redemption and her temper mild, I’m sure we’ll be content enough. And if not, as I said, there is always consolation to be found.”

  I was a bit shocked by his pragmatic approach. Somehow, I’d assumed everyone in this day and age was religious. Maybe that was only in some respects. And I suppose if you don’t get to choose your spouse, and you don’t like them, you make the best of it. I wondered if it was the same for the women of this era. Probably not.

  He looked at me curiously. “From your speech, do I assume you chose your own man, and he you?”

  “I certainly did. We marry whom we please in my time.”

  Those white teeth flashed again. “Now, that sounds passing pleasant to me.”

  I don’t know how long we could have sat there, each fascinated to learn of the other’s way of life, reluctant to part, but suddenly, a large horse came galloping through the trees, followed by a slightly smaller, shabbier mount. The larger of the two horses was ridden by the monk I had seen the previous time.

  Giles’ face took on a peculiar expression. “Brother, I assume you are riding Troubadour for a reason,” he said, as the monk reached him, slid off and handed him the reins. “Indeed, I’m surprised you are able to ride him at all.”

  “No time for that, Sire. I came to warn you there’s a party of horsemen approaching. Good day, my lady,” he greeted me with a bob of his head, “and also farewell, for you need to leave now. You may borrow Horace if you have need of him.” He indicated the second horse. “I’m sure the Abbess will understand.”

  “Thank you, Brother, but no, I won’t need him.” Would a horse even fit through? But there was no time to waste pondering on that. I needed to be through that tree before they appeared.

  Giles turned and caught me in a brief hug. “Farewell Marion, I won’t forget you.”

  “Nor I you.”

  “Now go, quickly.”

  He let me go and propelled me towards the beech. I didn’t need telling twice. I held my breath and plunged through it, turning my head as I went to give one last wave as he and the monk faded before my eyes. The monk’s expression of disbelief would stay with me a long time.

  With a kind of plop, I stepped back into my own time, heart racing. I came out behind the tree this time, hidden from the Abbey grounds, and ripped off my medieval clothes not a moment too soon as a dog and its owner appeared on the other side of the field. I quickly thrust the garments into my basket. The dog, a heavy bloodhound, dashed up to me and jumped on my jean-clad legs, sniffing excitedly. I staggered beneath the onslaught but daren’t lean against the tree. I wasn’t going back again, and certainly not dressed like this.

  “Down, Rufus! Get here!”

  The dog ignored him and sniffed at me in some kind of olfactory delirium; maybe he could smell the past somehow. He was going crazy, slobbering and drooling on me then poking his nose into my basket and snuffling. His red-faced owner grabbed him by the collar and hauled him off, clipping him to his lead. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s come over him. He never does this.”

  “No worries. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  He dragged the dog away, still apologising to me and cursing at it.

  As for me, I was left feeling somehow bereft. It had all ended so suddenly, part of me seemed to be missing – left behind in the twelfth century. It is strange to have touched another world; maybe you leave something of your essence behind. I was surprised at the sense of loss. Of course, I hadn’t left my heart behind; my heart was here, where it belonged, but still…

  I sank down on the grass and sat for a long time, my chin on my knees, looking at the beech, almost willing myself to see through it. I would have loved to hear what Brother Bernard had to say as I disappeared before his eyes. And how would Giles and Hildegarde explain that away? Or maybe they wouldn’t need to. Maybe Brother Bernard, too, was in on the secret.

  I should have liked to linger there a little longer. It was all so different, yet somehow all so…so the same. The people spoke differently and had different customs, but at heart, I was realising, people are always the same even if centuries divide them.

  Despite my stare, or maybe because of it, the tree remained solid. No vibrations. Cautiously, I stood up and touched my palm lightly to the trunk. I felt nothing unusual. It was firm and gnarly beneath my hand. I knelt down and groped for the hollow in the roots, pushing my fingers in. I could still see them. The tree was perfectly normal, like any other tree. Thank goodness I wouldn’t have to shepherd a rampaging twelfth century knight, complete with sword, through the foibles of the 21st century. I wasn’t sure that would have ended well.

  Slowly, thoughtfully, I got to my feet, brushing the grass from my jeans. As I wandered back to the car, I saw a coach-load of tourists pull up. Glancing at my watch, I realised it was still only 10 am. I could easily spare another hour.

  Making my mind up, I walked quickly to the entrance, paid over the fee and wandered in. It seemed so strange to see that beautiful old building in ruins. Strange and sad.

  I hadn’t had time to get much of an impression of the Abbey; I’d spent most of my time in Hildegarde’s chamber and in that awful cell, but I had felt the essence, the flavour if you like, and it lingered softly like a ghost. The turnstile must be where the gates had been. I smothered a chuckle as I remembered the vision of the porteress, Giles’ hand clapped over her mouth, her eyes bulging with fury. Would she ever forgive him for that?

