Outpost in Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  He didn’t wait for his friends to admit that he was right, just took in a breath and set off across the road towards the entrance to the inn. He could picture the fire burning brightly in the hearth, and his hands were warmer just at the thought. Unfortunately, anticipation made the disappointment that much worse when he pulled open the front door and discovered that not only was the common room entirely empty, but the stack of dried peat in the fireplace wasn’t lit.

  At the sight of the cold grate, Aine sighed. She didn’t complain, however. Instead, she put her hands to her mouth and blew on them to warm them.

  Christopher made a rueful face. “Not exactly the comforts of home.”

  “I’ll see to it.” Huw, always the handyman, pulled out his firestarter kit and bent to the hearth.

  Meanwhile, William rapped on the bar. As a nobleman, he wore his entitlement like a second layer of skin and expected to be treated well at all times. Christopher looked around the room interestedly. He’d spent a not insignificant amount of time in taverns since his arrival in the Middle Ages, and while this one was on the poorer end of the spectrum, it was nowhere near a hovel. In fact, the wooden floor had recently been swept clean, the tables were scrubbed smooth and spotless, and there wasn’t a cobweb in sight. Christopher had a flash of hope that the food, if someone could be convinced to wait on them, might actually be good.

  Finally, in response to William’s halloo into the recesses of the inn, a man in his forties, short and dark and wiping his hands on a cloth, appeared through a door somewhere in the back. The smell of fresh baked bread wafted to them from beyond the hallway, and Christopher’s stomach growled as William’s had earlier. The man approached the bar casually at first, but then his eyes traveled to each of them, and between one second and the next, he changed from a busy man who didn’t know if he wanted to bother answering the door to plucking at his forelock and bowing.

  Christopher generally hated being treated like a lord, since pretty much one hundred percent of the time it made him feel like a fraud, but he decided he would accept it from the innkeeper if it got them food.

  “May I help you, lords?” He bobbed his head to Aine. “My lady?” He spoke in English.

  “We’d like food and a fire.” William gestured to Aine. “The lady is soaked through.”

  “Of course, my lord. At once.” He took a step back down the corridor and gave a piercing whistle that split Christopher’s eardrums.

  Aine met Christopher’s eyes, laughter on her lips. Christopher shrugged, glad to see her smiling, which hadn’t happened often enough so far. The man’s whistle appeared to have the desired effect too because, a moment later, a young man Christopher’s age with red hair like his, except curly, appeared through the back entrance. The innkeeper and the young man conferred briefly, and the red-haired man went back outside.

  Then the innkeeper gestured that Christopher and his friends should sit at one of the tables. “I apologize for the accommodations, lords, but we are a humble establishment. I am ashamed to say, we have no parlor here.”

  Christopher lifted a hand. “It’s fine.”

  Huw had gotten the fire going by now. Without needing to discuss it, they chose the table nearest to it. Before sitting, Christopher went to the hearth, hands out, and the warmth was just as he’d hoped it would be. He wished that his parents could see him now. His father had always felt that it was important for Christopher and his sister to experience some physical hardships in life. That’s why he’d liked Christopher working on his friend Jon’s farm. Christopher figured that trekking half the night and sleeping outside in a stable qualified too.

  William pulled out a bench for Aine and him to sit on, but Huw went to the lone window and looked out. After a few seconds, he turned back to the others. “I’ll do a circuit, shall I?”

  Christopher hoped Huw wasn’t offering to inspect the perimeter because he didn’t feel like it was his place to sit with them. The fact was, Huw’s idea was a good one. “Don’t be gone long, okay? And maybe you can see what they have for horses in the back.”

  “I’m no judge of horseflesh,” Huw said, “but I can find out if they have any to sell.”

  Once Huw left, William leaned forward. “You’re the king’s cousin. You could just take them, you know.”

