Charlie Watts and the Rip in Time

by Marcus Anthony (UK) Eden-Ellis

Banging and cursing, from the other side of the door, began immediately. The jailer’s voice had become almost a howl as he issued mouthful after mouthful of every kind of curse and insult at Charlie, who was sitting slumped against the door, oblivious in his sense of achievement. Then Charlie quickly snapped back into action and sprung to his feet to take a look at his surroundings. He was in a dingy and poorly lit square room, which had doors to several other cells opening in to it. Set in the far wall was an entrance that led to a set of steps that Charlie assumed ran up to ground level. In the room there was both a table and a chair. On the table were the remnants of a meal that the jailer had been eating and two candles which were alight but nearly burnt down to their bases.

  Charlie briefly wondered who was behind each of the other cell doors and whether he should let everyone out but then quickly forgot about it. He was only interested in letting out Gwendolyn and then getting as far away as possible. He considered the fact that he did not know what lay in store for him when he got to the top of the steps and what other obstacles he would have to overcome but those were bridges he would cross when he got to them. The jailer was now throwing his huge bulk against the door and for a few awful seconds Charlie thought that despite its sheer solidity the door might splinter into a hundred pieces and the man come charging at him. The first collision shook it violently, as did the second, but the third had lost force and by the fifth it had petered out to nothing more than a thumping accompanied by a pitiable wail from the other side.

  He went to Gwendolyn’s cell door and looked at the bunch of keys that he still held in his hand. There were four keys and Charlie tried each one in turn succeeding only with the last. He threw open the door and from the cell emerged Gwendolyn. She was beautiful. Long auburn hair in two plaits on either side of her rose tinted face, big brown eyes and a long slender neck.

  “I thought you would be taller,” she said and then hugged him. “I can’t believe you got free from your cell. However did you manage it? Are you some form of devil? What do we do now?” Her questions were excited and breathless.

  Too many questions thought Charlie, smarting a bit from the “taller” comment.

  “We take the stairs and see what is up there,” he said, breaking free from the hug.

  “I can tell you. There is a gate at the top and that leads into a passage that leads into the courtyard. There is a stable in the courtyard and the main gates to the road outside. There was one man guarding the gate when I was brought through.”

  “Right,” said Charlie. “Let’s go.”

  They reached the top of the steps and found the key to unlock the heavy metal gate. When they had passed through Charlie took the trouble to lock the gate again. If the jailer should get free he would at least be stalled by this.

  They padded silently along the passage and arrived at the other end and came to a halt. Charlie peered guardedly into the courtyard, it was dark; that was good, the cover of darkness would make it easier for them. As Gwendolyn had described there was a stable to the right of them and it had one horse in it, not a warhorse but a more nimble looking beast, more like a racehorse. He turned to Gwendolyn who was standing so close behind him that he could feel her warm breath on his neck. It made his skin tingle and the small downy hairs on his skin stood up on end.

  “We need to get past the guard at the gate. The gate is open but we need to think of a way to slip past him,” he whispered keeping his voice low.

  “Why try to think of a way to slip past?” whispered Gwendolyn. “Let’s just steal the horse and gallop past him. He will be half asleep

  anyway and will be too slow to react before we are on the road outside and gone.”

  “I don’t know,” said Charlie. “I am not a confident rider.” He had only been on a horse’s back once and that was when Sir Geoffrey had given him a ride on Rufus when they were travelling to Sherebrook castle on his first day in the past. That seemed like half a life ago to him now

  “I can ride,” said Gwendolyn. “That mare looks like she is in good condition and could bear us both. We cannot saddle her so it may be a difficult ride, you will need to hold on for your life Charlie. You will have to get up behind me and I will get us out of here. You freed me from the cell, Charlie Watts, now I will get you out of the jail and onto the road.”

  “Let’s do it then!” said Charlie and smiled at Gwendolyn.

  She smiled back and they stealthily went into the courtyard, keeping in the darkest part, with their bodies flat against the wall as they shuffled toward the stable and the waiting horse.

  As they approached the horse it caught their scent and became aware of their presence. It responded by shifting nervously about the stall and letting out a series of snorts and soft neighing sounds. The guard, who had been leaning against the wall of the entrance in a semi-sleep like state, stirred and shot a glance over toward the stables. Seeing nothing he resumed his easy position. He clearly did not expect trouble of any sort tonight.

  They reached the horse and Gwendolyn soothed it by whispering something in its ear and stroking its long neck. The animal responded by nuzzling her and pressing its forehead against her. She looked around and pointed to a bridle that hung on a peg on the wall of the stable and Charlie retrieved it for her. Gwendolyn deftly undid the rope that was tethering the animal to an iron ring set in the wall and then she quickly, and skilfully, removed the halter and with equal dexterity fitted the bridle over the horse’s head. The horse would at least have reins and could be controlled though they did not have time to saddle her.