  Trying to get my bearings, I wandered through the ruins, stopping from time to time to put my hands on the worn stone, imagining Etheldreda, with her merry blue eyes, Ursel, Hildegarde, Brother Bernard and that terrified young nun who thought I was a demon. It was hard to believe that, only a short time ago, they had been going about their business in the Abbey while I was with Giles by the beech. Now, they were nothing more than bleached bones – no grave, no headstone, not even remembered in books or hearts, except mine. It was difficult to come to terms with.

  I followed the line of the interior foundations. Here would have been the cloisters and the infirmary. And here, this, I thought, was where Hildegarde’s chamber had been. Standing there, noth
ing but a few stones around me, I tried to remember it as it had been – the ornate desk, the garderobe with its wall hanging, the punishment cell Hildegarde never used. I could almost see it still peopled by their shades. I supposed it sounds silly now, but I still felt a connection with them all.

  A clamour of voices jolted me from my thoughts. The tour guide was leading the coach party to where I stood, one hand still on the wall. The group swallowed me up, and as the guide began his monotonous drone, I listened with more interest than I would have done before.

  I tagged on behind, and as I followed them round, I heard the guide saying in dismissive tones, “Of course, with places like this, there are always legends which have absolutely no bearing on the truth. The villagers here insist that in the days of Richard the Lionheart, his brother, Prince John, was brought to the Abbey suffering from a mysterious malady. Apparently, a strange young woman appeared from a tree, dressed all in green like a wood nymph, and performed some kind of magical rite which instantly healed the future king.

  “They say there was a hue and cry, and his men later searched the village trying to find her, terrified that word would get out and the balance of power would fall into the hands of those who wanted the boy, Arthur, to be Richard’s heir. A nice story, but all rubbish of course,” he said, patronisingly. “No truth in it at all. History never records John as going anywhere near the place. Popular reasoning is that the myth grew up to explain a large and rather beautiful book which Eleanor, The Queen Mother, was said to have donated to the Abbey library. Of course, there was a fire in the library some seventy years later which destroyed many of their books, so we have no evidence that there was such a thing. But history always creates its legends.”

  I smiled to myself. There may be no evidence of a wood nymph, but legends have their own way of staying alive.

  Turning on my heel, I walked away from the pompous guide and his flock of tourists, all listening like sheep. I had things to do.

  Sitting with my mother a couple of hours later, I reached for my coffee. She started and grabbed my hand, staring hard at the ring Hildegarde had given me, her face white.

  “Where did you get that ring?” I could hear a choke in her voice. Her eyes, wide and startled, bored into mine. How could I explain? I thought I’d better take refuge in a small lie.

  “I saw it in a second-hand shop and just took a fancy to it.”

  “A second-hand shop? No way! Marion, take it off. Let me see it properly.”

  I slid it off my index finger and passed it to her. She took it almost reverently, turning it this way and that, peering at the inside of the ring, while I sat there gaping at her.

  “Marion, this is an old family ring. I’m so sure, I’d put money on it.”

  I felt a tingle run down my spine.

  “It belonged to my cousin, Doreen.” Her face sombre, she continued, “We knew each other well, spent a lot of time together when we were young. As we got older, we couldn’t meet up so often. She was pretty busy, and I had you and your brother by then. You were only a toddler, and I didn’t have a car.” Her lips trembled, and she wiped a tear from her eye. “She was a bit younger than me and studying medicine. It was tragic, what happened to her. She went to a party one summer. I’ll never forget the date. It was Midsummer’s Eve, 1975. She never arrived, and no one knows what happened to her. Her car was discovered at Sparnstow Abbey a week later, but there was no sign of her, and she was never seen again. They had search parties out and everything. It was in all the papers at the time, and I remember being really upset. She wasn’t just my cousin; she was my friend.”

  I stared at her, mute. Then Doreen was related to me? I look a bit like Mum did at my age. Had she recognised me? Was that why she had given me the ring? “A cousin? You never talked about her before. What happened to her parents?”

  “They’d both died a couple of years before. Doreen Suttener, she was called. My uncle always said the ring was centuries old, passed down the generations. Doreen wore it all the time. She loved that ring. She reckoned she’d traced her genealogy right back, but to be honest, I don’t think you can go that far back. I don’t think the records were kept that long ago. I don’t know. I was never much of one for history and stuff, but that’s what Doreen reckoned anyway. There’s no one left on her side of the family now. Doreen was the last one.”