  Christopher glowered at his friend, surprised that William would suggest it. Christopher’s parents had always been ones for obeying the rules, and he had a natural tendency to do so too. One of the things he’d learned fairly quickly about the Middle Ages, however, was that for him, there was no rule he couldn’t break. As the king’s cousin, he got what he wanted, and one of the first things David had hammered into him about his life here was that he shouldn’t be taking advantage of those beneath him. They would offer, and sometimes he just shouldn’t take.

  He hadn’t needed a lecture—especially not the incredibly embarrassing one Aunt Meg had given him about girls. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that pretty much every girl in England thought Christopher was the next best thing to sliced bread, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself tied to someone he didn’t want to be tied to. Christopher was sure that Aunt Meg would put Aine in the same category as every other girl Christopher had met so far. She said he’d saved her life, which meant that if he tried to get closer to her, and she let him, it would be because she was grateful, and he’d be taking advantage.

  Not that he would. And really, not that he wanted to. He liked her well enough, but he couldn’t say he understood her. And seriously, she looked way too much like his little sister to think about kissing her.

  William saw Christopher’s appalled look, and his expression turned sheepish with a headshake and a half-shrug. “I don’t like the look of this place. It’s as if they already know who we are.” His mouth dropped open, and he started to push to his feet. “The innkeeper could have already sent word to the castle that we’re here!”

  Christopher put out a calming hand and got his friend to sit back down. “Nobody has any way of knowing who we are unless we tell them. Even if every person in this village is in on some plot with Cusack, we didn’t know we would be here before ten minutes ago. Nobody who is anybody knows where we are, much less whose lands we’re on. And how likely is it that anyone in this inn has seen us before? Even if they know we’re noblemen from England, we’re totally anonymous. Relax. It’s going to be okay.”

  Christopher didn’t actually know that for himself, but he’d learned by now that people thought less clearly when they were panicked and worried—and hungry. William subsided on his bench and even took in a deep breath. “You’re right. You’re right. I’m getting muddled in my thinking.”

  “You’re just worried. I am too, but worrying isn’t going to help. We need a plan, but we need food first.”

  Aine was looking around. “I agree with William that we would be better off among my people. I can’t help you at all here.”

  William shook his head again. “That wasn’t what I meant. We should have headed east, to my aunt’s castle of Roche. It would be a safe haven for us.”

  Christopher didn’t actually laugh at how ridiculous the idea was, but it was a close thing. “At Kells, we’re ten miles from Trim. You’re talking about walking thirty in the opposite direction.”

  “It was only fifteen miles away when we were in Drumconrath.” William had a stubborn set to his chin.

  “I’m sure we would have been safe there, William, but how could any castle be safer than Trim? That’s where David is. All we have to do is get there.” Christopher knew he was repeating himself, but William hadn’t listened the first time, and he wasn’t listening now.

  Neither was Aine. She hadn’t been ignoring their conversation, but she’d been staring into the distance, and her expression had turned thoughtful. She tugged on her braid, which was no longer pinned to the back of her head in a bun but lay over her left shoulder. “It’s easy to understand why the O’Rourkes would want to attack my father—but
why would Thomas de Clare help them?”

  “For the same reason anyone allies with anyone else. It isn’t out of the goodness of his heart. It would be because he was getting something out of it,” William said.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Aine said. “Years ago, Thomas de Clare was given the kingdom of Thomond by your King Edward, but he has spent every moment since then attempting actually to win it from the O’Briens, who control it. The reason I can see Clare helping O’Rourke defeat my father is if it was in exchange for the O’Rourkes’ help in defeating the O’Briens.”

  “One down, one to go,” William said.

  “I think we have to conclude that this plot could encompass all Ireland,” Aine said.

  William frowned. “In that, I think you’re jumping to conclusions.”

  Aine’s chin developed a determined set to it. Between her and William, it was hard to think who was more stubborn.

  “I should go to Galway and warn the O’Briens,” Aine said.