  Then Gwendolyn took a firm grip of a handful of the horse’s mane and half pulled and half threw herself onto its back. Again the animal shifted uneasily but this time it made no noise. She looked down at Charlie and held her hand towards him. He hesitated, for a fraction of a second, and then clasped it firmly and she more or less pulled him up behind her. He sat in close to her back and, with nothing else available, he

  held onto Gwendolyn, putting his arms around her waist trying to secure himself but also to be gentle.

  “Keep as tight a grip, with your knees, as you can Charlie.” And with that she kicked a little with her heels, clicked her tongue softly against the roof of her mouth and pulled delicately on the left rein.

  The horse obliged by slowly turning one hundred and eighty degrees in the stall. The sounds of its hooves were muffled by the mixture of mud and straw on the floor of the stable. They were pointed directly at the main gate, which was about thirty feet way. Then, suddenly, Gwendolyn let out a cry of encouragement to the mare and dug her heels into its belly. The horse leapt forward catching Charlie by surprise and he was yanked backwards by the explosive power of the animal but he held onto Gwendolyn and they were off.

  They were level with the guard before he realised what was happening and, as realisation dawned on him, he made a desperate lunge at the horse. Gwendolyn, however, delivered a well-aimed kick to his chest that sent him sprawling backwards in a tangle of pike and sword. She urged the mare through the gates and in seconds they were free of the prison. As soon as they were on the road, Gwendolyn yanked down hard on the reins turning the horse to the right, she kicked her heels hard into the animal’s belly and it broke into a gallop that exhilarated Charlie like nothing had before.

  His heart was thumping in his chest as they raced along the muddy road and he felt the wind rushing through his hair. Small flecks of mud splattered his face as the hooves of the horse churned up the earth road. The rhythmic movement as it raced along helped him to stay on but he still held as tightly to Gwendolyn as he dared. Then they approached a fork in the road and she brought the horse to a steady canter and then a trot and finally a walking pace.

  “We are free Charlie Watts,” she said. “I said I would follow you anywhere, I am an escaped prisoner of my Lady Matilda now and cannot remain in these parts. Are you sure that you want to go to Shereb
rook.”

  “I am sure,” said Charlie.

  “Then Sherebrook it is,” she laughed and kicked the horse on again. It leapt forward with the two escapees on its back. Gwendolyn steered to the left fork in the road and they were on their way to Sherebrook.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Gramps stood in a narrow dark doorway and reached inside his tunic. He withdrew the small device that looked like a handheld computer. He switched it on with a small button at the side and his face was immediately bathed in soft electric blue light. He stared intently at the screen, his eyes darting back and forth, as he read some text.

  Gramps had worked out the entire range of possible dates for Charlie’s entry but, because he did not have an exact time of departure from his own time, he could not be totally accurate. To be safe he had gone back to the earliest time he reasonably could and trusted the rest to luck-and to the Citadel.

  Each portal Guardian had a Citadel, a relatively new device that contained a database encapsulating the entire day by day history for the region in which the time traveller had arrived. The database was compiled from the accumulated knowledge and understanding of historians and time explorers who had mapped the events of nearly every day of the past one thousand, six hundred years. Gramps could type in the date range and region and the Citadel’s screen would offer a page by page summary of events in the area. Obviously there were holes. Some pages were simply blank with “Not Known” or “Day Not Mapped” written in glowing royal blue letters.

  The Guardians referred to these pages of events as the Causal Lineage because each recorded event was the cause of another event which, in turn, caused another event and so on. If he had a mind to, Gramps could track a series of events from the earliest period of English history to a single point in his own time. He had never actually done it because it would be so time consuming and would have no real value. The real use of the Citadel was to enable a Guardian to understand the effects of

  various events. This would enable him to correct the Causal Lineage if any unauthorised entry into the time portal caused a change of events that might have serious repercussions in the modern world.

  The Citadel also provided a detailed rolling map for the location in which the time traveller would find himself. It can self-locate its position both in time and in space. It can then load an appropriate map from its database, to a scale selected by the user. The Citadel made time travel a far cry from its early days when explorers would simply pitch up in the past with no clear idea of where they were, what the date was, and what they could or could not do within the timeline. Gramps was glad that those days were over.

  He was scanning the details of the Casual Lineage for the period he was now in, for any anomaly that might give him a clue as to Charlie’s whereabouts. He was looking for an event that might have involved a youth that fitted Charlie’s description but was seeing nothing. It was a long shot anyway. He had already trawled most of two towns asking after a small, lost brown haired boy but had been met with blank stares, incomprehension and general bad temper. It would not be unusual, in this time, to see wandering children of any age and no one would take any notice. The medieval period was a difficult time for survival, either as an adult or as a child. Frequently parents would die from some untreatable illness, or be the victims of casual violence, and that would leave children without care or support. They would either stay where they were and starve or would otherwise take to the road becoming beggars. On the road they would be prey to any evildoer that they were unlucky enough to meet.