  Suttener? Suttener? A flashback shot into my mind. The ring Hildegarde had slid into my finger…the ring glinting on the little finger of Giles de Soutenay’s left hand as it gripped mine. They were the same. No. Surely not! Suttener? De Soutenay? I know a lot of names changed over the centuries. Was it too huge a stretch of the imagination? Why hadn’t she handed it over to the Abbey when she had taken her vows? Maybe she’d always hoped to find a way to pass it back to the family. Maybe because she thought it shouldn’t be in the same time as its original owner? Had she recognised it on Giles’ hand and thought hers was safer out of that time? I would never know.

  My mum dropped it gently back into my outstretched hand and gave me a shaky smile. “Fancy it finding its way back to the family after all this time. It’s definitely the same ring. Look.” She picked it up again and held it to the light, pointing to some marks on the inside. “See these? They were on Doreen’s ring as well, I remember her showing me. She let me try it on once. It only fitted my index finger too, and we both had biggish fingers like yours. I think it was originally made for a man. Maybe for his little finger or something.”

  I slid it back onto my own finger silently.

  EPILOGUE

  Four Days Past Whit Monday 1217

  Giles de Soutenay approached the tree carefully. Kneeling, he pulled aside the growth which had sprouted and now covered the small, hidden cleft at the base of the tree. He peered in and smiled; she had never let him down in all this time. Wonderingly, he touched the new devices which lay there. Then, he picked up the small caddy next to them and sniffed the contents for a moment. Putting the lid back on, he replaced it in the hollow. He wouldn’t know how to use this herb. There was no point in keeping it.

  John had died the previous October. Giles had held fast to young Henry’s claim to the throne, and Henry’s armies had prevailed over the French forces. There had been great cause for concern at first as the French had overpowered London and part of the rest of the country. Miraculously, they had overcome, and Giles’ faithfulness would be rewarded.

  The French were beaten; there was no doubt about that. There would be more battles, but victory was now assured.

  This was the earliest he could make his rendezvous. He had been in the thick of the fighting over Whitsuntide. Now, he had been given leave to keep his appointment. He was wearied beyond belief, but he was here.

  He wondered how long the devices had been lying there. Mayhap she had only just left them.

  The Abbess Hildegarde had died that previous autumn, just after John’s death. Giles missed her sorely, for they had become firm friends. Etheldreda had become the new Abbess. She was kindly disposed to him, knowing some of their secrets, but they had not the warmth, almost kinship, between them that had developed between himself and Hildegarde. He missed her as though she were indeed family. Theirs had been a strange bond.

  Smiling in reminiscence, he left the new devices which were waiting for him, placing the old unused ones next to it. In all those years, John had never been stung by another bee. He had never needed the new devices which appeared, as if by magic, each year. There would be no need for them now. Next to the device and the caddy, he placed a small pot.

  During Hildegarde’s final sickness, Giles had visited frequently. That last time, despite the ravages pain and age had wrought on her face, her tired eyes had lit up as he’d entered her chamber. He’d sat for a while, not speaking, content to just be with her. She had raised herself upon one elbow and beckoned to him. As he bent to her, she had pointed to a painted pot in the wall recess behind the candle sconce. He’d retrieved it and brought it to her. Shaking he
r head, she had whispered, “For Marion.” Opening it, she showed him the small scrap of parchment concealed within. He hadn’t been able to understand the words she had scratched on it, but he guessed Marion would be able to decipher them. They looked to be of her time, not his.

  Hildegarde had fallen back onto her pillow exhausted, as though that last brief spark of life had drained her. Etheldreda had motioned him to leave, and Hildegarde’s confessor had replaced Giles at the bedside.

  As Giles had taken his final leave of her, he’d turned and looked back. The lines had smoothed from her brow, and he had caught a brief glimpse of the young woman she had once been; strangely, that youthful countenance had seemed almost familiar to him. He had left the chamber to the low murmur of the priest granting her absolution. Not that she needed it, he decided. Hildegarde had been one of the most saintly women he had known. She had touched his life in a way no other had.

  Now, Giles stood up, touching the tree’s warm bark beneath his hand, feeling the life inside it. He stayed there for a few moments, both hands on the gnarled trunk. Not a breath of wind stirred the day, yet the leaves started to quiver. The tree started to vibrate, and a slight hum came from within. She was there. He let go of the trunk and watched, as a hand came through and groped for the old devices.

  He stooped and held her hand briefly for the last time, pushing all the devices back into her hand, stroking her palm with his thumb. Then, he guided her fingers to the caddy, hoping she would understand the significance of his actions.

  “Giles?” A woman’s voice called musically from the glade where he had left his horse. His wife, Isabella. Not just fair of face and temperament but possessed of a good dowry and fertile; she’d borne him four sons and two daughters living.

  Giles pressed the hand beneath his once more and felt the fingers respond. He lingered a few more moments then, letting go, he rose to his feet, took one last glance at the old tree and, leaving the future behind him, walked away from Marion, back to his wife, who stood waiting for him in his own time.