  “By yourself?” William was appalled. “That’s a hundred miles from here. Clare’s probably heading there now. It’s too late.”

  “Besides, we already lost Robbie and James. We’re not separating again,” Christopher said. “David is the smartest person I know. If Robbie reached him last night and laid out what we know to him, then he’s probably figured all this out already. Going to Trim still makes the most sense.”

  “If only we could.” Huw had returned, coming down the corridor from the rear, through which no food or drink had yet come, Christopher was sorry to see. “You’re right that we need to go, but it can’t be to Trim.”

  “Why not?” Christopher had never sat down, and the others were on their feet in an instant. “What’s happened?”

  Huw motioned with his arm. “Come with me. You can talk to him yourself.”

  The other three followed Huw out the back door of the inn to a wide yard which held the stables, the kitchen, and various huts the purpose of which Christopher didn’t know. The yard itself was mucky from the rain but, as at Trim, the innkeeper had laid stepping stones that crisscrossed the yard so they weren’t sinking six inches deep in mud as they walked from the main building to the stables.

  Once there, they found a man brushing down a horse. He was slight, like a jockey, with leathery brown skin and close-cropped brown hair. Christopher couldn’t have said how old he was.

  “Tell them what you told me,” Huw said.

  The man put down his brush. “Lord Cusack has had word from Trim, brought by one of Richard de Feypo’s men. Most of the justiciars are dead.” The man spoke matter-of-factly, without any emotion at all.

  Christopher stared at him, unable even to begin to process what the man had just said.

  Aine, on the other hand, gripped one of the posts holding up the roof. “K-K-King David?”

  “He and King Llywelyn escaped.” The man started brushing the horse again. “But Lord Cusack doesn’t want you to know that. He’s putting out that David is dead and the castle held by the rebels who did the killing, though that isn’t true either. I myself brushed down the messenger’s horse and heard it firsthand from him, who must have thought I was loyal to Cusack.” He shook his head. “I just help out in his stables from time to time. He told me that the garrison defeated the rebels, and the castle remains in royal hands.”

  William heaved a sigh. “Then we can be safe there.”

  The man shook his head. “Red Comyn and John de Tuyt have brought an army up from Drogheda to besiege it. Cusack is gathering men to support Comyn and Tuyt, not the castle.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Aine said.

  William put out a hand to her, speaking more gently, Christopher thought, than he might if he had been contradicting him. “It’s obvious. Cusack is part of the conspiracy. He’s telling everyone David is dead to spread confusion. Who’s going to know what is and isn’t true?”

  Huw nodded. “Look what happened last year when Clare told everyone King David was dead.”

  “Wait a second!” Christopher found himself growing angry, which was better by far than being afraid. “Cusack is going to besiege Trim with Comyn, but he’s calling the men who hold it rebels?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the stableman said.

  “What else did he say? Who is dead for sure?” Christopher said.

  “Geoffrey de Geneville, for one. Butler, Fitzgerald, and Burgh for three more.”

  “What about Turlough O’Brien?” Aine said.

  The man shook his head. “Gone.”

  Aine’s face fell. “I was thinking we might go to him for help.”

  The ringing in Christopher’s ears that had come on when the man had first started speaking had stopped. Truth be told, as long as David was alive, good things would continue to happen. Maybe that was totally illogical and based on nothing but air, but he believed it anyway.

  Some of the color had returned to William’s face too, and his chin firmed. “Now I’m sure that we need to go to Castle Roche. We should have gone there in the first place.”

  Christopher had the feeling that he was never going to live down the decision to come to Trim. But he knew too that it had been the only decision he could make when he made it.

  “Did the messenger say who was behind the taking of the castle?” Aine said.

  “No.”

  “Not Comyn and Tuyt, clearly,” William said, “though sailing all that way upriver from Drogheda overnight is quick work.”

  “Feypo might be one, if it’s his messenger who rode to Cusack,” Christopher said, “and that means the conspiracy goes far beyond even the five lords we know of right now.”