  In the summer months an adult, or a resourceful child, could more or less survive on the road. There would be fruit on the bushes and trees, vegetables that could be stolen from fields and small animals that could be trapped and eaten. Very occasionally, there was also the kindness of passing strangers. The real key to survival though was warmth and the summer gave the sun during the day and a vestige of comfort at night. Winter was different. There would be no casual food that could be simply plucked and eaten, small animals were scarce and people were less generous because they needed every scrap they had for their own survival.

  You could sometimes find a monastery and implore the monks for shelter and food and they would not refuse but it would be a temporary arrangement lasting, perhaps, for a couple of nights at the most. The food would be a weak vegetable broth and possibly some ale. Then you would have to be on your way again, prey to the elements once more. The real killer was the cold. Winters were much colder during this period of history. The English winter, by our modern age, has become far warmer and moister. In our time rivers do not freeze over and snow rarely falls heavily enough to cause drifts that last many days. It was completely the opposite in medieval times, the temperature was regularly below freezing and the standard of clothing was poor to say the least; if you were living rough, on a medieval road during a very cold snap, you might survive one night but never two.

  All of this made it difficult for Gramps, or rather Sir Henry Grosvenor, as Gramps had named himself. If he were searching in the twenty-first century for a lost boy he could call upon modern communication and media and, of course, the police force. He could issue photographs to the newspapers, put a picture on the television and place a photograph on the internet. When he asked people they would be concerned and offer help, but not in medieval England.

  However, the real problem for Gramps was not that no one could remember seeing a small brown haired boy, probably strangely dressed and possibly distressed and confused, or the fact that Gramps had exited the portal nearly sixty miles from Sherebrook castle. No, Gramps’ real problem was that Charlie would not arrive from the twenty first century for another three days. Sir Geoffrey de Lancie had only just left his manor for Sherebrook castle, One Tooth was trudging the long road from Winchester to London, and Longhaired Nick had never seen Charlie Watts and Sir Richard Baldock and Sir Robert of Gloucester were just hatching their plot to kidnap a king.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Gwendolyn had been alternately cantering and trotting the chestnut coloured mare for most of the night. Now a gold and red dawn was inching lethargically over the hill to their right. After their initial gallop to escape the prison Gwendolyn had slowed the animal down to a trot and, at first, Charlie had urged her to keep driving the horse forward.

  “Charlie, if we are to travel to Sherebrook castle then we will have to ride at a pace that will suit the horse and not tire her. If you simply try to ride at a full gallop the poor beast’s heart will just burst and she will drop to the ground beneath you, dead as a stone. We would probably end up badly injured as well and then we would have to lay by the road and wait to die. We can make it to Sherebrook by late this afternoon if we make the right speed. She picked up the pace to canter for a few hundred yards and then slowed to a trot again. Finally she gave the horse a spell of walking which gave them a chance to talk.

  “Tell me about yourself, Charlie Watts. Your manner of words and the way you have about you is unusual. Are you from another country like Spain or Italy? That would be exciting!”

  Charlie could not see her face but he smiled to her nonetheless.

  “No, I am not from a foreign country,” he replied. “I am from England. And please, just call me Charlie from now on. The “Watts” part is not necessary.”

  “As you please-Charlie. What part of England are you from?”

  Charlie wheeled out his usual cover story. “Putney,” he said. “It is a small village in Devon and we have strange way of making clothes and we can make things to fit on the face made of glass that help us to see better and our language is different to that spoken in this part of the country.”

  He imagined that that would cover the next three or four questions.

  “I thought so, you are definitely different to any lad I have known of your age but I confess that you are a well mannered person. Is your family noble?”

 
“No, I come from an ordinary family of working people but I was taught to read and write by monks from an early age.”

  “You can read and make letters!” she exclaimed with delight.

  “Yes, I can. I find it easy.”

  “Well, that definitely sets you apart. How did you become a squire to a knight?”

  Charlie told Gwendolyn the same story that he had related to the king, about seeking his fortune on the road and meeting Sir Geoffrey and entering his service. That seemed to satisfy her curiosity and she did not press him for further details about himself. But he wanted to know more about her and what her background was.

  “What about you Gwendolyn? How did you become a lady in waiting to Matilda?”

  “I had no choice,” she replied.

  “Why did you have no choice?”

  “My mother died three years ago, she became ill after eating some bad eels. The pains in her belly got worse for two days and she was sick all the time. I tried to help her but there was nothing that I could do. She could not even take the herb waters that the physician prepared for her. She looked at me one night, whispered my name, and then closed her eyes and she died. My father, Sir Cyril Handwell, fought for King Stephen against Matilda when she first came to England from Normandy. He had fifty men at arms and tried to stop her army coming up from the coast but he was out numbered. He died in the battle and then they came upon our manor house. Only I was there and the soldiers broke down the doors and captured me. I tried to fight with a sword of my father’s but they soon disarmed me and brought me before Matilda. She offered me the choice of being hanged as the daughter of a traitor or of joining her court as a lady in waiting.”

  “From what I know of her you must have caught her on a good day.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Charlie. “I was just thinking aloud. I am sorry for your father and mother’s death Gwendolyn. It seems strange that she