  “I don’t know if Feypo was involved, seeing as how he’s dead too,” the man said, as if it was simply a by-the-way.

  William had gone pale again. “My uncle was at Trim. He could be dead or—” he put both hands to the top of his head, “in on it!”

  The possibility had occurred to Christopher about two seconds earlier, but he hadn’t suggested it because it would have seemed like he was still back on the question of whether or not they should have gone to Castle Roche. He didn’t say anything now either because it would have come out too much like I told you so. “The only thing that matters right now is that Cusack is allied with Red Comyn, and since we are most definitely not allied with that crowd, we really don’t want to be here another second.”

  “Who’s your uncle, my lord?” the man said to William.

  “Verdun.”

  The man made a rueful face. “He’s another who’s dead.”

  William looked like he was going to puke. They didn’t have time for that, so Christopher gripped William’s shoulder. “We need to find some place safe to regroup.”

  “Can we trust anyone?” Huw said.

  “Only someone who would never ally with any of these men,” Aine said, her eyes on William. She moved closer to him, implying comfort, though she didn’t touch him. “I’m thinking of a clan nobody has mentioned so far. They didn’t come to Trim, but they haven’t allied with any of the Irish in recent campaigns against the Saxons either.”

  “Who?” Christopher said. “Don’t keep us waiting.”

  “Hugh O’Connor, King of Connaught,” William answered tonelessly. He’d turned away to stare out at the yard.

  “Aodh, we call him.” She pronounced his name Eh. Aine gave a mocking laugh. “He has pretensions to the High Kingship and has been known to ally with the Burghs on the rare occasion when he allies with anyone.”

  “How far would we have to go to get there?” Christopher said.

  “Last year he took Roscommon Castle from the Saxons, and he has made it his seat,” she said. “Fifty miles.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bective Abbey

  David

  It was a standing joke among David’s companions that he loved maps. He collected them, good and bad, accurate and hopelessly wrong. They covered the walls of any castle where he spent any ti
me. Upon entering the office of the abbot of Bective Abbey, David was therefore pleased to discover that the abbot appeared to feel the same way. Maps didn’t adorn the walls, but Abbot John had an entire table devoted to map after map—not only of Ireland but of the known world.

  With a flourish, John spread the map he’d chosen in front of him on his desk and held down the corners with a diverse series of paperweights. “If the Irish are rising, we might look to retreating into the Pale.”

  “That’s just it, Father,” David said, “it isn’t only the Irish rising. It’s an alliance of Irish and English—and Scottish, for that matter.”

  Abbot John froze in the act of adjusting his ink jar on one corner of the map and stared at David, seemingly not having understood the full scope of the plot until that moment. “How—how is that possible?”

  “That’s what we all want to know,” Callum said. “We don’t know how. Only that it’s happening.”

  “But-but-but—” Father John was literally stuttering in front of them. He was of middle age, as was usual for a monk who’d reached his station, a little on the plump side, perhaps as came naturally to someone who ate plenty of good food and didn’t exercise enough. “Is anyone trustworthy?”

  “We can begin with Gilla O’Reilly,” James said, “and anyone else who had a family member die today.”

  “The Butlers, the Burghs, the Fitzgeralds, and the Verduns, to name a few,” Llywelyn said.

  “They’re all dead?” Abbot John said.

  “Callum and I saw them fall,” Llywelyn confirmed.

  “What about among the Irish?” Abbot John said. “You said Irish were slain too.”

  “Turlough O’Brien is dead, along with the chief of the O’Neill clan,” Llywelyn said.

  “The O’Neills are at odds with the Burghs,” Abbot John said. “Why would they both be dead?”

  “The one who killed him was a cousin, who is presumably hoping to take his place,” Callum said matter-of-factly. “As we said, it isn’t just war between English and Irish this time. It’s carnage among the clans.”